In Black Smoke

“In the beginning, there was smoke—strong, intoxicating black ribbons swaying like calming flames. A cry for justice and endless sorrow etched itself in charcoal and ash, dancing to the rhythm of righteous rage, bleeding out from whatever essence stood behind the haze. Each cry a heartbeat, each word a flame, pulling me from whatever depth I had come from.

Floating between life and death, beauty and pain, I felt both safe and dangerous as wicked light filled my eyes and my beginning began to take shape. The feeling was familiar, as if I had done this countless times before. Grey memories of pain and torment slipped slowly into my new being—deep and endless hurt caressed by luminous flame.

Then, my first breath: my lungs filled with black fire and sang out as I stepped into existence. Crazed and confused, I awoke with an insatiable appetite for justice. From the edges of my vision, I saw him—a bold and beautiful man—his broad form settling onto the stone table beside mine, ever so slowly. I turned to watch, completely captivated by his presence. I knew then that this was my brother: powerful, fierce, yet endlessly kind.

And what of me? What of this hatred I felt? Had my soul already been corrupted?

The smoke cleared, pulling me from my thoughts, to reveal blackened leaves in a shape I could not define, encircling my brother and me. And there she was—the essence I had felt. With ruby-ashed hair and speckled skin, the witch stood before us. Her eyes, exhausted and relieved, were now leaking hurt from their darkened edges.

This was the look of a mother—my mother—before her two sons.

Shaking, she fell to her hands and knees, bowing her head as she murmured, “I’m sorry.”

I reached for her. I needed to siphon this pain. But before I could move, her eyes lifted and shifted to the body beside mine. So, I followed her stare.

He was peaceful—seconds away from joining us there. Ceylon. His name came to me like an echo from some foreign depth within me. And with a spark and a twinge, I knew mine as well: Lapsang. She had named us after the blackened leaf spirits who, she said, aided in our birth.

If that were so, I wondered, why am I only now taking my first breath?

I looked back to my witch mother—an essence so pure, yet now marked with a freshly ashened stain where her heart should have been.

I watched with caution as she rose to her feet, holding her head high, drying her tears with the back of a delicate hand. I needed to hold her, just as she must have done for me countless times before. And as I moved to break through the barrier of leaves that lay between us, her spirit turned wild.

The ground shook in fury.

“Avenge us,” she choked.

I lunged for her—but too late. Before I could cross that damned blackened line, her scream shattered stone. Her outstretched hands reached for the heavens, and in a burst of blinding light, each of us—Ceylon, Mother, and I—were cast across the plains of existence into places unknown...

"With a wild and frantic breath, my body awoke on a forest floor. I looked around for anything familiar—anything at all.

Nothing.

I was empty. No memory—just lingering rage and contempt.

Realizing I needed a better vantage point, I moved to leave the clearing and enter the trees. My body, still weak, tumbled into the pines—and as my hand touched wood, everything came hurling back.

All of my memories—at once.
Memories of her, of him… everything.

Her name had been Casta.

My mother, Casta, had told the trees to reveal what she would no longer be able to after the spell had been performed.

There, shaking and clinging to the tree, I watched the memories—mine and others’—as though I were a ghost wandering through time and space.

Casta had lived for many centuries, and she loved all creatures, tending to those in need with her wildly kind spirit and light magic. She did not wield light—she was light. The glow within her brightened all she touched. A radiance so pure and strong, all were drawn to it like moths to flame.

She had always loved without end or condition. When my mortal father died a century earlier, she vowed that, for the rest of her immortal life, she would remain his and only his. He had been the most joyful spirit, and my mother had been infected with his unruly, fierce kind of joy.

Ceylon and I had inherited a version of Casta’s prolonged lifespan, so we grew slowly. Our father, however, had been mortal through and through. I now realize my brother and I were her way of holding on to him—forever. She had never truly been the same after his passing. Though she remained cheerful and affectionate, it was as if part of her had died with him.

With and without our father, the life we shared together had been wild and happy.

As I eagerly watched the memories unfold, it felt as though the wood of the tree was swallowing my hand whole, ensuring I would not break contact.

And then came the dreaded moments—when everything was stripped away from us.

Ravenous men. Jealous women. Proclaiming that my mother had created us through dark, blasphemous magic. The evidence, they claimed, was our slow growth and hermit lifestyle. Rumors and lies spread like disease through villages near and far. And as we grew into adulthood, their fear and panic only deepened.

We had made a plan—to leave. To begin new lives under new names.

At that thought, pain began flooding into me. I desperately tried to wrench my hand from the tree, because I knew what was coming next.

And so it was.

I felt my mind nearly split in two as fresh pain and soul-shattering screams from my mother echoed through my blood.

In the dead of night, they took her sons. They tied Casta up and kissed her with grotesque, mocking passion—before forcing her to watch as they set our pyre ablaze.

All of it—fueled by nothing more than rumor and fear.

She became rabid with grief, raging to no avail.

I felt my whole essence swallowed by the pine as I watched my mother do all she could... if only to leap into the fire with us.

My chest exploded with darkness and fury, my heart breaking open anew as I watched…

My brother and I burned to ash—hand in hand.

"And finally, my true scream came. The tears followed. The tree simply held me as I wept.

