by Lorena
An old, sickly widow once lived with her three sons in a tiny village comfortably tucked away in Brittany. Being poor, the widow was forced to help support her family, and being a very skilled weaver, she made her living by weaving the most exquisite brocade, which was eagerly purchased by some of the wealthiest people in the land.
Her talent lay in her uncanny ability to weave all sorts of animals, plants, people, and even magical or supernatural creatures in the pattern in such a way that these seemed to take on a life of their own, and people would gape at the intricacies of the detailwork in some wonder. Some of her satisfied clients even claimed that her flowers, animals, and what have you were a great deal more gorgeous than the originals on which they were based.
One day the widow went to the marketplace to sell her current supply of brocade. She was done before long (being very popular all in all) and was soon whiling the time wandering aimlessly through the stalls, admiring the different crafts that were being sold alongside hers. Around her the lively sounds of vendors hawking their wares filled the air, and the marketplace was simply bursting with a variety of colors that pleased the eye.
The widow stopped at one particular stall where paintings were being sold. One of the merchandise caught her attention, and she couldn't help but stare at it in some wonder, her eyes widening at the sight.
It was a painting of a pretty stone cottage surrounded by endless fields filled with the most brilliantly-colored wildflowers and trees that seemed to be weighed down by the plump, delectable fruit that hung in thick clusters from their branches. Colorfully plumed birds either flew between the trees or settled themselves on the branches, and in the background, other cottages were scattered as well.
The widow was entranced and, fumbling for her money, immediately purchased the painting and brought it home to show her sons.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she asked, sighing dejectedly as she held it up. "I wish that we could live in such a place."
The two older sons stared at the painting and then at her before bursting out laughing.
"That's a ridiculous dream!" cried the oldest, shaking his head.
"Well, maybe sometime in the next life, but not now," the second son added.
The youngest, Trowa, regarded the painting critically and then watched the look of dejection on his mother's wrinkled face. He felt his heart soften and said, "Mother, how about if you were to weave the painting into a piece of brocade? It's not the same as living in it, but I think that's as close as we can get."
His brothers rolled their eyes at him and laughed, waving him off as they left to pursue their own pleasures. In the meantime, Trowa was left to take care of some of the chores in the house, and his mother, delighted by her son's suggestion, went about purchasing the silk yarns she needed and then preparing her loom once she returned.
Then she sat down and began to bring to life the wonderful scene in a piece of brocade. She worked for hours, which quickly turned into days and then into weeks, striving hard to capture the most intricate details into the brocade. Her mind and her will bent on achieving a singular goal, she worked as though she'd become possessed. She rarely left the loom, and when she did, it was because of Trowa's insistence and gentle reproofs as he urged her to eat and to rest and clean herself. But even after doing all those, she never failed in returning to her loom to pick up where she left off, and she'd be seen weaving well into the night and into the early morning hours.
Her back ached and grew hunched, and her eyes began to hurt as they turned bloodshot--but she didn't stop, much to her sons' annoyance. With her obsession over the brocade, she'd completely neglected her responsibilities to her family, and the two oldest sons were forced to chop wood in order to earn enough money for them to survive. It was long, arduous work, and they detested it, and they didn't have any qualms in voicing their disapproval.
"Mother," they said angrily one day as they stood before her small, wizened, and hunched figure. "This is ridiculous! We're slowly starving here because you're not selling your brocade at the marketplace anymore! And if we didn't take up the work that we're doing now, we would've died a long time ago!"
Trowa watched his brothers angrily chastise their mother, and he immediately pulled them aside.
"Leave her alone," he said, lowering his voice to keep his mother from hearing them. "This is very important to her. Please don't worry her so much and make her ill. If chopping wood is too much work for you, let me do it. Just stop your complaints and leave her alone and let me take care of the work that you hate so much."
