Before the Bloom

 

Part I: The Assignment

In the hooded hollow
of the stone cloister
where light slips thin and reverent
through narrow ribs of window,

the Apothecary of Nightshade
tends to his glass
as though it were scripture.

A twist of the wrist.
A patient circle.
A measured breath between motions.

Emerald catches morning
and gives it back obediently.
Nothing distorted.
Nothing misaligned.

He believes in order,
that even endings
can be refined
into beauty
if handled correctly.

He straightens his robe.
Not from vanity.
From ritual.
Ritual is prayer.

They stand before him
like quiet verses.
Unlit candles,
waiting.

And one stands nearer
without meaning to.

The boldest.
The brightest.
The most faithful.

An emerald vial rests between careful fingers.
Within it sleeps a master dissatisfied,
something that requires perfection.

Greywood is spoken.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Yet the room grows roots.

The Greyroot Bloom.
Born where rot
has lingered too long.
Pale as withheld breath.
Necessary.
Rare.
Unforgiving.

The task is not offered.
It is placed.

And before silence thickens
the chosen steps forward.
Devotion moves faster
than caution ever could.
Gratitude rises in him,
almost holy.

To be chosen
is to be seen.
To be entrusted
is to be loved.

The promise follows gently-
laid over danger
like silk over a blade.

The House of Nightshade.
Stone walls veined with damp.
The glass conservatory
where poison breathes
in sunlight.

Inheritance
until breath thins
into air.
Until hands forget
their steadiness.

The Collector.

He does not measure the forest.
He does not weigh the cost.
He sees only the hand
that points the way.

Greywood will be braved.
Greyroot will be gathered.
Trust will not falter.

The Apothecary watches
as craftsmen do-
with pride,
with assessment,
with something quieter
beneath affection.

He regards him
as one might regard
a well-honed blade.

Another in the room
has read older margins.
Knows rot does not loosen
without taking.
Feels the forest
tighten
at the mention of its name.

The Companion.

Says nothing.

And the young Page
watches only the light.
Watches the circular motion.
Watches how repetition
makes shine.
How glass gleams
when polished long enough.

How endings
can resemble beginnings
if turned carefully
enough times.

The vial is returned
to its place.

Flawless.

Morning gathers
at the threshold.

And somewhere beneath
promise,
devotion,
inheritance-

something small
and certain

has already
been set in motion.



P.S: Thisis the 1st part of four and my longest poem so farrrr sooo exciteddd/..