#elsewhere

The woman raises her arm in a sweeping arc gesture, and a thin, translucent bubble forms around the two. It looks fragile enough to pop at a breath, and somehow impermeable enough to stand until the end of time. Gwen feels that she can now speak with the Spirit directly and privately - and that she is on her own in this.

The sense of being alone spooks her more than she realized. She has , she realizes, rarely been alone. If nothiing or no one else, there was Ivan. There were times she felt left out, isolated,, but for the most part, since her awakening, she had someone nearby

"When others need me, I cannot take root far from them. Or should not. How should I call you?" She asks the woman, lowering her head

The figure smiles at Gwen, and there is a sense of immense warmth in it. Her eyes, deep and knowing, seem to see into Gwen’s heart.

“I have gone by many names. I am a part of that which is greater, you might consider me a servant of Her... but for simplicity, you may call me White Buffalo Calf Woman,” she says softly, her voice a harmonious blend of the earth and wind. "You walk in a sacred place. Be at ease, my daughter."

"i've always wanted to meet you" She admits truthfully "Most sacred and beloved to many. I'm afraid 'ease' is not something that I feel in my heart now. I must undergo a test and I fear I am not worthy, but she who I seek for is."

White Buffalo Calf Woman’s smile deepens, a quiet understanding settling into her expression. The wind stirs gently through the valley, carrying the scent of blooming moonflowers and fresh earth. Despite Gwen's nervousness, she feels that just being in the spirit's presence makes her feel more at ease - in fact, it reminds her of the comfort of Marigold's kitchen.

She inclines her head slightly, a gesture of respect, not of superiority. "Then speak, child," she says, her voice like a warm spring rain. "I am listening."

She takes a breath, and oddly does feel a peace of sorts settle. "I am Gwen, of the blood of the Iroquois and Western Cherokee. I was born in a house of love and rage, and when rage killed love, I killed rage. I danced dreams guided by the brother of a ghost to find msyelf lost and found far closer to my mother's lands. The Silverwolf howled and I answered, for it had been my spirit's home before. Knowing myself again, I became knight of the house of old ways of the Eyrie, and leader of a pack, protector and warrior. I am Gladiola. Stone skinned but often seen as soft hearted, which perhaps, sometimes I am. I have lost love, and made some friends , but today I come on behalf of Marigold, she who is my second mother and dear to me as raindrops to a parched land. She hurts, White Buffalo Calf Woman, not just with the ache of age, but far too soon, pain more and more riding her like a cruel horseman. Her hip first, her joints and more. Clumsily done, I staggered with every movement of my tongue, yet with help, I am here to try to be worthy of the moonflower belt not for my sake, but for my mother's. She is the best of all women, and I would pay the price for her"

White Buffalo Calf Woman listens in stillness, the valley holding its breath with her. The wildflowers stir in a rhythm that seems to match Gwen’s heartbeat. When Gwen finishes, the sacred woman lowers her gaze, not in judgment, but with a deep, solemn kindness.

"You have spoken well, child of many paths," she says, her voice like a river flowing over smooth stones. "And I hear the love in your words, the devotion that binds you to the one you call mother."

There is a pause, a weight to her next words before she speaks them.

"But I cannot grant you this gift. It does not belong to me, nor to any one being. The Moonflower Belt belongs to the People—it is their inheritance, their sacred trust. If it were for you, perhaps, the matter would be different. But it cannot go to one who does not share the blood of the People, no matter how dearly you love her."

Her sorrow is genuine, written in the curve of her mouth and the sadness that darkens the light in her eyes.

Gwen feels her stomach drop, a feeling of desolation. She has bared her soul, given her all, only to be rejected?

But before she can respond...

Beyond the glowing threshold of White Buffalo Calf Woman’s presence, Art and Thistle crumple like puppets with their strings cut, only for the wildflowers to catch them in a gentle embrace.