The other two boys agreed as they were too keen on giving up such a dreary, backbreaking task, promising their youngest brother that they'd take the wood to the marketplace to sell. That, after all, didn't really take that much work to do.
"Fine," they said. "Go ahead and do it. But the moment that you fall sick because of this, we're taking the loom away and making Mother help us keep food on the table."
Trowa sighed and agreed, hoping that nothing bad would happen to him until the day his mother would be done with her work. So from that point on, the boy rose earlier than usual to go to the nearby forest to chop down enough wood for the day, hauling it all back to the cottage for his brothers to load into the cart and take to the marketplace for sale. And after that, the boy would go about and take care of other work that needed to be done around the house without a word of complaint to his mother.
The widow continued to weave her brocade, her attention now fully fixed on her work--so much so that she barely even acknowledged her sons and seemed to exist simply for the sole purpose of getting the work done. She'd burn some pine branches for light, but the smoke that came from that irritated her eyes and made them bloodshot. Still, however, she didn't stop and merely blinked away the soreness and pain as she wove through the evening and early morning hours.
A year passed, and the widow continued to weave obsessively. Her tired and irritated eyes began to water, and her tears flowed freely as she worked. Oddly enough, the tears turned to crystal when they touched the brocade tapestry, and she wove them into the pattern, and they became a beautiful, crystal river that cut through the landscape in a graceful, serpentine flow.
Trowa, for his part, continued to support her and to help his brothers, taking on the backbreaking work for everyone's sake, jeopardizing his own health in the process. All the same, he didn't once complain as he feared that his brothers would take all their frustrations out on their old, sickly mother.
The second year passed, and the widow continued to work. Her wrists had grown numb now, and her fingers had all but curled and fixed themselves into stiff, bony claws, their thin, red tips moving quickly and expertly as they wove colors and textures into the pattern.
The tears that flowed turned to blood, and like before, they all became red crystals the moment they dripped and struck the fabric. The widow saw this and wove the red crystals into the pattern as well, turning them into brilliant flowers and the red ball of the sun.
Trowa watched all this with a heavy heart, and he continued to make sure that his mother took in some food and water and had some rest, but it seemed to grow more and more difficult for him to get her to obey. The more involved she became with the weaving, the more she seemed to be lost to the rest of the world, and Trowa was at a loss. Several times in the course of his mother's work, Trowa would sit at another corner of the room, from where he'd watch his mother and quietly pray for her protection. He couldn't understand what was happening to her, and he hated feeling so helpless in the face of what was obviously an enchantment.
His brothers, in the meantime, learned to tolerate the whole thing well enough. Having had the hard part of their work taken away from them, they had plenty of time to do other things, and they often bullied their youngest brother into taking on other tasks that they didn't feel like doing. Trowa had protested the usage before, but he learned to hold his tongue after his brothers severely punished him into submission a few times, and he was forced to go about his work in so much pain. He therefore learned, the hard way, to steel himself and to keep quiet.
The third year finally came and went, and the widow finished her brocade tapestry.
She stood up and walked a little ways off to admire her work. The tapestry was exquisite, to say the least. Every detail was lovingly and painstakingly crafted, expertly and carefully woven into each other so that each element interacted with another, creating a rich collection of life and beauty that had never before been attempted. The pretty stone cottage, the trees with the fruit, the wildflowers that carpeted the lush fields surrounding the house, the birds and other animals that were scattered all over--everything taken together made a breathtaking whole, and the poor old widow gazed at her handiwork with a great degree of pride in her accomplishment.
"I want Trowa to see this," she told herself. But as she reached out to touch the surface and run loving fingers over its silky texture, a wind suddenly picked up. It seemed to center its force on the loom, detaching the brocade tapestry from its anchors and carrying the piece out the window.
The widow gave a cry of dismay as she ran out of their tiny dwelling, reaching frantically up in a vain attempt at grabbing hold of the piece. But it was carried off to the east, flying higher and higher until it was a mere speck in the sky before disappearing entirely from the poor woman's view.
