The Birth of Magic 1.7

In the city, beside the schools, those that knew the moving well, were rewarded for their efforts. The more intricate the better. Branch had always preferred the natural simplicity. That was the reason he moved to the outskirts of the kingdom.
It was quiet, the kind that settled in, and pressed around him. It seemed loud when he opened the door to his hand-built home. It was small, slate shingles gleamed dully in the night, the wooden door creaked slightly as he pulled it open. Without thought, he reached out, using a moving, it washed out over his small house, like a wave that spread in all directions. He had left it a mess, and his will formed into movement. It was as if all at once his home jumped into order, everything rushed to its proper place. Ready for the next day.
Branch collapsed on his soft feathered bed. Sleep overtook him in seconds.
He dreamed. The deep kind. Where he knew he was dreaming. He walked in a land that seemed to be surrounded in fog, where the edges of sight faded into the mist. A river cut itself shear and clean through the grass covered ground. It flowed sure and strong. This wasn’t the first time he had this dream. He stood on the edge of the river, it ran off downhill as though it felt good to chase the pull of gravity. The whole time it babbled about it, the small sounds water makes as it flows by.
Branch listened, that was something Trent had impressed. The ability to truly listen, it was hard fought and took attention in any moment. Branch focused only on hearing, absorbing what was around. The heavy fog -like that of his hometown-, the rushing river, what looked to be a sloping hill beyond.
Why did he dream of this? He had never been to anywhere like it.

#writerofage

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