#imagery: tree

[atlantic-riona]

Hope Springs

Secondary world fantasy for the 2022 @inklings-challenge​, a bit delayed due to real life issues yesterday interfering with posting. It’s standalone from any of my other WIPs, and was fighting me the entire time to become a novel, so it feels somewhat incomplete to me. It’s pretty much unedited. Regardless, it’s finished! Which is very exciting!

🙦

Team: Tolkien

Genre: Secondary World Fantasy

Symbols: Wind, Tree

Word Count: 4,732

🙦

“You oughtn’t go down Windswept Lane anymore,” the Cat said.

Hope stopped sweeping. It was her turn to sweep the front steps, a chore that the others disliked, but she didn’t mind. Sweeping gave her time to think and dream—and time to talk to the Cat. “Why not?”

“It’s not safe anymore.”

The road in question was one Hope often took as a shortcut to school—it cut through the city park, and the winding road fenced in by flowers and fields had been the setting for many a daydream or sketch of hers. But the Cat gave warnings rarely, and never without reason. “All right,” she said. She’d have to start going through the city proper, which came with its own risks. “Anything else I should be worried about?” She was only half-serious, so it came as a surprise when he answered readily.

“They’ve captured the Jay.”

“What, really?”

The Cat nodded somberly.

She leaned on the broom, absently scratching at the wood of the handle with the only nail she hadn’t bitten to the quick yet. “They can’t really have,” she tried dubiously. But the Cat’s utter stillness told her it was true. Besides, the Cat had never lied to her before. “…What do you think they’ll do to him?”

The Cat paused, as if gauging its next words. “He’s caused them no end of trouble. They won’t want to let him off so easily.”

Hope was only thirteen, but she caught his meaning. “You mean they want him to suffer?”

The Cat’s tail flicked back and forth. “Yes.”

“Oh.” She stared down at the few scattered scarlet leaves dusting the red-brick steps. “That’s not very nice.” Even to her own ears it sounded feeble.

Something warm and soft brushed across the back of her hand. But when she looked up, the Cat’s tail was where it always was.

She smiled at the Cat anyway. It offered her comfort about as often as it offered her warnings, so it must have been worried for her.

“Don’t go down Windswept Lane,” said the Cat again, just before a clatter of footsteps inside indicated the imminent arrival of one of her housemates. The Cat was usually very good at predicting things like that—they had never had a conversation truly interrupted yet.

“I won’t,” said Hope, just as Amelia, cheeks flushed and golden hair hastily tied up into two messy pigtails, burst through the door, words already flying through the air. “I promise.”

“Hope, you’ll never guess—are you talking to the statues again? Oh, do stop, you know we all find it strange.” Hope met the Cat’s amused gaze with a little smile of her own. She had no idea how it looked to the others, but she rather suspected its stillness and silvery fur, when seen in a certain light, seemed like a statue, perched on the railing between the numerous other statues of animals. As far as she knew—the Cat was the only one that pretended to be a statue sometimes—though maybe she just couldn’t see them, like the others couldn’t with the Cat.

“We’re finished talking now,” she said to Amelia, automatically reaching out to tuck down the collar of the other girl’s shirt. Amelia so often had her clothes in disarray that by now it was second nature for Hope and the others to fix them.

“Oh, thanks!” Amelia said earnestly. “Listen—you’ll never guess! They caught the Jay!” Her face fell as Hope went on sweeping. “You already knew! How do you always know everything before me?”

Hope slid a sideways glance at the Cat, but it was staring straight ahead, whiskers twitching only slightly. “I supposed I’m just a very good listener.”

“Phooey!” said Amelia crossly. “You’re on dish duty again, did you know that?” And she flounced back inside with a huff.

A single golden leaf slipped from the birch tree overlooking the small sandy path leading up to the brick staircase. It skittered up the steps and along the wooden porch railing lined with statues, landing on the tip of the Cat’s nose. The Cat sneezed, then went still, tail furtively flicking back and forth, pretending nothing had happened.

She grinned, but went on sweeping. It didn’t do to laugh at cats. They held grudges.

🙦

Birch Home had been Hope’s home for most of her life. A little over twelve years ago, back during the centennial celebration of Queen Jeneva’s reign, thousands of people had flocked to the city of Lilennes, the queen’s birthplace, to celebrate—only to be caught by a terrible sickness that magecraft nor magic nor enchantment could heal. Many died.