She was inconsolable and loudly wept for her lost treasure, falling to her knees and tearing her hair and pounding the dirt with her balled fists. Her sons all ran out to her and carried her back inside, wailing desperately. It took some doing, but they eventually got her to calm down, with Trowa feeding her some of the broth that he'd cooked for their supper that evening. And once she'd calmed down, she pulled her oldest son close and spoke to him.
"My love," she said in a voice barely above a whisper, "help your mother and go east to find my brocade for me. It's my life--my soul."
Her son gave his promise, holding her thin, gnarled hands in his and pressing his lips against her bony knuckles. Then he gathered his things and set off, bidding his younger brothers farewell.
He traveled east as directed, not quite knowing what to expect and how to go about looking for his mother's precious tapestry. He traversed meadows and plains, forests and hills, crossed streams and brooks, his eyes fixed on a single point in the eastern horizon. A month of this passed, and he presently found himself standing before a grotto of ivory-colored rock swathed in a thick layer of rich, green ivy. The vines crawled languidly up the stone, leaves and stalks entwined in intricate patterns that began thickly at the foundation and thinned out as they fanned loosely the higher they went. Small ivory flowers peppered the vines everywhere, giving the entire thing an odd shimmery quality when viewed from a distance.
The young man was astonished at the sight, and he cautiously approached, his gaze not once leaving the grotto. But there was something else there as well, and he was forced to tear his eyes away and rest them on a stone horse that stood before an apple tree that was heavily laden with plump, bright red fruit. The horse was gazing intently at the apples and looked as though it desperately wanted to taste the sweet offerings.
As he approached, the young man was suddenly accosted by a loud, firm voice, and he turned to face a boy who'd just stepped out of the grotto. He regarded the newcomer curiously though not with much friendliness in his manner. Beautifully exotic, dark eyes sharp and clear, dark hair pulled tautly from his face to gather in a fine tail of black silk that hung down to his shoulders, slender frame draped with an ivory and green tunic of silk, he exuded a palpable air of authority and magic that made the widow's son shiver where he stood.
"Are you looking for your mother's brocade tapestry?" he blurted out, his voice ringing clearly in the midday stillness.
The traveler blinked, his amazement growing. "Why, yes. Do you know what happened to it?"
"I do. The fairies of the Sun Mountain carried off the brocade because they were entranced by it. It's so beautifully made that they now wish to copy it for themselves."
"But how can I take it back? I have no magic--I'm no match for supernatural beings."
"Anyone can do it," the enchanter replied, cocking his head and regarding his companion critically, a ghost of a smile curling his lip. "First of all, you have to get to the fairies' realm. To do that, you'll need my horse."
Here he pointed to the stone horse that stood nearby.
"But it has to eat some of the fruit of that apple tree in order for it to take you. What you have to do is to knock two of your teeth off and plant them in the horse's mouth. Then he'll come alive and eat the fruit and take you away from here after consuming ten apples. Now for you to get to the Sun Mountain, you need to pass through the Fire Mountain, which burns perpetually, and then the Sea of Ice, which is forever swirling in a fog of snow that harden to ice once it touches the water's frozen surface."
Here the enchanter stepped forward, holding his listener captive with eyes that virtually glowed with an intense inner fire. "When you pass through the Fire Mountain, you mustn't breathe a word of complaint, or you'll be consumed by the fires around you, and you'll die. When crossing the Sea of Ice, you mustn't give the slightest shudder, or the ice will open up, and you'll sink into the water and drown." He smiled dryly. "Are my instructions clear?"
The widow's son swallowed, his mind awhirl with images of a fiery mountain and a freezing sea. His courage, already shaken by the enchanter's odd appearance, deteriorated even more, and he paled before the other boy.
"I see," the enchanter presently said, laughing derisively as he stepped back, turning away. "This isn't the task for you to take. But don't go yet. I'll give you something else instead."
