Lullaby Blossom

"I have seen travelers lulled into a sleep so profound that no force of nature could stir them; neither rain nor thunder nor the pleading of their comrades. Approach with caution, for the flower does not dream with it; it dreams alone, and in its dreaming, it keeps you."

— Maren Sollis, Notes from the Borderwood

 

Sleepless but Dreaming

  In the heart of forgotten groves and meadows where the sun filters through the trees like honey, there blooms a flower. The lullaby blossom, so named for its uncanny knack for weaving sleep into the minds of those who stray too near, is a plant of beauty and danger, as alluring as a whispered promise.   The blossoms themselves are delicate things, each petal a shade of pale silver that glows faintly under moonlight, as if catching starlight and hoarding it for their own quiet purpose. A golden spiral of stamens rises from the center of each bloom, resembling a clock's coiled spring - a sly nod, perhaps, to the time one loses under their influence. The leaves are dark and velvety, almost black, fringed with a subtle shimmer that suggests dew even when the day is dry.   The pollen of the lullaby blossom is a thing of both wonder and danger. When disturbed, it wafts into the air in a mist so fine that one might mistake it for morning fog. Inhalation brings about a sensation not unlike slipping into warm water; peaceful, weightless, and irresistibly soporific. Tales tell of travelers lured into eternal slumber by the blossoms, their dreams filled with strange, beautiful things: forests made of glass, rivers that sing, and skies that open into other worlds.  

Wakeful but Sleeping

  They lean toward movement, their petals vibrating faintly when approached, as if sensing the warmth of a body or the rhythm of a heartbeat. Some say they sing in tones too soft for human ears, a lullaby meant for wandering souls.   Despite their danger, lullaby blossoms are not malevolent. They grow only in places where the air is heavy with old magic and the earth remembers things it has no words for. Their essence is sought by alchemists and herbalists, for when properly prepared, the pollen can grant dreamless sleep, cure insomnia, or calm even the most restless heart. But the price for harvesting it is high; it is not the blossoms that kill, but the dreams they weave, sweet as honey and heavy as a mother's embrace.   In their presence, the line between waking and dreaming frays, and one cannot help but wonder if they are merely plants, or if they are something far older. Something that remembers when dreams were new.