A presence fills the space. He is not a beast, nor merely a man, but both. His form is strong, his bearing effortless, his face handsome with a sharpness that hints at laughter and mischief in equal measure. Furred ears flick atop his head, and a tail flicks behind him.. His eyes gleam like twin sparks of sunset, brimming with secrets, mirth, and hidden knowledge.

Gwen has seen Pooka before, but this is different. This is older. This is power draped in the guise of play, a trickster in all his glory.

Coyote grins to Gwen, then bows to White Buffalo Calf woman. His expression serious, his tone reverent, with all the weight of a sacred truth, he speaks.

“That,” he says solemnly, “is bullshit.”

Gwen feels tears well up, but she holds them in. She does indeed feel desolate and lost. Then, Coyote speaks, and her expression turns to one of confusion

But she waits, to see what else he has to say, as if reassured by some other counsel

Coyote places his hands on his hips, his tail flicking in an idle rhythm as he studies White Buffalo Calf Woman with a knowing grin. But when he speaks again, there is no laughter in his voice—rather, the weight of a truth too often ignored.

“I have walked near this one,” he says, nodding toward Gwen. “I have seen her through the eyes of those who walk beside her.” He gestures to Art and Thistle, still resting in the embrace of the wildflowers. “Through their hearts, I have seen her struggle. I have seen her fight, not for herself, but for those she loves. I have seen her heart bleed, and still, she does not turn away.”

His sharp gaze lands back on White Buffalo Calf Woman. “She is the Silverwolf’s howl in the dark, the shield between the helpless and the storm. She does not walk these lands as a thief, nor does she stand before you with selfish hands. She comes out of love, not for herself, but for another—for one who has given herself in ways that the People respect, in every way except the fact of her birth.”

His tail sways, a slow and steady rhythm, as he cocks his head. “And so I ask, oh Sacred One, should spirit matter less than blood?”

A pause, and Coyote’s lips curl, just slightly, the ghost of a grin never fully born. “Or is this the part of the story where we all learn something new?”

Gladiola has a lot of mixed feelings "She is White Buffalo Calf Woman, even I know of her sacredness and I am not Lakota. You should be more respectful, Coyote. Though, I am grateful for the praise do not doubt that. I hope I have earned half of what you say" Then she looks at White Buffalo Calf Woman "Coyote speaks of spirit over blood, and perhaps I am selfish in that I think he is right." A breath "It matters more. But, I also speak of custom, and ritual. In many tribes in the past, a white could join by marriage, or by adoption. Marigold had taken me in, but I also claimed her. She is my tribe, she is, through me, tied to my tribes of old. She is of the people in her way. The storm of the world is hard now, and cruel, but the trees that survive it will hold to their roots yes, but they will also bend with the wind. I saw it..."

She takes a breath "I saw them. " she continues

"Your people, my people, the pow wow, the gathering... the dances, the stories... they were there, old and old with new twists. They honor the past, but they live now in this storm. Crafts made the old way with new images, Crafts made new ways with old souls . They find ways old and new to hold onto their roots. Are they all lost because they're trying to bend with the wind?"

White Buffalo Calf Woman watches Gwen in silence, her gaze deep and knowing. Then, with a softness that carries the weight of ages, she speaks.

"I hear you, child."

"Your stone is only skin deep. You may learn to bend as well."

There is no challenge in her voice, only understanding.

"Else what may break will not be tradition, but friendships."

"Pardon, this... may take a bit. To me, it seems I have bent. And Bent again. I told Art to keep it secret, to be fair , we almost hit a wall so, not like anyone's mind was on anything but fleeing cops at a time. My distress when that avenue was destroyed because he did not remember, that my own mother's cure put at risk, caused me great anquish, and this ... anguish was dismissed and belittled OR so it appeared to me" A breath "Yet, they do not have my ears or eyes so I also did not see in a friend's eyes. To my friend's ears, when he pressed, I treated him as a child. To me, I treated him as I would treat any other friend who was NOT listening and pressed me too far. Forgive, but I essentially gave him 'what for'. I would do that and have done it to others, but our natures are at war in this...."