He disappeared inside the grotto, leaving the stupefied young man blinking stupidly at the yawning entrance and then reappearing with a small bronze chest cradled in his arms. The enchanter strode up to him, once again regarding him critically.
"Here's a chest of gold pieces," he said. "Take it with Wufei's blessing and live long and well."
He handed the chest over to the traveler and then vanished before the other could speak. Silence once again fell on the area, and the widow's son pondered his adventures so far. "This gold was meant for me," he mused as he turned around and retraced his steps down the path that led him back home. "It's for me alone. If I return home, I'll have to share it with the others, and that won't do at all. None of them earned it. I'm the one who went through all this trouble for a ridiculous piece of brocade, after all."
With that, he quickly turned from his path and chose another that led to one of the larger cities in the region, and there he stayed, spending the gold on himself without another thought to his family.
Two months passed, and the widow's ill-health progressed. She waited for her oldest son, but he didn't return, and her despair grew. Her figure dwindled at an alarming rate until she was nothing more than a pale, fragile shadow of a woman lying immovable in her bed, staring with haunted, sunken eyes at the window that faced the eastern horizon.
Trowa continued to care for her, pleading for her to eat and drink everything he'd bring to her, but she simply refused. Instead, after the second month of waiting, she called her second son and begged him to search for his brother. The young man agreed and left, taking with him what little belongings he had.
As with his older brother, he traveled on an eastern path and found the ivy-covered grotto with the stone horse. And as before, the enchanter met him and provided him with instructions on how to retrieve his mother's brocade.
As it was, his courage also failed him when he heard all this, and the enchanter once again laughed, offering him a chest of gold, which he gladly took. He traveled to a nearby city instead of heading back home, and there he seemed to disappear from all knowledge.
The poor widow, in the meantime, grew worse, and Trowa watched his mother with a great deal of alarm as she continued to waste away, and she'd turned blind from weeping constantly for her lost sons and her lost brocade tapestry. She was clearly dying, and the boy could only offer to venture out himself and search for his brothers.
"It's my turn, Mother," he said, taking her small, fragile hand in his as he knelt beside her bed. "Please let me go. I'll find them, I promise."
The old woman was too weak to speak, so she simply nodded in dreary silence, and Trowa bade her goodbye with a gentle kiss on her forehead. He traveled with only a few things just like his brothers. His path lay directly east, and he followed it with a determination that was goaded on by a sickened heart.
And after a month of exhausting travel, he presently came across the grotto and met the same enchanter his brothers had met before him. He was also apprised of what he needed to do in order to take back his mother's brocade tapestry.
"Your two brothers left this place with chests of gold," the enchanter said. "You're certainly welcome to one."
Trowa regarded his companion silently, his spirits momentarily shaken by the revelation of his tasks and by his brothers' cruel abandonment. But he thought of his mother, and he forced himself to think of nothing else but her and her present suffering.
"I'll do it," he said after a moment's hesitation, his voice quiet and a little uncertain. His gaze flew to the stone horse that stood nearby. "I want to bring back the brocade tapestry that my mother suffered so much for, for three straight years."
Wufei watched him in thoughtful silence, his face stern and pale.
"Very well then," he said, and when he made a move to go, Trowa stopped him with a firm hand on his arm.
"Hit me."
The enchanter stared at him, momentarily taken aback, before he understood the boy's purpose. He shook his head as though in resignation before stepping back, bracing himself, as he raised an arm and swung it, striking Trowa solidly in the jaw and sending the boy flying back and landing hard on the dirt.
