Chapter Text
Everyone knew Blackberry to be a person of little patience. Even in her reign as wielder none would dare dawdle in their requests for her assistance in colouring their world - contenders would be forced to face the atmosphere of fear she projected. Yet she was hard to drive to real anger - some were certain there was always rage in there, simmering just under the surface. Others believed she was physically incapable of an outburst, her true emotions thinly veiled by an ever present aura of deathly calm. Within her tiny house in Supper Woods was her own domain, a refuge away from the thralls of the rest of Picnic with their lethargic conversations and rapidly shifting emotions. Blackberry took her own pacing in life - she did what she liked. Sometimes it might be slow. Sometimes it might be fast. What mattered was that it was hers, and hers only.
Here in the early whispers of winter, as the last vestiges of fall slipped away beyond the horizon, such a conviction continued to hold true. Blackberry kept her eyes locked forwards, trotting slow enough to see her surroundings but fast enough to not be seen as loitering. She nearly forgot to tie her ears back before heading out that morning - she did not fancy being seen strutting around with them loose, a complete lack of the prim and properness she was so well known for. Her trademark cloak hid most of her body, aside from her head and face, tired lines around her eyes only portraying a fraction of her exhaustion.
She faces the gloom of today, watching as grey smudges gathered on an unpainted sky overlooking Appie Foothills. Squinting upwards, Blackberry judged from the shadows that the clouds will thankfully hold back their rain for another day. She found it surprising that the new wielder had not yet bothered to fill the sky yet. Perhaps they were more preoccupied with the ground below their feet, keeping themselves steady on both feet. She can begrudgingly respect that sentiment.
Blackberry had heard of the rockfalls of late in this area, so she was careful in her steps. Likewise, it was no surprise she would run into a few stragglers picking up the remaining stones on her trek, every footfall very cautiously placed so as not to disturb the rubble any further. She found herself instinctively drawing her cloak tighter around herself as they looked up, initially without recognition at the new face, then mounting surprise as the dots connected.
“Oh! Blackberry!” The tiger spoke up first, carrying a stack of rocks in his arms. They appeared to be balanced rather precariously - Blackberry would not place the rounder rocks at the bottom and would instead have them at the top lest everything collapsed. If they fell, the worst that could happen would be he gets a concussion. “What brings you to Elevenses?”
How truthful should she be? Blackberry stopped in her tracks, considering her present company among complete strangers. She had every reason to keep her secrets lest she broke her thinly layered facade. Her concerns were between wielders only, not for the common folk to hear. The true wielders, her mind wants to whisper to her but - no, no. She cannot let such thoughts, such sacrilege make their home in her head this early on.
“A conversation that has been delayed long enough,” she replied smoothly instead, patting down her cloak as dust sprayed from the stones being moved around. “I suppose that the path is safe to travel through now, given that you two are this far from the town?”
His helper, a jerboa, nodded quietly. She was simply rolling the rocks along the ground instead of picking them up, which would probably be what Blackberry herself would do in this scenario. Can’t get her cloak dirty though. “Some of the rocks are still unstable. They aren’t likely to fall, but I’d still warn you to watch your step.”
“Well noted. Thank you.”
“Jaffle,” the tiger hissed as soon as she turned her back. “Is something happening? Why has Blackberry left the Woods? I don’t think she’s been this far from her house ever since Chicory...”
Blackberry closed her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling loudly through her nose. The wielder decided right then and there to not listen to the rest of this conversation, sweeping her cloak behind her and blocking the hushed whispers of the two.
In the previous decades, Blackberry had been uncertain of why Cardamom decided to live here at Elevenses. She had known the old lion to be erratic and indecisive in his wielder years, jumping all the way from Potluck to Dinners and Dessert Mountain in a mad dash to see the world of Picnic for himself. Settling in a quiet little mountain village was the last place she expected him to call home. A place so high up, so secluded - what on earth was going through his mind?
Now in the early afternoon, the townsfolk were winding down. Blackberry trotted along the unpaved path without preamble, watching some of the children play with the volcanic gas bubbles under a colourless sun. She fidgeted with her hands under her cloak, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt without the weight of the Brush protecting her back. Did their parents ever tell them about her? The wielder before Chicory, the wielder before the colour wipe, the wielder before… them.
She spied a piece of grass with its colours spilling onto a building, her brief thoughts about the current wielder all but vanishing. Biting on her tongue to prevent some choice words from escaping.
What carelessness.
