As the last flickering light of the autumn sun faded into oblivion, Cyrus watched the golden leaves fall from the trees. Each one, individual, different, melded into a beautiful yet indistinct mass upon the soft, sweet-smelling turf. He sighed wistfully and began tramping inward towards his mother's increasingly insistent cries for mealtime.

In reflecting on his life up to that point, the young Cyrus felt that it had mostly been an interminable idyll; a sleepy passage from one day to the next, one month, one year, until the passage of time had deposited him abruptly at the age of 16 with little conception of his future. He had been through a great many things, it was true, but to him they seemed much like the leaves; pleasing to the eye at first, but lacking in permanence and substance.

His doting mother Fiella had seen to it that not much excitement had come his way. Throughout his brief life, she had always made sure that nothing would upset her darling boy, a mission which had become increasingly irritating to the impetuous youth, but one which he now came to accept, if grudgingly. Yet nothing would prevent him from seeking out what little thrills he could seek outside of Fiella's hawk-like gaze. This had resulted in a broken arm and none too few scrapes and bruises; at the time, it seemed that the scolding would never cease. Still, he had managed now to work out ways of avoiding both Fiella's iron grip and the majority of the injuries, so his prospects had considerably widened.

Cyrus had an affinity for the white chrysanthemum; hardy, upright, regal, and honest. No one would ever guess it from his demeanor, but as Fiella always claimed whilst sitting down to meal, there was a virtuous man hiding inside within the somewhat scruffy youth before her. For all her blustering, she truly was a kindly woman, and the boy did indeed love her -- but it was not enough for him.

The same exchange had unfolded time and time again around their cozy hearth:

"Mother, when will I be able to go out and seek my fortune?"

"When you're older," came the inevitable reply.

The young man had long been able to tap his magical skills, unlike others who struggled for years to gain even the slightest proficiency; he was a practitioner of earth magic, and could draw upon the strength of soil and rock to perform a great many feats. His aged teacher, Saltrio, had praised him often;

"A quick study, and always willing to learn what I can teach."

But causing minor tremors and digging shallow trenches never held his attention for long, and he had decided to cease with lessons altogether, despite the sage's numerous protestations. Half-formed plans to perhaps become a master one day percolated through his thoughts from time to time, but multitudinous objections arose swiftly to prevent any further movement towards such an arduous and challenging effort.

So it was that Cyrus sat at the table, pondering his uncertain destiny, when Saltrio ambled into his home and catapulted him, though unknowingly, onto the path of adventure.

"Ah, my good Cyrus. I see you have just sat down to dinner, so I will not keep you long. I merely wanted to present you with a little request."

The young man snapped out of his reverie and fixed an intrigued glance upon the scholar. "What did you wish to discuss?"

"I am acquainted with some few of the people in the port city, Rallia. Do you know it?"

"Only from tales. But what about them?"

"You see, I have not told you, but I have no small familiarity with the Gardener who resides nearby."

Cyrus gasped. The massive Gardens were holy places, closed to all but the unfathomable Gardeners who tended to their botanical charges inside. Each person had a flower growing in the Gardens, one which was intimately connected with their magical abilities and personality. The care of such flowers was a task of immense magnitude, and the Gardeners were obliged not only to know every flower in their Garden but also the one to whom each belonged. No one he knew had ever so much as seen one of the Gardeners, much less been on familiar terms with one.

"I have corresponded with him through various means, but he has not responded to me for some time now. It seems that someone must go there in person to ascertain what has transpired. As you can plainly see, I am far too old to attempt such a journey. Therefore..."

"You want me to go!" Cyrus jubilantly exclaimed, leaping to his feet in excitement.

"Not so hasty! I merely wished to know if you knew of someone suitable, perhaps a slightly older friend of yours..."

With barely concealed disappointment, the boy returned to his seat. "I can't think of anyone," he said, though he knew very well to whom the master referred.