His vision momentarily failed him, and he was swimming in a sea of swirling darkness and vague stars, but Trowa's mind eventually cleared, and he found himself lying in a crumpled mess on his back and staring dazedly at the sky. He quickly felt his throbbing jaw and found that Wufei had struck him in such a manner so that two of his teeth had loosened. It took him all the strength he had (in both mind and body) to forcibly pull those loose teeth out. He stumbled to his feet and hurried to the stone horse and inserted the two pieces inside its mouth. The pain was indescribable, and he kept wiping the blood that trickled down his chin with his sleeve--but he could only think of his ailing mother, and he used his concern for her to push him further on without so much as a thought to his own discomfort.
Wufei stood by the grotto entrance as he watched the boy. Not once did he say a word.
The teeth were secured, and Trowa stepped back to stare in amazement as the horse shivered to life, neighing gently as it moved eagerly toward the tree and began to consume the bright red apples that dangled off its branches. Trowa counted in silence and forced himself to stay on his feet in spite of the pain and the haze that threatened to split his mind and body apart. And when the horse had eaten ten pieces of the fruit, he walked up to it and gently pulled it from the tree and led it away. A quick glance in Wufei's direction showed the enchanter saluting him with a grave nod before vanishing completely.
Trowa mounted the horse, and they were soon galloping in a frenzied pace toward the east. It took them three days and three nights to reach the Fire Mountain. Trowa and the steed paused as the boy regarded the path that stretched out before him. It was a long and narrow trail that snaked through fissures and flat surfaces like a gravel serpent. Flanking the path were tongues of red fire that leapt and danced almost frenziedly about. Trowa's spirits momentarily failed him, but he urged the stone horse forward and rode through the treacherous pass.
The boy could feel the heat not so much around him, but rather the heat licking up on each side. He was perspiring immensely now, and his body ached from the sheer temperature of the burning walls surrounding him. But he pushed as hard as he could, wincing and grimacing in pain from the heat and yet forcing himself to keep quiet lest an enchanter heard him, and he'd be allowed to be consumed by the fire.
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he fought against them, but it couldn't be helped--his body was screaming from the pain of being roasted alive, but he held his tongue. He was exhausted beyond words once he reached the other side of the mountain. But it didn't matter. He'd at least managed to survive the first treacherous pass, and it was time that he crossed another.
The Sea of Ice sprawled out before him in a vast expanse of crystal water and swirls of snow that didn't seem to want to let up anytime soon. His body now aching beyond words, he watched the never-ending curtain of snow drop from the sky and settle itself on the freezing surface. Even simply staring at it made his teeth chatter.
Still, he pushed forward and was soon riding the stone horse gingerly across the ice, hardening himself from the extreme cold. He fought desperately against the urge to shiver in spite of his overwhelming desire to allow his body to respond naturally to severe stimuli. He pinched his eyes shut and clung more tightly to the horse as they made their long, laborious trek across the frigid wilderness, uttering silent prayers for his mother's well-being.
He was almost dead from both exhaustion and the severe conditions to which his body had just been exposed when he and the stone horse finally reached the distant, opposite shore and, therefore, the foot of the Sun Mountain. Weakly he urged the horse forward--and once they were again standing in a lush, spring-like environment, he tiredly dismounted and secured the steed on to a tree before taking to the trail that narrowed considerably and led stragglers to the fairies' abode.
The fairies' home was really a castle hewn into the mountain's rocky and majestic facade. Its stone mirrored the mountain's exterior, with an unusual combination of gray and ivory blended into subtle and pretty swirls of a marble pattern. It gave the castle a primal and oddly beautiful sense of power and authority, its ageless mystery echoing its enigmatic occupants.
The boy walked up to the door, knocked, and was let in by an invisible being that whispered its welcome to him and asked him to follow the trail of tiny crystal suns that led to the fairies.
Trowa obeyed and passed through a seemingly endless corridor of marvelous rock in ivory and gray marble. His ears caught the sound of voices raised in laughter and cheerful conversation, and he knew that he was nearing his destination.
