Dio - Strolling (2)

As they walked, the ground began to shift, though almost imperceptibly at first. Patches of moss crept up the sides of trunks, reddish and dry-looking, then turned richer, more copper-toned. Roots dipped and rose like ancient veins. The light had changed too, filtered now through leaves and a thinning canopy.

Before long they came upon a shallow stream. The water trickled across smooth stones, gentle yet persistent. Tiny yellow fish darted below the surface. Their bodies were long and nimble, curling and twisting as they chased the current.

Dio stood watching them, hands on his knees. He didn’t move for a while.

“It’s really beautiful here,” he said finally, voice low. “Thank you, for bringing me.”

Brela gave a sweeping, overly theatrical bow, then straightened and beamed at him. “Thank you. I wasn’t kidding earlier; I usually come here alone. I’d forgotten how different it feels when someone walks beside me on my adventures.”

Dio hesitated, then added, “And… the other thing? The… thing you do not remember? Any progress?”

He hadn’t been sure how to bring it up, but once it was out he didn’t regret it. Brela flinched, brushing a green strand from her face as if to hide the sudden withdrawal in her posture.

“Yeah… about that…” Her voice grew quieter. “I still don’t know what I should remember.”

“I see,” Dio said, letting out a short laugh, more from uncertainty than humor. “That’s unfortunate.”

Brela gave him a halfhearted shove. “Ah, it doesn’t matter that much now, does it?” she muttered, frowning.

She looked away, eyes scanning the trees and the widening stream, her shoulders tensing.

“If only my thoughts were like that water—clear and flowing.” She sighed deeply. “No. Everything’s fogged. Like I’m reaching through mist, trying to get something back that keeps slipping away.”

Dio walked a little ahead, then slowed again, choosing his words carefully. “If I had to guess, and I mean a real guess, I’d say it’s connected to this place. To the forest. And… the circle. So what here is round? What are you hoping to find?”

Brela let out a dry laugh, hollow beneath the sound. “If I knew that,” she said, “I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? Goofball.”

“I’m serious, Brela.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “So far, it’s always been the same. The circle connects to something important for everyone. Something real. And you, you clearly love this forest. Maybe it’s not only this one. Maybe it’s the whole idea of nature. You wear flowers in your hair like they grew there. They’re not decoration. They belong to you!”

She froze for a brief moment, then slowly sank onto a moss-covered rock that leaned into the stream, her back to him, hands touching the flowers in her hair. The light danced over her neck. Brela slipped off her cork sandals and lowered her feet into the cool water, letting it lap at her skin.

Droplets shimmered faintly as they clung to her ankles, catching light where it broke through the leaves. She didn’t speak right away, only moving her feet through the water.

“You’re right, I think,” she said at last, voice distant. “I love it here. The green. The animals. The quiet. Even the strange things… Especially the strange things! I come back to them like I’m visiting old friends. It’s like this whole place pulls at me. Like when something falls and you can’t stop it. It has to reach the ground.”

She turned to look at him; something raw flickered in her eyes.

“Dio, I never wanted to leave Daw.”

The words came slowly, sounding like something she hadn’t dared admit even to herself before.

“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

Brela hesitated, then exhaled slowly.

“I told you before, didn’t I? The people I walked these woods with before… all of them left eventually, one by one. They always said the same thing, though the words changed. They felt something out there: a flicker of light, a familiar voice, a shadow that felt like a friend. Something that pulled them forward. Pulled them away. They couldn’t stay.”

“They were… more lucid than the others in Daw?”

She nodded. “We shared that, I think. That sense of knowing more, of having a clarity. But while they left, I stayed.”

She pondered for a moment, then continued.

“I stayed, because... I wanted to be out here in the wild. I’d collect things, bring them back so the others would see the forest the way I see it. Not only live their day-to-day lives. Sometimes apples or parnins, sometimes blueberries, jach herb, or… flowers. Oh, Dio, they loved the flowers. They still have them, all of them…”

Her voice trailed off, then caught fire as something deep inside sparked. The dark hue of her skin seemed to catch the light in a way that made it faintly shimmer; for a second Dio could have sworn it really was glowing. Maybe it was only the Sun. Maybe not. Either way, he couldn’t look away. There was something in her voice that felt utterly real, although something unsaid lingered and made him uneasy, almost blind.

Then she laughed, loud and bright.

“That’s it!” she cried, and her voice rang so clearly across the clearing that all the nearby fish darted for cover, vanishing into the streambed in a scatter of golden flashes.

Dio blinked, caught off guard. “What’s it?”

“The berries!” she said, eyes wide, breathless. “I think—yes. It was the berries! Strange ones, silvery, almost transparent. Inside them, I remember this light… pulsing, green, like something alive. Like they were breathing. I can see them again in my mind. I’m remembering them!”

She was so excited she almost fell off the rock, staring into the trees, into nothing—or into a memory so sharp it eclipsed everything else.

Dio watched her quietly; something in her mood made him feel lighter, as if whatever was blooming inside her had reached him too.

“And what do you think they mean?” he asked softly.

“Mean? I have no idea!” she laughed again, shaking her head. “But I have to find them, that I know.”

She looked at him directly now. Resolve filled her eyes. No hesitation, no doubt. She nodded once, rose, and started walking again.