Cardamon seemed to have made quite a strong effort to fit in with the people of Elevenses. His house was… ordinary, even Pizza painted it in the same olive green and yellow tones as the other buildings. There was no signifier of this belonging to an ex-wielder, no tokens of artistry, no artworks from honoured fans, no colourful and clearly self-made interior (though, she supposed that even if there was one it would’ve been wiped anyways.) What he did have, or what may be the only indication of his past, was an old easel she recognised being from the Art Academy, matted with paint from a hundred different users. Blackberry had a small suspicion she herself may have once used it, though there was virtually no way to track that. It was on this easel that Cardamom had placed a small canvas, and was painting with his greyscale colours as Blackberry stepped in, somehow forgetting to knock. He lurched forward at her sudden entrance, blotching the sketch with a dash of grey.
“Ah.” She said.
“Oh,” the old lion said.
Blackberry began to back out of the house, pulling the door shut behind her.
“Wait!- It’s fine, it’s fine!” The handle caught on something and was quickly pulled away from her grasp. The one half of Cardamom’s face she could see behind the door was wrinkled into a grimace as he looked his apprentice up and down, seemingly already aware of what was about to transpire. “What’s the matter, Blackberry?”
“I...” She looked behind her. No one was around. Turning back, she made a helpless gesture with her hands.
The door invitingly opened wider. She stepped back inside, looking around as Cardamom closed it behind her with a depressing click.
The interior was fresh and clean, obviously very recently dusted and wiped down, lingering with the smell of flowery soap and disinfectant. The bumbling old lion all but tripped over his own feet as he hurried to get a seat for Blackberry, dragging one over from a far corner of the room. She accepted his patronage with a nod of thanks, sitting and leaning slightly awkwardly into the hardback chair. Not much has changed since she was last here - again, perhaps a little element of surprise for how eager and energetic Cardamom once was. Once a catalyst of change. There were some new brushes in a tiny jar next to the easel, the old ones must’ve finally worn out. He did have a few new potted flowers - did the previous ones die, or did he plant them outside? She’ll have to check once she leaves.
“Would you like some water?” Cardamom suddenly asked, interrupting her thoughts. He was standing over a small brew table she’d never seen before - must be a recent addition. Blackberry realised that she had entered without any warning at all - Cardamom didn’t even have anything decent to offer for her to drink or eat.
“I’m fine, but thank you.” She should at least appreciate the effort.
Cardamom nodded (a little stiffly, she noticed) and returned to his seat by the easel, turning it around one eighty degrees to face her. The grimace still hadn’t left his face. Blackberry thought the blotch of grey beside his head matched perfectly with the mood in the room.
“Is everything alright?” The question was innocent enough, but Blackberry would tell from the way he was holding his hands in his lap, the tense curl in his tail and the way he seemed to be staring intently at her that he already knew the answer. She could read her mentor’s emotions like sketches underneath a painting. It was quite intriguing how he expressed his inner thoughts, in comparison with some other people she knew. She is not thinking of anyone in particular. No names at all were coming to the front of her mind.
“Well, you see.”
The words died on her tongue. She sat there, hand outstretched in awkward silence as if trying to catch a phrase she couldn’t quite conjure to reality.
“Blackberry.” Exasperated now. “Is this about the Brush?”
She bristled a little, lowering her hand. Her words were almost hissed through gritted teeth. “It’s all about the Brush. Everything is about the Brush.” Maybe she shouldn’t have turned down the offer for water, she might get lightheaded if this continues. Focus. “The Brush is what defines us as wielders - is that not true? I don’t - I still do not understand how you could possibly take this all so calmly. I expected you to at least side with me, of all people.”
Cardamom looked down at the floor, grimace softening into a sad frown. “It doesn’t work like that anymore, Blackberry. We old wielders have lived past our age.”
“Isn’t it our duty to uphold the old traditions?” She put her face into her hands. “Cardamom - think. Just, think for me for a moment. Think about what the new Brush trees mean. There will be no such thing as a wielder trial. There will be no concept of choosing anymore. You and I - our Brush - is destroyed, and along with it the remnants of our legacy. What would the past wielders say to the world we live in now?”
He shook his head, nevertheless refusing to make eye contact. Slumped forward in his seat, hands still in lap. “Change is good, Blackberry. I’ve told you this many times before, and I'm sure the previous wielders would agree with me.”
There it was. There was the old Cardamom shining through, the Cardamom who could drive headfirst into an uncertain future without hesitation, a Cardamom who valiantly told her as the wielder, over and over again, that whatever mistakes she made would ultimately change her for the better. How strange it was then that he gave up the Brush so suddenly.
This Cardamom could simply be described as tired though. Maybe even tired of her.