The crystal trail led him to a massive room, where he found a hundred fairies of both sexes busily engaged in weaving brocade tapestries of their own as each sat by a loom. In the center of the vast area his mother's brocade tapestry hung from the ceiling by red silk ribbons, idly twisting in the air as the fairies studied it carefully before proceeding with their project.
The fairies were all hard at work in spite of the general cheerful exchange that occurred among themselves--so much so that Trowa's entrance wasn't felt till he cleared his voice and began to address the beautiful creatures.
All heads turned to face him, and he was suddenly inundated with a hundred pairs of lovely eyes regarding him in some surprise. A second or two of heavy silence fell over them before one of the fairies stood up and hurried over to him, her features creased from both amazement and consternation.
"I came to retrieve my mother's tapestry," he announced, eliciting quiet gasps from the creatures, but he paid them no heed. "I'm sorry, but my mother is very ill and can't get well unless her tapestry is back safely in her hands.
"We're almost done with our weaving, sir," the fairy replied, blue eyes sparkling with hope. "If you wouldn't mind waiting another day, I'm sure that we'll all be done by then. And if not, we'll simply let it go."
"All right then," Trowa said. "I'd wait here forever if need be--anything--just so my mother would be given her treasure back."
The fairy smiled her relief. "My name is Relena. Please make yourself comfortable, friend, and we'll do our best to take care of you."
Then Trowa sat down and was immediately served by several other fairies, who brought him water and food as well. Their hospitality so impressed the boy that the latter was only too happy to be pampered, when he never received anything more comfortable than less-than-basic food and shelter in his real life. And when he ate from the shiny pewter bowls, platters, and goblets, he felt his exhaustion slowly drain from his body, invigorating it with unexpected strength and hope, and he gazed at the lively scene before him with clearer eyes.
There was one fairy in particular who'd caught his attention--not so much for superficial reasons but really more for something much deeper.
The fairy in question was a boy around Trowa's age, who'd seated himself a little apart from the boisterous group. He sat at his loom, frowning as he gazed at the tapestry that hung before him, before sighing heavily and proceeding with his work with a mournful air. Trowa watched his fingers work quickly and skillfully as he wove several different-colored silk thread together, marveling at the boy's abilities and determination. Every now and then a thin, trembling hand would raise itself up to run pale fingers through a tousled mop of gold hair, exposing the boy's fretful expression to Trowa's admiring and amused gaze.
The sun slowly sank in the horizon, and Trowa presently fell asleep in the corner where he sat, satisfied and happy. He allowed the constant hum of voices to fill his mind as he drifted off to sleep, and the last things he heard were hushed conversations about putting up the light. The last thing he saw was a small group of fairies standing up and leaving the room, emerging only seconds later with a gigantic pearl, which they secured to the ceiling by more silk ribbons of red. The moonlight that streamed through the massive cathedral-like windows fell on the lone pearl, illuminating it and allowing it to reflect the soft light for the fairies to use while they worked doggedly through the night.
Trowa's eyes closed, and he was soon fast asleep.
The young fairy whom he'd admired earlier finally finished his tapestry, and he sat back to consider it critically. His heart fell, and his body slumped. The piece, in his eyes, was a far inferior copy of the original, and he was heartbroken. It wasn't as well done as the brocade tapestry made by the widow, and the more he compared his work to the widow's, the gloomier he got until he was simply unable to find it in himself to let go of the tapestry. The picture in it was gorgeous and breathtaking--he wished, in the most poignant terms, that he were part of the wonderful landscape--that he were living in the simple human world that the picture represented.
So he sat in dejected silence while his peers busily wove their tapestries. Before the morning sun rose, though, an idea struck him, and he quickly worked on it. Pulling out some of his yarn, he wove an image of himself into the tapestry, murmuring incantations as he did, solidifying his presence in the world in which he'd always longed to be.
Trowa awoke at the break of dawn to find himself alone in an empty stone castle. Beside him lay his mother's brocade tapestry, neatly folded and gently placed there. The boy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rose, his gaze sweeping the room and his spirits sinking low. He'd missed their departure. He'd lost his chance at speaking with the young fairy who'd caught his eye the previous day.