"It is ironic I came to him to make sure he did NOT blame himself. I was concerned he had taken too much of MY burden. That was not the case, and rather I felt ambushed to find my concern for any of his beating himself up needless, and no, he would therefore put intention in my heart, and accuse me of acting as if he were lesser. Again, I would have said the same to others.. and perhaps THAT is something I need to reconsider. But ambushes do not sit will with troll honor, even if I suppose he feels I ambushed him first... and worse, I am a Daireann. We are tied to vengeance, personal honor, and hospitality. I've seen people grow banal when they deny this part of themselves, swallow what they are. Desperate for a solution. I found a way out... a way to be true to my kith and my house. One that I might even , WOULD even lose at. A way to work FORWARD"

A rub of her head "It may seem silly, if you weren't of my House especially, but this was flat out rejected as well. Leaving me STUCK in a spiral of war with myself. Every time I offered an olive branch, it felt as if I were struck with it. Everytime I bent, even willing to face sure defeat, it was spurned. I am not saying I'm without fault. I was rude. I was fearful and lashed out in that fear. But bent? Oh.. I've bent till it's breaking me inside. And he doesn't know, doesn't see. He's since tried to offer small if sincere concerns . Gestures and mutters of support." A breath "But neither of us can bend enough and I fear It's going to cost me not one friends but two. Thistle loves him, you see? And I wouldn't ask her to choose. I'm sure she would pick him anyway which is as it SHOULD be."

"So I have walked the Upperworld with this resentment, this anger, and this guilt. That is why I fear I'm not pure enough for this test. How can I be when I have a heart full of rage and resentment for a friend?" A breath "He'll never understand it seems, and I'll never be able to explain."

She holds up her hand, yet more to say

"Yet as angry as I am with him, I am also GRATEFUL" She explains "Did you know without him we'd never have translated the clues we found in a cook book? That was his brain doing that. And he took the time to do it to help my mother. Time and time again he's faced death or worse. And without him, I'd not have gotten past some riddles, or tricked us closer. Coyote helped him, but it was he and Thistle who ASKED Coyote along. " A sullen look "I'm a grade A bitch because I'm more focused on ONE bad incident I can't seem to get around, than I am grateful for a good friends doing his best to help get me to the end of a quest in ways I could not. Art is a good man, Squire Arthur is a Good Sidhe. And both are a good friend. You're right. I need to bend even if he doesn't. And I'll keep bending till he notices I AM bending, because without him,, or thistle .. well, I would not be this far. I would not make it. If bending is the price you're asking for the Moonflower belt, find another price. Because I SHOULD bending and more anyway. Repay all Debts... and I owe him SO much for the good he has done."

She stops, looking drained ,and yet, as if the peace the White Calf Buffalo woman initially is settled into her more.

And waits her judgement, if judgment there is

The Spirit listens, at first looking surprised, then uncertain, and then neutral... and finally, she nods.

Coyote says, "Hoo boy. That's a lot to unpack, Rocky."

White Buffalo Calf Woman raises her hands, calling for silence.. "I am glad that you found insight, Thunderbird's chosen. Before I choose if you shall be granted this boon, you must hear my price."

"It is" She tells Coyote "Justified or petty, no wrong, even if there IS a wrong, can possibly balance against the good Art does and has done and I hope he feels the same about me."

Then she realizes the woman has called for silence and hopes the price wasn't supposed to be 'keep your damn mouth shut for a second'. She lowers her head in apology and obedience

"The price I ask is Forgiveness."

Coyote's jaw drops... then snaps shut again.

Gwen's brow knits in confusion.

"I don't understand" Gwen admits "If you're asking me to forgive Art, I just did, as much as I can. If you're asking for me to forgive you, you've done nothing wrong. And, Coyote I'm pretty sure wouldn't care if I forgave him or not even if he did me wrong. "

"Do you accept?" The woman asks, smiling softly.

"I must" she answers honestly "Even if it undo me. As long as the benefits of the belt go to my mother." She drops to a kneel

"So yes. I accept." She braces herself.