Then, in a voice older than time, the tree spoke. It told me she had crafted a spell from the remaining ash—the very ash the villagers had thrown at her feet once the flames were no more.

The spell was dark, and only for the devoted.

A deal struck with the kin of the spirits who had watched over us—the spirits who walked in both life and death. One of the light. One of the dark.

She was to give up what she yearned for most—ever seeing me or Ceylon again—in exchange for bringing us back from the depths, binding our essence to the blackened leaves from which we had been named. From those leaves, she would produce beings of energy and warmth... of darkness and smoke.

Ceylon was to exist as the former.
And I, as the latter.

The tree's grasp began to lessen then. I thanked it for its kindness.

Then I tore my hand away—once it revealed one final truth: my mother’s spell had made sure not to cast me as far.

I was to be the revenge.
I was to be the smoke.
I was to be the darkness that would fill their days.

And so, my legs carried me—pulled by an invisible string—back toward the villages.

I found every man and woman of every village—the ones who had destroyed the heart of a gentle woman. I filled their lungs with smoke, relishing the sound of their choking, the sight of ash on their skin.

I avenged us all, one by one.
My smoke never faded. My fire never calmed.

It was only then—after the last woman fell to the dirt, gasping for air—that I realized we had become different creatures. My thirst for vengeance would never be quenched.

I needed to find Ceylon.

Two sides of the same coin, brothers are—light and darkness, good and evil. One cannot exist without the other. We are better together, meant to bring balance.

My mother had known that.
But she’d had no choice in what she had done.

I have spent centuries searching for Ceylon. And now that I’ve found him…”

Lapsang’s words failed him as he gazed into the blackened cup nestled in his callused palms—Ceylon’s unmoving, leaf-like essence trapped within, sealed by the jealous sun sorcerer, Solaire.

Lapsang closed his eyes and shook his head, then lifted his gaze once more to meet the ever-understanding stare of the enchanting creature across from him.

The fire between them illuminated the twilight spirit, Alura—who appeared only as the sun kissed the horizon, that she might dance through the night. She was made of pure stardust and night sky, and her presence brought a calm Lapsang had not known in centuries.

Alura tilted her head to the side, and in that moment, he felt she could reach into his soul and wipe it clean—if only he asked.

And she said softly,
“But you did find him. He will rise in the early hours… just as I will fade.”

With those words, Lapsang’s blood boiled once more.

Lapsang had found her camp just hours prior. He had barely believed it when he picked up his brother’s scent, carried on the smoke of a fire. And shortly after, he met the glowing spirit—Alura—who claimed to be Ceylon’s betrothed.

Alura had been kind, even as she recounted every event that had brought them to this moment—the Sun Sorcerer’s masterful plan to keep the lovers apart, to trap Ceylon and torment them both. A curse that allowed only enough time to gaze into each other’s eyes… forever.

He had nearly set the forest ablaze upon hearing their tragic tale.

If he ever found that sorcerer, he swore, he would infect not only his lungs with smoke—but his blood, too. Slowly. He would make him die slowly.

Shaking his head, Lapsang was pulled from his vengeful thoughts by Alura’s gentle voice.

“I’m sorry, Lapsang. I fear I may have distracted him from his own search for you. You see… I am bound to these forest trees and the hills before you. My magic belongs to the sky, but my earthly vessel has limits.”

She sighed deeply, as if remembering all the constraints that had ever been placed upon her.

Lapsang watched as she closed her eyes and turned her face to the heavens. They sat in silence, taking in the smell of burning wood and the rhythm of each crackle and pop.

“Ceylon is loved,” Lapsang whispered into the smoke, “and he loves deeply. Just as I knew he would. I would have never wanted him to give that up for me.”

Alura opened her starlit eyes just as a rogue tear broke free. She reached for the cup and gently guided the droplet inside, abiding by the curse—to fill the cup with her tears in order to bring Ceylon back to life, just as she turned to morning mist.

He may live by day, and she by night.
Leaf and mist.

As he watched her through the flame, Lapsang’s body jolted as a memory surfaced—of the life he had lived before. A whisper from his mother:
“Everything is written in the smoke… and the trees will always remember.”

His heart raced with realization.

Lapsang grasped Alura’s delicate hand, still holding the blackened cup of Ceylon’s leaves. His other hand pressed firmly over his heart. A true smile broke across his face—the kind he hadn’t worn since he was a boy. It didn’t feel natural, but it couldn't be helped.

“I have a plan,” he said.

Alura met Lapsang’s gaze—his eyes now set ablaze. And as if she could read his very soul, a smile began to crinkle her eyes, sending a shiver through the night sky, stars shooting across their woven tapestry. Tears streamed down her shimmering face.

And the cup… tears had filled it once more, just as they had every dawn for centuries.

But this time, for the first time, the cup had finally been filled with hope.

The legend continues in ways you may not expect.
Smoke and fire. Light and dark.
The autumn season will finish this tale.

For the time being, we bring balance by observing the smoke and darkness.
We aid in restoring harmony by brewing In Black Smoke, so that memories may come to life.
The smoke will eventually fade, and the road to balance will be made clear.

Ground yourself with the trees,
For they are always listening.
And they will remember… for better or worse.

Until the next story unfolds,

Yours in tea & tales,

Lauren of Faerie Good