The boy's eyelids fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the twilight that bathed the world in a soft, ethereal glow. Above him, the sky was a deep, velvety canvas of dark purple, spangled with a billion distant stars that glittered with cold, ancient light.
It was a sight of breathtaking, silent majesty, and the child's gaze was fixed on it, his small heart swelling with a primordial sense of wonder. He had never seen such a beautiful, encompassing dark.
A soft, resonant sound, like the rustle of old, dry leaves mixed with a gentle, humming vibration, drew his attention. He turned his head and saw the immense, gnarled silhouette of the fig tree standing guard over him. The air around it felt dense with age and quiet power.
"Child, you are finally awake," the tree said, its voice a surprising, melodic whisper that seemed to emanate not from a single point, but from the very air around its massive trunk. "I have been waiting here for you for a thousand years. A thousand seasons have passed, a thousand cycles of the stars, all leading to this moment. You finally woke up."
Confusion knitted the boy's brow. He pushed himself up, leaning on an elbow. "Who are you?" he managed to ask, and the sound of his own voice startled him. He immediately clamped his mouth shut, his eyes wide with surprise. He hadn't just spoken; he had spoken a language he didn't know he possessed.
The fig tree's great branches seemed to nod gently. "You acquired the language by consuming my fruits," it explained patiently. "They are not mere sustenance, little one. They hold the memories and the knowledge of our people."
The tree continued, and a subtle, sorrowful sigh seemed to sweep through its leaves, chilling the air. "You are the hope of our tribe. The last flicker of a great flame. Nearly everyone in our tribe nurtured you to ensure your survival, pouring their essence and magic into your long sleep. But only I remain; all others were lost to time, to the changing of the world, to the long, inevitable sleep from which they will not wake."
A heavy silence followed, filled only by the whisper of the cosmic wind. Then, the tree shifted its tone, its voice becoming strong and resolute. "That is all in the past, child. Do not dwell on the dust of ages. Now that you are awake, I can finally, finally rest in peace, knowing the line is unbroken." The fig tree paused, its ancient consciousness turning inward for a brief moment. "Wait a minute," it murmured, its branches twitching. "I didn't even give you a name. That simply won't do."
After a thoughtful, silent minute that felt like an aeon, the tree's great heart seemed to settle on a truth. It declared with quiet finality, "From now on, your name is 'Ashva'. It means swift and strong in the Old Tongue. May your spirit be both."
The boy, Ashva, clapped his hands together and laughed with pure, unadulterated delight the first sound of unburdened joy to grace the ancient ruins in centuries. He spoke his new name, Ashva, Ashva, Ashva, testing the feel of the syllables on his tongue, and then, with the boundless trust of a child, he wrapped his arms around the massive, furrowed trunk of the fig tree, hugging it with all his might.
"Thank you, Mother," he whispered into the bark.
The tree was utterly stunned. The massive root system seemed to vibrate with a sudden, profound emotion. "Yes," the tree replied, its voice catching with ancient tears that manifested as a light dew on its bark. "Yes, you are my good son." She then directed him, her voice regaining its firm, nurturing tone, "Now that you are awake and named, go and bathe. Cleanse the dust of a thousand years from your skin."
She gave him detailed, almost melodic directions to a spring nestled deep within the broken, vine-covered ruins that surrounded them, a place where the purest water still gathered.
Ashva ran off, full of energy and purpose. When he returned, the ruins seemed to hold their breath. His eyes widened not at the sight of the tree, but at the scene before the tree. His mother had performed a silent, profound magic.
Ashva himself was completely dry, the chill of the water vanished, and more astonishingly, a small pile of clothing tunic and trousers woven from soft, vibrant green leaves, edged with glowing thread had magically appeared on the ground next to the trunk. He put them on, feeling the warmth and comfort instantly, and settled down cross-legged next to the towering tree.
"Mother, how did you do that?" he pleaded, his voice full of reverent awe. "Teach me! Teach me the magic of the leaves and the water!"
The tree, in response, gently lowered a cluster of deep-violet, perfectly ripe figs right into his hands.
"Eat first," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Replenish the strength you will need. Then, I will teach you the ways of our people, the language of the earth, and the magic that flows between the sun and the stars."