It was easy finding his way back to the door and finally to the stone horse. He mounted the magnificent animal and tore through the countryside, braving yet another harrowing journey through the Sea of Ice and the Fire Mountain, feeling stronger and a good deal better about himself as the horse took him back to Wufei's grotto.
"I'm glad to see that you've done the job quite well," the enchanter said as he appeared to the jubilant boy, a little smile lighting up his face. "Wait here."
Wufei walked up to the horse and gently pried its mouth open, pulling out the two teeth that Trowa had placed in it. The horse immediately stood still as it regained its stony essence, once again gazing longingly at the apple tree before it. In the meantime, Wufei walked back to Trowa and, after urging the boy to open his mouth, replaced the teeth while chanting lowly and quietly, pressing the boy's mouth shut with a gentle press of his fingers. The two teeth secured themselves in their place, and Trowa felt the discomfort cease and the pain of the previous day's trials melt away into a tired sense of satisfaction.
"Take these," the enchanter said, waving a hand in the air and drawing a circle with his finger. A pair of shoes appeared, hovering in the air for a second or two before slowly settling down on the ground. "These will help you."
"Thank you," Trowa stammered in amazement.
"You earned it all," Wufei said, smiling cryptically as he stepped away and raised a hand in farewell. "The blessings of Fate be with you, Trowa." And then he disappeared.
With that, Trowa immediately kicked off his shoes and put on the new pair. Then he was suddenly lifted up and was airborne, the shoes providing him with the strength and the energy to fly back home, cutting his travel time down to a mere fraction. He had a vague memory of the rush of the wind in his ears and the colorful blur of the countryside in his eyes as he hurtled along. At the same time, he felt a lifting in his heart and mind and an odd thrill of expectation shooting through him. He would, if he could, laugh out loud, but whatever joy or triumph he was feeling was also tempered by thoughts of his sick mother.
He was soon standing before his family's tiny, run-down cottage, and he hurried inside, holding the brocade tapestry tightly against his chest.
"I'm back, Mother," he gasped as he fell to his knees beside his mother's bed. "Look--I found your brocade."
The widow, at first lying almost corpse-like in her bed, stirred at the familiar sound of her beloved son's voice as well as the much-longed-for declaration of success in finding her treasure. She turned painfully, her blinded eyes seeking her son and yet failing to find him, her mouth moving spasmodically while small heaves and squeaks escaped her throat. It took some time for her to fully articulate her thoughts.
"Trowa, my dear, dear boy," she whispered, tears springing up in her eyes as she raised a weak hand to touch her son's face. She pawed the air ineffectually for a moment before Trowa took hold of her hand and placed it gently against the side of his face as he nodded.
"I'm here, Mother. I'm here. Rest easy now."
He placed the brocade in the widow's hand, and she clung to it as a child would to a long-lost and beloved toy, murmuring prayers of thanks. Trowa watched as color slowly seeped into her complexion, and the lost light in her eyes restored themselves. She blinked several times before she let her gaze settle on the boy beside her.
"I'm feeling well," she said, her voice trembling. "I can see you now."
She insisted on getting up, so Trowa helped her in spite of his misgivings. She leaned heavily on him as she worked her slow way out of her room, directing her son to take her outside, where she could take a good look of her brocade.
"All right, Mother," the boy sighed as he guided her along. "But remember that you're going straight to bed after this."
She merely laughed at him.
