#baronyofthesilverwolf

(Due in no small measure to the sidhe scribbling nearby)

Madern takes a moment to learn the fruit’s fragility, adjusting his grip as even the lightest pressure leaves a bruise that threatens to spread and turn quickly to rot once it leaves the grove’s protection.

Handled with care, the Amberheart yields to him without resistance, almost trusting in the gentleness of his touch.

Soon, he is working with steady precision, placing the remaining fruit into the urns and packing them carefully so they do not press against one another. Each piece settles as if it belongs exactly where it is set, cradled in a bed of ice and silk.

Art has paused and is chewing on the nib of his pen, a habit that often leaves him with ink dabs on his lips - though he does not seem to realize that he also has a faint golden glow to his pale skin as some of the nectar is inadvertently consumed.

"So fragile," He admits.

"Yes", Art agrees, looking at his notes and squinting at the curve of a letter, then rubbing it out and trying again "I dare not make a mistake."

"No, we shan't."

Madern mutters "like a soufflé with gun powder in it"

Art finally exhales, and looks to the Keeper, Thistle and Madern. "If you're ready... there's something I am going to try."

"The jar is my best."

"Amberheart contained , at least the ones w'ere taking"

The Keeper looks from the preserved fruit and the Piskey who has preserved them, to the Nocker and her masterpiece, to the Sidhe who has nervous sweat on his brow despite the cold, but a determined look on his face.

"I am ready." She says.

"Thank you, Keeper, for trusting us, as well as for your generous nature," Madern tells her "You're in good hands, Art and Thistle are geniuses"

“Amberheart, contained,” Art whispers, echoing Madern, and with an exhale, he Unleashes Naming.

Madern's eyes widen and he hopes.

He gives of himself as he does it. Glamour unspools from him in a steady surrender, and the grove answers by lending its own power. The stillness, the fruit-laden branches, the quiet saturation of Dreaming all fold inward with him, becoming part of the voice that speaks the Name.

Through that shared Glamour, he speaks again, softer this time, not as a command but as speaking a truth unveiled.

“I name you Amberheart,” he whispers, “until you remember yourself.”

Thistle's eyes widen, taking in the graceful beauty of Art's craft.

(Perhaps the crafting of the Art?)

The words do not force her into shape, but wrap around her instead, like something long-lost returning. It's more than a Nickname, but less than a Reweaving, a Name offered where a hollow cries for itself. The name settles through her uncertainty, through the places where memory has thinned and continuity has frayed. It does not overwrite her, but steadies her, and gives the Keeper of the Grove something to hold onto. Her eyes close, and golden tears trickle down her cheeks, over lips that give a soft smile, sad and yet, content.

For a moment, she simply is, held within the Name as if it has always been hers - then she starts to glow. It gathers slowly, that which has saturated the Grove coming inward and soaking into the True Fae as her cloak of power is furled within.

Her form becomes brilliance, radiant beyond comfort, filling the grove until everything else is swallowed in it. She shines brightly, brighter, until even Art must look away else be blinded.

Where the Sidhe stood is now something smaller, more concentrated, more complete. A glowing orb of golden essence hangs in the air, the size of the fruit that Madern has carefully packed away. The power condesed into itself like the core of a star.

Art whispers, his eyes still blinded as he rubs at them, "Madern, Thistle... the jar."

Thistle steps forward, open jar in one extended hand, amber lid in the other.

He moves to help Thistle if she needs it.

Thistle opens the jar, and Madern's deft fingers guide the orb in to nestle into the nest of ice and silk, cradeled by Nockerwork and Nadeen's winter arts,

Citrine gives a chime, blows a kiss, and herself settles the lid on top, sitting on it as though this has all been her plan.

"That was... delicate work," He takes a breath.

Thistle feels like she can finally exhale.

"Well, no time to furk around, right? Clock's ticking."

Art does exhale, almost explosively.

Amberheart's vessel is placed in the very middle of the carrier, where it will be the most protected.

"That.... could have gone so wrong." He says, as if only now daring to speak how big a chance he took. His hands shake a little as he gathers up his stylus and tablet (the papers having been consumed by the magic.)

"Good idea, back into the breach I guess." A look to Art, "You're getting scary, Art, glad you're on ourside."

Drip, drip.

Water falls on Thistle's nose, Madern's cheeks, and has Art rubbing the back of his neck, confused by the moisture.

The snow on the branches is melting.

"Out out out..." He says ready to retreat.

Art looks up, and remarks, "A wise tree once said, I Am Not Altogether on Anyone's Side, Because Nobody is Altogether on My Side."

He grins to Madern, "But yes, we are on the same side. And I am glad to be with you."

"Great movie," Madern nods and jokes "I hear they made a novelization about it."

Art splutters.

Pretending he really is that clueless, Madern keeps up the pace.

"Oh yeah, nope, we're moving now."

The fruit that had held in silent stasis plops to the ground here and there. Wood creaks under it's own weight, as the trees return to normal pines and birch of this near dreaming forest.

For the first time since they had stepped on the path, they hear Birdsong.

As they step out, the grove slowly disintegrates - not destryed, but returning to the forest.

Art checks his watch, but the dial seems to be jumping around. A sigh, "Dreaming." He remarks, "We can only hope to be on time."

Thistle realizes she is sweating under her winter gear.

"Time's funny, but we couldn't have done better."

"We did our best." He agrees, "Which is all we can hope to do."

"Exactly." She scrubs the sweat from her forehead but presses on.

Madern focuses, "If the Dreaming is listening, maybe we'll arrive 30 seconds after we left." He notices Thistle sweating as they walk, "You okay?"

"Bit overdressed now. Will deal with it when we get back to the other side."

"Okay!" He says and quiets up letting them take lead.

As Madern takes off his heavy coat, he feels something in a pocket that he does not immediately remember placing there. Mm, no, vaguely, something caught his eye earlier but he just tucked it in, busy packing up the fruit.

But, he will have to look at that later, perhaps in his room alone!