Ancaladis
Post-defeat of Arathalian, pre-defeat of Loria (50-60 yrs?).
Ancaladis left the inner sanctum, her ears still stinging from the Glorious Maker's cool-voiced haranguing, and hurried into the central gardens to make good on her mistake before another lecture on prompt obedience inevitably followed. The Waterfall Arch sighed around her as she passed beneath it, dampening her hair with jewel-spray.
It was warm in the garden - winter in the mountains was too inconvenient for the Makers to put up with - and the native plants were flourishing accordingly; the florid red and yellow flares of bottle-brushes were driving the bees particularly mad. The shaped plants were flourishing too, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. Ancaladis did love them; they were pieces of other Makers' artistry, beautiful shapes of the imagination in all colours and shapes. They just weren't a challenge to take care of ... nothing like the finicky, fragile little boronia-princesses down by the water.
There was no time to fuss over the boronias now, though. Ancaladis threaded her way through the winding, asymmetrical garden paths to the latest garden addition, her addition, and regretfully stood there staring at it for a moment.
It was a lovely thing - tiny, thin and long-leafed, standing bolt-upright from the ground, its grip in the earth deceptively tough. She knew that because she'd spent a long time wrestling it out of the ground in the further foothills, trying to apply enough force to get at it without injuring it. It had seemed like a beautiful addition for the garden at the time; she'd never seen one before.
Now she knew why. Sighing to herself, Ancaladis shaped a small trowel in her hand and knelt down.
"Hey!" shrieked a thin, panicked voice.
"Calm down, Nicinici." When Ancaladis looked up from her own seedling to the larger, older shrub, all she could see was the violent trembling of the brushy, silver-blue flowers. "I could hardly dig -you- out with this tiny trowel, could I?"
"Then who are you digging up?" demanded Nicinici. "I won't allow it."
Ancaladis reached out a hand to smooth one of Nicinici's broad green leaves between thumb and index finger. "I'm afraid it can't be helped. I've been told to take this one back to the foothills and replant it there."
"This little one here? But you only planted him yesterday! I've grown quite fond of him."
"Him?"
"I always wanted a boy. I'm childless, you know."
"Yes, Nici." Less than a tenth of the entire garden's shaped plants had been made with voices. Nicinici was either living proof as to why, or a living challenge to the Makers for why not?, depending on whom one asked. "But we've given you lots of foster children over the years, haven't we?"
"A mother's love is inexhaustible," replied the shrub loftily.
Ancaladis wasn't sure how to reply without hurting any feelings.
"Look at him! Just look at his tiny little hands!"
"I know. He's lovely. But he's not allowed to stay here."
Nicinici shivered from root to crown, a typical sign of annoyance. "Is he a tree? There are lots of other trees in the gardens. I don't mind moving for him when he gets bigger."
"He's a very small tree. That isn't the problem. I'm afraid he's a wattle."
The shrub was silent for a moment. "What ... really?"
Ancaladis nodded.
"Are you sure?" Nicinici rustled again, this time nervously. "I pictured them a lot blacker and spikier."
"He's definitely a wattle, Nici. Everyone was quite upset with me."
"Hardly your fault if you'd never seen one before!"
"Even so."
"No, it's not fair! How were you to recognise one of the young ones without the black spikes?"
The moon fae glanced skyward for a moment, then bent down with her trowel again. "Warn me if I jab one of your roots."
Bending right down and propping herself up with one forearm, Ancaladis moved in close to the tiny wattle seedling. But rather than have it out immediately, she paused again. There was such a delicate, acacia beauty about it ...
"How poisonous are wattles?" asked Nicinici thoughtfully.
"They're not poisonous," Ancaladis replied.
"No? How much magic do they suck up?"
"None."
"Then why are they dangerous?"
"They're not dangerous, Nicinici. They're just ... bad memories."
"Bad memories?" Another irritable shiver went through the silver-blue blossoms and dark leaves. "I have bad memories associated with trowels and you people still bring them in here."
Ancaladis thought about it - thought about the contained, white-lipped anger on the Glorious Maker's face. Menelaia hadn't even gone out to see the plant herself. "I suppose it's not just the memory," she said quietly. "It's the future as well. It's a warning of what's coming. No-one wants to stare at that all day."
"Might as well get yourselves used to it," Nicinici pointed out. "Instead of screaming 'yah!' every time you see a wattle and digging up innocent seedlings, that is."
"You really want me to leave him where he is?"
"Yes! Aren't you supposed to be the smart one around here?"
After another moment's thought, Ancaladis sighed and unmade her trowel.
"Good girl!" said Nicinici. "Now give him some water."
"The others won't let him stay, you know."
"They will if you hide him for a while. Plant him behind me."
"Why didn't you say that before I unmade the trowel?"
"It was making me nervous. Use your hands."