"Are you certain? Perhaps a water practitioner, they're very good for travel on the paths."

Cyrus' "friend" Dalton was 21, capable, skilled, eminently suitable, and the dullest person he had ever encountered. He was introduced to him by his mother, in the hope that he would take after the man's considerably calmer ways. This had utterly failed, as the youth had little but scorn for him. As much as Cyrus loved the old teacher, he would never submit to have someone as uninteresting as Dalton take the trip in his place, especially one that promised to be such an adventure.

An avenue occurred to him, and he grinned.

"Aha! What do you think of Dalton for your trip?"

The scholar smiled, and said "He would be most acceptable. Do you think you could convince him to make the journey?"

"Well, he might have doubts, unless I could tell him the details. How exactly would he get there?"

"Oh, it's quite a long journey. He would travel north to the village of Melia in a fortnight, then two months at the least to the west. The road is far too treacherous for a horse, which of course slows things down."

Cyrus quailed inwardly. How could he possibly invent an excuse for being absent two and a half months? Still, he pressed onward.

"I see. And what challenges would he face along the way?"

"Nothing in particular, but the path is quite trying indeed. Oh, of course; fortunately, it's not winter yet, but the return trip would be most unpleasant. However, perhaps once we find out where the Gardener is, he would be willing to lend our Dalton a horse, and so he might escape the winter's chill."

"That sounds simple, but how would he go about searching for the Gardener?"

Saltrio faltered. "Er... there, I'm afraid, you have me at a loss. But surely Rallia must be full of friendly folk that would assist a traveler if needs must."

Judging from the tales that the youth had heard, it was quite the opposite. But he refrained from commenting.

"I'll be sure to tell him about it as soon as I can."

"Many thanks. My apologies for disturbing you; I'll leave you to your repast." He surveyed the table. "Sumptuous as always, Signora Fiella."

He kissed the lady's hand, provoking a furious blush, and shuffled out the door as slowly as he had entered.

Cyrus, meanwhile, was lost in thought. How would he manage to go on this trip without arousing suspicious beforehand? Furthermore, what would he do if he went all the way to the port and the Gardener was nowhere to be found? These questions were seemingly unanswerable, so he opted instead to focus on his meal and consider it in the morning.

The next day, the young man decided to visit his former teacher and ask if he might not reconsider his choice, as going clandestinely promised a plethora of difficulties. Getting closer and closer to the house, however, he found himself strangely apprehensive. Instead of entering through the front door, the boy crept around to the side and peered in through the window.

The old sage was looking into a crystal bowl raised on a pedestal which seemed to be almost intangible. He was muttering in a strange, whispery tongue which at first eluded Cyrus' awareness. The water held a faint image of some sort, but it was impossible to tell what exactly it contained. All of a sudden, the meaning of the words began to be clear to the youth.

"But Verbena, you know as well as I what the stakes are. The boy is too young, he is more likely to fail."

Cyrus nearly leaped out from his hiding place in shock. Verbena! One of the Flower Maidens, the goddesses of the land. Was Saltrio really in conference with her?

"You cannot allow this other of whom you speak to attempt it. It requires an earth affinity."

"This is no time for your haughtiness! We need a level-headed individual to deal with this challenge."

"The Gardener could have done it even without our help, but where is he?"

"...you have a point. But we need judiciousness, not speed, to accomplish our goal."

"We have a greater need of haste."

"But the sun still suffices to sustain you."

"It weakens. You know this."

Saltrio sighed then. "Cyrus... he is too young. I do not want him to die."

"You yourself argued that it might be one man or the world."

"What can you know of sacrifice!"

"Immortality does not render one incapable of feeling sorrow. Iris feels sorrow."

"Iris..."

"Send the young one. It is the only path."

"What shall I tell him?"

"Send him to seek the Gardener. If he does not succeed in this, we must simply find another."

The elderly sage mutely held his head in his hands.

"I understand." He made a gesture and the crystal bowl disappeared into the floor.