The very next day.
The light came softly.
It began not with trumpets nor a divine chorus, but with the quiet shift of air, as if the house itself exhaled after holding its breath for far too long. Dawn seeped through the sheer curtains like diluted gold, brushing against the wooden floors, the edge of the bed, and the pale, unmoving figure lying within it.
The woman had asked no questions. She had entered the house as if she belonged there, her brown robe bore the Earth Mother's sigil, her voice low and clear: "I will tend the root that calls"
Sebastian had only nodded. Something in him knew resistance would have been futile and blasphemous. He led her to his room.
The ritual began in silence.
No bells tolled. No hymns were sung. Only the sound of the wind slipping through the half-open windows of the Nachthelm estate, carrying with it the scent of crushed herbs, dew-damp soil, and something older, older than prayer, older than memory.
Sebastian stood outside the threshold of the bedroom, not by choice, but by design.
"Only the vessel may remain"
That had been the only instruction given to him by the veiled priestess who had arrived at dusk, her robe stitched with living ivy, her voice a whisper in the language of leaves.
He watched through the crack of the door.
The woman stood at the foot of Arthus's bed, her bare feet pressing softly into the wooden floor as if each step rooted her deeper into the world. In her hands she held no wand, no blade, no relic, only a bowl of dark, fertile earth, its surface undisturbed.
She bent low and touched it to the floor. Then, she sang.
The song had no words.
It was a melody born from stillness, drawn from the breath of trees and the hush between heartbeats. The air thickened around her. The ivy at her cuffs quivered, bloomed, unfurled. The bowl of soil began to pulse with a soft green glow.
And then, she turned her gaze to Arthus.
He lay still, deathlike in his pallor, but not gone. His breath rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, and his soul, whatever remained of it, trembled like a candle in a storm.
She raised her hand and placed her palm gently on his sternum.
And whispered,
"A seed left in stone must be woken"
The glow surged.
Roots, impossibly delicate, sprouted from the bowl and slithered toward him, not across the floor, but through the space between, curling like veins of light through the air. They touched his chest, his temples, his heart. Not binding, but listening. Seeking.
He shuddered once.
Then the dream began.
He was in a grove unlike any he had ever seen, lit by twilight that never faded, filled with trees that sighed like breath, their bark the color of old copper, their leaves whispering his name.
And there, at the heart of it all, stood her.
She was tall, radiant, wreathed in gold. Her hair was a flowing river of sun, her skin kissed with dawnlight, and her eyes, oh, her eyes were mismatched: one a searing crimson, the other a verdant green.
She smiled when she saw him, not kindly, not cruelly, but knowingly. As if she'd waited many lifetimes for this exact meeting.
"You do not belong to me," she said, her voice low and warm, like rain on dry earth. "But I heard you anyway"
He tried to speak, but no sound came. Only the weight of his own grief surged forward, uninvited.
"You would have died," she said, stepping closer, "willingly. For pride, for pain, for shame. And yet—"
She placed two fingers against his chest.
"You asked"
The grove trembled. Roots rose like waves. Flowers bloomed and withered in the span of seconds. And beneath his feet, he felt the soil breathe.
"I do not grant miracles," she said softly. "But I do water seeds"
And then, without warning, she pressed her forehead to his.
In that instant, pain surged, not physical, but soul-deep. His regrets screamed. His hatred writhed. His fear begged to be seen. And she saw them all.
He wept. In the dream, and perhaps in the bed beyond.
And when she pulled away, her eyes shimmered. Not pity. Not approval.
Just truth.
"You will walk again," she whispered. "But you will carry this weight. You are no longer stone"
He woke with a sharp gasp, choking on air that smelled of soil and lilies.
His body ached, ached but it was the ache of use, of being stirred after long sleep. Not decay.
Arthus blinked, the ceiling swimming into view, golden light slanting across it like spilled grace. And beside him, he heard a sound, half-choked, half-laugh.
Sebastian.
He turned his head, muscles trembling like a newborn fawn. "Sebas…"
Sebastian dropped to his knees beside the bed, hand grasping his, strong and real and warm.
"Mast— My Lord! You're awake. You're here"
Arthus opened his mouth.
"The Lady! Whe—"
But the words died before they could rise. He was crying. Silent, reverent tears streaming down his cheeks, salt cleansing something ancient. Just after this, he fell asleep again.
Sebastian ran to fetch Doctor Aberforth. As for the lady, she had gone, like dew at noon. Just after performing that ritual.
And somewhere, far away, beneath a grove unseen by any mortal eye, a bud unfurled. Quietly. Patiently.
…
The bedroom had been stripped of unnecessary grandeur. No incense burned, no heavy curtains drawn. Just clean linens, fresh air, and the low clink of porcelain as Dr. Aberforth set down the tea tray on the nightstand.
"You've more color today, Master Arthus," the doctor remarked, adjusting his spectacles as he gave his patient a discerning once-over. "A small victory, but a victory nonetheless"
Arthus von Nachthelm sat upright in bed, his posture still a little too proper, an old habit of elegance he hadn't quite shed. His long hair was loosely tied back, framing a face once hollowed by illness but now regaining some fullness.
"I slept through the night," Arthus said, voice steadier than before. "No dreams. No interruptions"
Dr. Aberforth gave a curt nod. "Good. Your body's remembering what peace feels like. Appetite?"
"A little better," he replied. "I managed some toast. Most of it"
"I'll take it" Aberforth scribbled a quick note in his battered ledger, the pen scratching softly. "We'll stay on simple foods. Broths, rice, porridge. Nothing heavy until your stomach earns it"
Arthus gave a quiet, amused exhale.
His eyes lowered to his hands, now free from the tremors that once plagued them. The skin was still pale, his veins visible beneath, but they no longer seemed frail.
"I've been thinking of reading again" he said after a pause, motioning faintly to the closed book resting on the table beside him.
"You may," Aberforth allowed. "But no more than half an hour. If your vision blurs or your head aches, you stop. No exceptions"
"Understood, Doctor"
The older man began packing up his bag, methodical in movement. "Sebastian tells me you've been asking about the garden"
"I miss it," Arthus admitted. "It's quiet. I could think there"
"Then let that be your milestone," Aberforth said, tightening a strap on his case. "Two weeks. If your strength permits, you'll take a short walk to the greenhouse. Ten minutes. No more"
Arthus's lips curved into a faint smile, the first genuine one in days. "Ten minutes is enough"
At the door, Aberforth paused and turned back, his eyes softened by something that looked like pride.
"You're healing well, Master Arthus. But don't confuse progress with invincibility. The body needs time. Let it take what it needs"
"I will" Arthus replied with quiet assurance.
Aberforth dipped his head. "Good. I'll return tomorrow after lunch. Rest. Read, if you can. Drink the tea"
The door clicked shut behind him.
Arthus sat in the quiet for a while, looking at the tray the doctor had left. The tea was still steaming slightly. He reached for it, his hand steady, and brought the cup to his lips.
Bitter. Earthy. Comforting.
He leaned back against the pillows, let the warmth settle in his chest, and breathed.
Recovery was not swift. Not magical.
It was quiet. Steady. Patient.
And, for the first time in a long while, Arthus was content to follow its rhythm.
After all, he would finally be a beyonder before the next Tarot Club meeting.