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  A whisper in the air, a soft murmur of excited energy that belied a thousand fluttering, vivid butterflies; a small, trickling undertone of suspense crept into consciousness in her core, wisps of anxious breath winding in an endless spiral within her. It was strange to feel so strongly, for one so new, they told her, voices ageless and infinite. It was strange.
  
  She had, one day, or night, or morning, for she did not recall the gossamer events exactly, simply became. In the midst of rustling petals, the skirts of the spring flowers bright and cheerful, she was. Is. At first, thoughts came like a muddy river, slow and unsure. She wandered throughout the plane of existence, a child in every way. The breeze delighted her; the gurgling fountains entranced her, and the flowers, the colors, swam in her head like an ocean of tropical fish and rainbows. It was...beautiful. Of course, she didn't know what beautiful was, to be precise, but the sense of wonder and awe that filled her was eloquent enough to compensate. It was a joyous symphony of sounds and shapes and images that filled her eyes, that swelled in her speechless voice. The ebb and flow of her core felt innately at home, as if she were a small, corporeal part of that euphonious divinity.
  
  That was how she spent great deal of her first few months in, what she came to address in her mind, as The Garden, or, more simply, The Colors. Despite all her wanderings, it was a while before she encountered her first Llithe or Whisperer. Beings who were glorious and vibrant, who shone in her mind's eye like a supernova of all things celestial. Faint hands caressed her, pulling her back. Voices that knew of no birth fell into the shell of her ears, soothing the starstruck disbelief. Others came to describe Them to her, speaking wisely of faeries and their roles in The Garden. They walked in her scope of sight and she could not help but think them more substantial, more real and in an entirely separate world.
  
  But she grew stronger, and eventually her voice became Her Voice, and not a shadow of the meeker collective. It was exhilarating to form her own opinions, decide for herself on personal matters, freed of the mental crutch that had become a handicap. She even took on a name, because the stronger Voices all had names, and the stronger the Voice speaking, the more likely the great beings would give them note and affection.
  
  Truthfully, she admired the Fae, the iridescent creatures that were a masterpiece of colors and thought. So much that she was among the most eager for interaction with them.
  
  Her sigh was soft and sweet, hovering in the air like a hum of worker bee intent upon their labor, or chiming gently against the velvet brush of rose silk. This was her chance, after all, to make herself known among the Fae. So, hidden among the generous folds of nature's bountiful cloth, the red of the tulip easily overlooked from its flower bed, she paid painful attention to the rules of the game. Riddles. She was good at them, she thought absently. Riddles and puzzles came to her with ease, though sometimes trying to think outside of The Colors in search for an answer was difficult. No matter, she pondered of them diligently.
  
  Reclined in her bed of crimson, she mused silently over the answers. They came to her eventually, even if the second one was reluctant and unwilling to yield its precious hints as to the goal's whereabouts. Nonetheless, they came, and with a startled jerk, she was flying about The Garden in search of the answers. There was a small advantage of being tied so intimately with the Colors, for it was easier to send a querying thought throughout and listen for replies.
  
  Out she went, whizzing by as she collected the items, cradling them to her chest like an earnest child gathering her skirts. Straight as an arrow launched from the hands of a true archer who had seen years of tedious, rewarding repetition, she headed for the monitor of the event. Long afternoons spent in the Garden brought a delicate calling, a name to which she could grace this entity without revealing her trembling, fearful awe. Hopefully, at least.
  
  "Miss Dalia?" The Fateseer was a beauty, a heart sighing sort of ethereal, but heady strength. Her hair was a waterfall of distracting purple, the sheen reminding her strongly of violets or the more solemn irises. "I-I have my answers?" She hesitated shyly, words stolen from her mind by the sheer firm individuality of the Fae. Rallying her courage, she swallowed once, twice, and once more before continuing. "Could you - would you please? Look them over, I mean." Amaryllis, self declared and proclaimed so, fidgeted and prayed desperately to whatever stars had shone upon her when she had breathed her first gasp of floral scented air among the blooming spider lilies. She hoped Her Voice was strong; she hoped like a small, sad child on Christmas with eyes unmoving on the chimney.
  