White Buffalo Calf Woman draws herself up, mighty and sacred. "I accept."

She raises her hands, giving a call in words Gwen cannot understand or remember, and swirling lights dance around her. When they fade, the circle is no longer empty.

A woman with many arms and eyes, draped in silk threads. A child, silent and watchful, feathers framing their face. An old man, stern as stone. A twisting figure of wood and bloom, neither man nor woman, yet radiant with life. Others too—the iridescent shimmer of Hummingbird’s wings, the steady, knowing presence of Wolf. The Spirits have come...

They work in harmony, each lending their gifts. Spider spins the finest thread, her many hands moving with endless precision. Owl whispers wisdom into each stitch, unseen yet felt. Dogwood gently presses blossoms into the weave, petals bright and pure. Thunderbird stirs the air, infusing the belt with Medicine, a power deeper than words. Coyote writes something upon the hem.

When it is finished, White Buffalo Calf Woman holds a new belt in her hands. It glows like moonlight from within.

She offers this to Gwen.

Gwen feels very odd, in a daze of sacred confusion, if there is such a thing. And there must be somewhere. She takes the belt, "Thank you, spirits, for your aid in this. Thank you, Art and Thistle, my two friends even if you can't hear me. Thank you, Takota , and Mato, though I don't know if you will hear it now. I will tell of your kindnesses all"

As the belt is set in her hands, she feels a wash of magic over her, and White Buffalo Calf Woman leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Gwen’s forehead.

“Forgive yourself,” she murmurs, and Gwen can feel the words sink into her soul.

“You carry the weight of your family, your friends, your land—as if you alone must bear it all. But you are not the World Turtle, child. No one can hold up the entire world.”

She brushes a strand of Gwen’s hair aside, her touch light as wind through the grass. “Grant yourself the grace you give to others. To falter is not to fail. To bend is not to break.”

“Take this, daughter of many paths. It is not the Moonflower Belt, but a treasure of healing woven anew. Let it become a treasure for your Mother and your family line - be they of the People of our land or another.

Take, and remember.”

"And say, Thank you, Mother." Coyote says, pertly.

Gwen blushes, and feels an odd relief at the kiss. She forgives herself for not saving her mother from her father. She forgives herself for not saving father from his own rage and getting him the help she needed. She forgives herself for letting Chuck go without much of a fight. She forgives herself for her mistakes on this quest, learning is important, gnawing at it like an old bone serves no good. She had bent, but she also , a part of her, chastised herself for 'having to', when it was no shame to do so. A dozen shadows seem to pour out of her, and spill about before they vanish as quickly as they came out. She laughs, unaware of the pressure inside her all this time. The weight that troll strength cannot manage finally off her. It takes her by surprise. Not a cruel laugh, not a bitter laugh,, a geniune laugh of delight that comes up too quickly for discipline to stop. And she forgives herself for that too!

"Thank you, Mother" She says when the laughter stops. "And.. thank you for this treasure FOR my mother"

A final smile, and, like dust in the wind, the Goddess drifts away, the spirits fade, and she finds herself in the valley of moonflowers, surrounded by sleeping companions - even Citrine is curled up on Ivan's back.

In her hands she holds the belt, and sees that it is fine silk, and embroidered with a unique design of marigold and gladiola blossoms. Within it, she can feel glamour humming, and the ache of the long walk, swampy struggle, steep climb and fierce battle fade away from her. It does not add any strength, but she feels rested, rejuvenated, as if after a long and lovely nap on a spring day in the sunshine.

She holds onto the belt with fists tight, as if she fears it might fly away.

She moves to wake Art first, nudging him with an elbow. Were she a pooka she might paint a kitten face on him but she doesn't have any paint, and she doesn't want to end up turning poor Thistle into a furry. "Wake up, Art. "

"Mmm, 5 more minute, ma."

She can't help it "The Baroness wants to see you, something about astrology charts everywhere in HER library"