They moved through a patch where the leaves were thick and soft beneath their feet. All around, droplet-shaped bushes swayed gently in the breeze, making a sound like distant whispers. Somewhere above, a pattern of chirps echoed through the branches. Like crickets, yet more melodic—warm and oddly comforting. Dio looked at Brela; she still seemed to glow faintly. The light in his mind that symbolized their connection had grown more distinct, more beautiful, and considerably stronger. He could not help himself and smiled.

“You really think you need to find those berries?” Dio asked after a while.

He hesitated. Part of him did not want to break the mood. Her energy was so rare and full. He hated the thought of dulling it.

“I don’t know why exactly,” she said, brushing a few strands from her eyes as she scanned the undergrowth. “But maybe I can use them, maybe to make a healing paste. Or juice. I know they’ll be useful.”

Her gaze did not stop moving, flicking from branch to root, as though the berries could appear at any moment.

“You make healing paste?” Dio paused. “And it actually works? I think someone might have mentioned that before…”

“Of course it works!” she said, making a pouty face. “It’s helped with all kinds of things in the village, cuts, bruises, smashed fingers. Sometimes hunters too, when they get too close to a beast’s claws. Happens more often than you’d think, by the way. Helsat and Erta are mostly careful. That damn Hoto, though…”

She shook her head and laughed, waving him to keep up. Dio hurried after her, stepping over a root and brushing aside a loose tangle of leaves.

“And the paste, does it really help? Or the juice?”

It felt strange to ask. Something about the term healing paste felt distant to him; maybe he had never needed to think about such things.

“Of course!” she said proudly. “Once, I even stopped Pars from waking. That was probably the most important thing I’ve done for Daw and everyone in it.”

“Really?” Dio perked up. “Tell me.”

She tapped the leaf pouch tied to her vine belt and gave him a sly, exaggerated grin.

“I keep my best paste in here now, since that day. Always.” Her smile faded slightly. “Pars had collapsed. They carried him to me fast. Lucky I wasn’t out wandering, I was working in my garden. They laid him down beside my cerulians. His shirt was torn open. There was blood, a lot of it. I saw the wound and smelled the rot already setting in.”

She stopped walking. Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if unsure she wanted to continue.

“That’s awful,” Dio said softly. “You must’ve been overwhelmed.”

He reached out and rested a hand gently on her back. Brela shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It didn’t feel like fear. I moved. I did what needed to be done. I mixed the paste and applied it. The bleeding stopped right away. The wound sealed within minutes.”

She let her hand rest on the pouch at her side.

“Since then I always keep some with me, just in case.”

A wound healed by pressing a bit of paste against it still didn’t sit right with Dio; it sounded too easy, too much like something from a story. If Brela hadn’t seemed one of the most honest people he’d met here, he might have doubted her. But the quiet pride in her posture and the warmth behind her words were not things anyone could fake.

“How do you make it?” he asked, drawn forward by a familiar pull. “The pastes. The juices. How does it work?”

“Well…” Brela drew out the word as if it were heavier than she expected. “I crush the berries, use a mortar and pestle. Sometimes I add water or honey, or parlum if I want it to taste better. It’s really simple. Now that I say it aloud, I guess anyone could do it.”

Her shoulders dropped faintly as she said it, as though the thing that had lit her up earlier had dimmed for a moment.

“No,” Dio said, shaking his head gently, a smile at the edge of his mouth.

She blinked. “No?”

“No. That’s not what I meant.” He paused, searching for the right phrasing. “Not how you do it with your hands, what happens inside you when you make it?”

Images of flour and fire flickered in his memory: heat, rising dough, that quiet moment when the loaf took shape, and memories of joy.

Brela lowered herself onto a crooked log half-swallowed by reddish moss, and Dio sat beside her. For a while she said nothing, then began to speak, not carefully but openly, as though trying to understand herself as she went. Her hands moved while she talked, tracing vague outlines in the air.

“It’s hard,” she said. “Hard to put into words. There’s this energy in me, a kind of drive. I want to fix people, to heal them, to keep them with me. I want them to stay. I want to give them something that helps them stay here, alive, happy, whole. The paste… it’s like a new breath I give them. Like heartbeats I press into their skin. Strength I plant like seeds, hoping they’ll take root and grow into something strong enough to keep them here, to help them bloom again. Yes, that’s what the berries are for. That’s what I try to turn them into!”

She stopped and laughed, sudden and bright. Then without warning she threw her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder.

There was warmth in Brela’s embrace, real and grounding. Her scent was familiar now, fresh leaves on damp bark. Dio felt heat rise in his cheeks, yet he did not pull away.

“I’m glad we walked this path today,” she said, voice soft against his shoulder. “Here, now. You’re the first person in a long time who feels like they’re with me, not merely next to me but with me. Thank you. I don’t think anyone’s ever listened to me like this or helped me think more clearly.”

Dio looked down, cheeks warm, unsure where to rest his eyes.

“I’m glad I did,” he said after a moment. “It’s fascinating, what you do. And you have a kind heart, Brela. That’s rare.”

She leaned back just enough to look at him. Her gaze was clear.

“Dio,” she said, “I think you’re the first real friend I’ve made here. A true friend. The others I walked with before were nice and always willing to talk, but there was always something distant, like a fog between us. I’ve wondered ever since whether it was around them or around me.”