  
  

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Dalia leaned back on the vines that had grown and entwined, crafting themselves into a seat for her. She sighed and looked down at the sheet of parchment she was holding, thoughts racing through her mind. The Fateseer was waiting patiently for the arrival of a fae -- or rather, any fae -- curious to see who would be able to answer her riddles without assistance. She had yet to really know any of the new fae, and she hoped one of them would have the intellectual prowess that she so appreciated in another.

As she studied the riddles further, she became engrossed in thought, hardly realizing that there was one in her presence. It was the soft voice that disturbed her thoughts, and she looked up to find -- nothing. Well, at first glance, it seemed like nothing, but upon further inspection, Dalia saw the outline of the creature, hovering in front of her like a ghost.

Since she'd returned to the Center Garden, she had not yet come across a being like this, though she'd heard about them from Caer and the other youth. It was a Spirit, and a relatively meek-sounding one at that. She seemed almost afraid of the Oracle, who stood and approached the ethereal being, a radiant smile lighting her face as she did so.

"Well! You must be one of the Spirits I've heard so much about," she said, beckoning the creature toward her with a wave of the hand. "I did not see you coming..."

It was odd that she had not seen the Spirit, for Dalia's senses foresaw the coming of all other creatures. Perhaps Spirits fell under her radar for now, she thought. She was still young after all, and her powers were developing day by day. Though slightly disappointed in this realization, she lifted her chin once again, internally vowing to further improve her powers while holding out her hands to receive the answers she sought.

"I would be more than happy to look over your answers! I had no idea a Spirit would be the first to answer them," she exclaimed cheerfully, a blush coming over her cheeks. "What is your name, dear Spirit?"

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  Amaryllis blinked, startled by the Fae's sudden movement. Was the Fateseer requesting she come closer? It was preposterous! If anything, she should be the one approaching the winged creature with head bowed in reverence and respect, surely not asked kindly to approach. She had done nothing to merit any effort of courtesy on Dalia's part and it warmed her greatly to know that this Fae was such a considerate one. The small matter of how she had been able to spot a Spirit, even one so strongly rooted in the Garden, flagged itself with a red mark and stowed itself away into her mental filing cabinet for later review.
  
  “Yes! There are many of my brethren who are interested, but they could not be bothered to attempt and catch the attention of your kindred...Ah! Please, no need to stand for me!” Amaryllis's voice was the strongest amongst the Spirits and it was certainly disconcerting for one to her a voice so sincere, the inflection and tone so expressive and vivid, yet see no face nor body to pair with it. A faint whisper of thought in her mind wondered if it was because of this clear lack of a physical bearing that prompted Dalia's trailing comment. So she said as much.
  
  “Few would see my coming, or that of my kind. We are, after all, for the most part unseen and untouched, floating gasps of thought without any standing in the earthly sense.” It dismayed her to see a small picture of disappointment etched lightly onto the Fae's brow; Amaryllis wondered if she had somehow upset her or touched upon a sensitive topic carelessly. A small part of her erupted in turmoil; what if she had offended Dalia? What if she had callously brought up something the Fae had wanted to avoid? What if...what if...what if!
  
  The thoughts ran around in her mind until they collided with each other and fell uselessly into incoherent babble. But the larger part of her sensibility insisted on keeping calm and not fretting over little things. The small voice countered smartly with bite in its tone and said that it was certainly not a little thing if she had upset Dalia.
  
  “Oh, would you? I appreciate it, Ms. Dalia...” As she handed the cautiously gathered items over, they floated in mid-air to the naked eye, her supporting hand invisible; it occurred to her that she had been rude to not introduce herself earlier and instantly a flash of embarrassment rushed through her core. Where did all her manners go? All her sophistication and good sense seemed to have abandoned her in favor of spontaneous fervor. That quiet realization was by no means reassuring.
  
  “My name's Amaryllis ,” she admitted shyly, but growing more courageous by the second as she recognized the kindness of Dalia's voice and smile. It was comforting and she drew strength from the firming belief that this Fae was genteel and amiable. She admired Dalia's easy air of serenity.
  
  “I hope I haven't troubled you any,” she continued, earnest and afraid of earning disapproval like a small child. Truly, that flash of alarmed consternation lurked in her mind and Amaryllis paid a few minutes towards deciphering the cause of it; what had she done to provoke such a sentiment to flit across Dalia's face? It was mystery that warranted hours of thought under an oak tree.
  
  
  

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