Blackberry shook her head fiercely in response. “What would you do if you woke up tomorrow, finding out you’ve been moved to the other side of the Big Drink overnight? No longer in Picnic, abandoned by your friends in an unknown city?”
“Well.” The old lion paused to actually consider. “I would try to find a boat or transit-”
“You can’t go back.”
“...I would try to make new friends and live as best as I can there.”
Blackberry threw her head back in frustration, nearly tipping the chair over. “That’s besides the point! Being uprooted and carried across the Big Drink - that’s how I’m viewing this, Cardamom. Nothing is the same. Can you imagine the logistics of trying to handle hundreds of wielders at the same time? All of their styles, clashing across the continent. It would be a living nightmare.”
He continued to look at the ground. Blackberry drew in a deep breath, barely missing a beat.
“Furthermore, there’s the whole problem of what we’re going to do with the trees. We can’t have them be grown all over Picnic - that’ll become a problem very quickly. We also don’t know what happens if a tree is cut down - would the brush lose its power? If everyone in Picnic were to have a Brush, we would run out of space very quickly. Where are we even going to plant them, in the rainforest next to the first tree? Crowd the roots of the sacred plant with hundreds of copies?”
Cardamom held up a paw to stop her. “Your worries are valid, but. Consider first, Blackberry: When the Brush first grew out of the tree, did everyone know to immediately appoint a wielder?”
She exhaled. “No.”
“And there were the Colour Wars that followed.”
“Yes.”
"So clearly, not everything new can be instantly solved in the first day."
"Yes."
He did not speak any further, as if implying he had already made a point. She shook her head again - no, you did not.
“Why bother straying from what we know works into something that’s unknown, and could possibly start another war?”
“We aren’t barbaric animals anymore, Blackberry.” He smiled a little here, though sadly. “The Brush and the corruption were only destroyed two weeks ago. Pizza and Chicory only have only started classes for what, three days? Yesterday? There’s plenty of time for all of this to be worked out.”
Blackberry looked to the side, staring at a particularly bright white spot on Cardamon’s begonias. It hurt her eyes.
“Do you plan on making another brush?”
“No,” he responded immediately (a little too quickly). “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to take on anything remotely like a wielder role ever again. My years are long, long over.”
“And you simply plan to… watch the world change without you. Forget you.” Blackberry sank deeper into her chair, drawing her arms around herself like a sort of self hug. Her voice was becoming bitterly hollow against her will. She had hoped that maybe, maybe she wasn’t going insane. That there really was someone who shared her sentiment still. How could he take this so lightly? How was he so… calm? “What… happened to you, Cardamom? To be a wielder is the greatest honour - you said that to me yourself. How could you let yourself fall from such great heights?”
Cardamom looked at his hands for a long, long moment, so long that Blackberry thought she might’ve overstepped a boundary. The little simmer of frustration was fading under the weight of worry.
“Why are you asking me this?” No anger. His voice was quiet, gentle concern underlining his words.
I’m scared. I don’t want to be alone in this world. I don’t want to face a future lead or shaped into reality by a person who hates me.
Blackberry wondered if she’s also been taking too long to respond. Swallowing.
“I’m just considering all the possibilities, that’s all.” She hadn’t taken into account how much the simple trek up Appie Foothills would drain her, and after talking her throat was becoming a bit parched. With a sideways glance at her teacher (he nodded, it’s fine), she poured herself a tiny cupful, taking very small, rapid sips. She missed the cleaner taste of coloured water, but she wasn’t desperate enough to scoop a mugful out of Gulp Swamp. Yet.
Cardamom patiently waited until she was on her second cup before speaking up again. “Remember, Blackberry… if you need anything, anything at all, you can speak to me. I’m your teacher, I won’t tell anyone else whatever you say to me. You can trust me.”
She waved him off with her free hand, mumbling an ‘I know’ into her cup.
“And - I don’t exactly have to follow my previous judgement, you know.” Here he’s properly frowning, not the sad kind either. Blackberry shifted her gaze to her reflection in the water. Her own face (tired, tired, tired) stared back. “People can change too, Blackberry. I’ve learned some things since I made you wielder, and - what I thought was true before might not necessarily be correct. I’ve changed. And… you’re going to have to adjust to that, whether you like it or not.”
He abandoned you, like the others did too.
Bullshit.
Blackberry took a loud sip of water to mask the need to respond. Sensing no want from her to answer, Cardamom sighed and stood to clean up his paints.
Before she left Elevenses, Blackberry checked the exterior of Cardamom’s house. No flowers were found, not even a corpse of one. A shame, really.