The scarred grey stallion walked with purpose through the field, carving his own path through the tall orange-brown grass that brushed gently against his underbelly. It was a mellow afternoon, and he fit right into the landscape. The sun spread warmly across his back, the grass parted before him as though showing the way. A lazy sense of ease filled the scene, undeterred by the eager beckoning of the tree at the heart of the plains.

The tree which called, by the flutter of its leaves and the far-flung reach of its story, to all of Novus.

It called and Eik responded. Slow and steady he crossed the Arma Mountains, then tapered North across the foothills of Veneror. It felt strange to have Solterra to one side of him-- he was most always going to or from the desert kingdom, never skirting it by like this-- and from the East came a dry warm wind that whispered to him things best not repeated.

The tree was just as he imagined it. Nothing more, nothing less. He walked right up to it, placed his cheek to its rough bark, and sighed. Far below, roots dug into thick black-brown soil  and underground rivers ran to the sea-- as it was, as it always would be. It gave him comfort to know the story would keep going long after he was gone.

I dreamed of you in colors beyond seeing,
braided your name into the earth

It was pure happenstance that the way home from Delumine’s festival brought Dune past the plains.

The merchant, with a load significantly lighter than when he left home,  was not interested in seeing the tree Novus couldn’t stop talking about. What was the point? So what if it was magic; none of the many stories told of money growing on it. And he had his share of magic at night, behind closed eyes, drifting from one dream to another.

No, Dune did not need to see a tree. He was tired of adventure and ready to be home. He missed his humble living space, and his workshop, and his cats-- who would be extremely displeased by his absence, and perplexingly even moreso by his return. The whirlwind of festival season was exhilarating, even addictive. One could get used to the drink and the merriment, the feeling of celebration leaving no room for existential or economic crisis. Dune toasted to gods that were not his, gods he did not trust. He drank to things that seemed irrelevant to his daily life (in Terrastella, new beginnings. In Delumine, the changing of seasons. In Solterra, the beauty to be found in violence) and he slung goods to all manner of strangers.

At first change was sweet, but in the end he found himself missing familiarity in all its dusty, poverty-striken glumness. So when he was on the way home, and the breeze blew just-so, and he turned to the south--

And the tree was there, beckoning, empty of promise but full, full, full of --

Of the unknowable and unnamable thing our poor vocabulary compromises as magic--

He stops for just a moment, and looks at the great, strange tree, and listens to the wind that blows, and tastes the sorry summer air,

And then he keeps walking. Because money does not grow on this tree, and he will not concern himself with it until it does.