They presently reached the outside, and the widow unfurled her brocade with trembling hands. As she did, a strange breeze picked up, caressing the tapestry and making it stretch itself out as it was unrolled. Trowa and his mother stared in stunned amazement as the tapestry spread itself out, every inch of the luxurious fabric and intricate detailwork covering the land within a small perimeter. And as it grew, the sun touched the yarn and sent flowers, animals, and plants shivering in their respective spots before expanding and growing slowly and taking on life as they did. The flowers turned into the most exquisite blooms anyone had ever seen. The animals stirred, filling out and displaying their unique colors to the spectators as they idly strolled or playfully capered about, enlivening the environment even more. Everywhere details from the tapestry sprang to life and impressed themselves in the area, giving it a paradisial quality.
Trowa and his mother could only gape as the tapestry came to life before them, and they were suddenly standing in the same landscape that had long tormented the poor widow.
"Oh, Trowa! Haven't you seen anything this beautiful in your life?" she cried in rapturous joy, clasping her hands fervently at her chest.
Her companion didn't hear her, though, as his attention was invariably fixed on the slight figure of a golden-haired boy wandering through the trees in no small joy, his eyes widening at just about every single thing that caught his fancy. He ran a gentle hand on rough bark or smooth stone, his lips moving as though he were speaking to himself.
Trowa recognized him as the fairy who'd caught his attention in the rock castle.
His mother suddenly ceasing to exist to him, he strode forward and accosted the other boy, startling the latter a little.
"Why are you here?" he asked quietly.
"I want to be in this world," the fairy replied just as quietly, stealing glances in the widow's direction as he leaned against a tree. "I've never seen anything so beautiful before."
"Are you responsible for this?"
The fairy smiled, cocking his head a little as he regarded Trowa with unabashed pleasure. He shook his head.
"No--at least not entirely. Your mother's faith and perseverance and your sacrifice warranted this. I'm merely a stowaway, I'm afraid."
Here the boy's features darkened as the smile suddenly faded.
"Of course--my being here depends on whether or not you want me here. I can leave if my presence bothers you," he hastily added, and Trowa shook his head.
"No. I think this place wouldn't be the same without an enchanted being somewhere," Trowa said, and the fairy's smile broadened as a clear wave of relief washed over him.
"Thank you."
Trowa, his mind much too wrapped around the thought of being in the company of this enigmatic creature, failed to notice his mother's giddy declarations of inviting their poor neighbors to live with them in the brocade tapestry.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Quatre."
And Trowa smiled.
It wouldn't take too long for Trowa and Quatre to find the courage to open themselves up to each other and to share their joy with the widow. She was taken aback at first, but understanding that her time on the earth was nearing its end, she realized that she didn't want to spend what was left of it in any form of resentment or bitterness, especially toward her beloved son, whose happiness had always been foremost in her mind and heart. She welcomed the two lovers joyfully, and the three of them lived in quiet contentment for several years till the end of their days.
Sometime after Trowa and Quatre had gotten together, two beggars passed by the area and paused in their tracks as they beheld the new and unusual sight of beautiful trees, flowers, and animals where an old, dreary cottage used to stand.
"This isn't the place," one of them declared as they stared in surprise.
"This has to be," the other replied. "I remember some of the landmarks that we passed."
As they continued to gape at the wonderful scenery before them, they caught sight of three figures eating a humble serving of bread and fruit by the crystal brook that bubbled merrily through the wildflower-covered meadow. They watched as the three, obviously peasants, spoke and laughed, with the two young men in the group occasionally leaning against each other and sharing a kiss.
The beggars recognized one of the young men to be their youngest brother and the old, fragile-looking woman to be their mother. The lively, golden-haired creature who was showering Trowa with so much affection they concluded to be their brother's lover.
Their fortunes now changed after several years spent in mindless dissipation, the two brothers turned their faces away from the happy sight and walked off in shame, never to return.
Notes:
This fic is based on a Chinese folktale of the same title. Non-European fairytales have a very pretty and spiritual quality to them, which makes them perfect for fusions that are metaphorical in nature. And, yes, this fic is metaphorical, but its meaning I choose to keep to myself. I'll leave it up to the readers to come up with their own creative interpretations of the story.