It wasn’t until later that the survivors realized children under the age of five were unaffected by the illness. So the city suddenly had an overwhelming umber of infants and children who no longer had parents, and nowhere to send them. That was where the Homes were born.

All things considered, Hope didn’t mind living at Birch Home. It was a good Home, not at all like the Homes she had heard about in whispers from other Home children or had thrown at her by the occasionally nasty bully. Though at this point, those Homes were fast disappearing, after a prolonged campaign by Myeong-suk, graduate of Water Lily Home and East Bridge College of Magecraft. Hope had only gathered bits and pieces from newspapers, but Myeong-suk had conducted a thorough investigation into her former Home, spilled everything she’d found to the public, and amidst the ensuing outrage, managed to get Water Lily Home closed down and its children sent to better Homes.

Myeong-suk had gone on to run for city council and was now the youngest member in it. She was the perfect example of what Home children could aspire to—if they had the right abilities. Hope, having no capability for magic or magecraft, nor any heritage that gave her the power to enchant, knew that she would never be like Myeong-suk. Her path lay down a different, less exciting road.

That was fine with her. At Birch Home, she had the Cat. And she got along fairly well with the other children, though she wasn’t particularly close with any of them. Still, she didn’t mind. Solitude had been her constant companion for years. At this point, it was almost like a friend.

A few days after the Cat’s warning, it was Hope’s turn to walk the little ones to school. Today there were only three, Livia having stayed home with an upset stomach. That left Zina, an energetic girl of five years, Sung, almost seven and puffed-up about it, and Matvey, a quiet and wide-eyed four year old. They all went to sorting school still, though she and the others were fairly sure that Zina would end up transferring soon—her scribblings in crayon had a habit of nipping one’s fingers if one went too close, though they hadn’t come out of the page yet.

The sorting school was a mile further into the city, and they usually went down Park Street, it being the most direct way to High Street, where the school was located. Hope held Matvey’s hand, because he was the youngest, and kept having to chide Sung, who didn’t want to hold Zina’s hand, on account of her having sticky hands from the jam at breakfast, and Zina, who didn’t want to hold Sung’s hand because she wanted to race the falling leaves ahead, and jump in the piles of raked up leaves that dotted the street edges.

By the time they had walked half a mile down Park Street, Hope’s patience was beginning to thin. They were passing Windswept Lane, out from which the scent of freshly fallen leaves and autumn flowers drifted, and she was sorely tempted to take a break and wander down the lane for a moment’s peace. But the Cat’s warning lingered still; besides, the entrance to the lane had a new wooden gate, from which a freshly painted “KEEP OUT” sign officiously hung. So she reluctantly set the idea aside.

Her entreaties to the children’s better natures had no effect, and she was weighing the risks of being late to her own school in order to give the two children a serious scolding.

“Sticky, sticky!” cried Sung, twisting his face up piteously. “Hope, she’s putting jam on my hands!” This last said as if it were the most hideous crime imaginable.

The unrepentant accused stuck her tongue out at Sung. “Jammy! Your hands are jammy!” she taunted, skipping along in her new red jacket with shiny wooden buttons. Beside her, Matvey put a thumb in his mouth, forehead crinkling.

“That’s enough!” Hope said firmly, coming to a stop. “You’re scaring Matvey, just look at him. And you two know better than to behave like this, Miss Margarit has spoken to you before about—”

A clump of something dark and fluid flew past, cutting off the rest of her scolding. Up ahead, a group of children a little older than her stood all clustered together around a girl wearing a bright blue woolen hat and a mitten to match. One hand was bare, in order to better grip the pencil hovering over her sketchbook.

Oh no. The uniform crests poking out from behind jackets and scarves were familiar—many of the girls were from Miss Helena’s Academy of Magic, and many of the boys from Oak Grove School of Magic. Only a few of the older ones were from East Bridge College of Magecraft. This wasn’t good. Her gaze darted from one side of the street to another, but they were trapped in a momentary lull between morning rushes; nobody else was around to see anything. Just behind them, she knew, was Windswept Lane—but she wasn’t supposed to go down there anymore.

Another clump of mud whizzed by, faster than her eyes could follow, and Zina began to cry, droplets of mud now staining her brand-new jacket.

“Stop it!” Hope said fiercely. “Leave them alone! They haven’t done anything to you.”

Sung stuck his tongue out at the girl, and kicked a stray pebble in her direction, glaring. It clattered down the street, falling pathetically short of her.

The other children laughed, and the girl in the bright blue hat looked up, grinning. “We’re just playing,” she said, pencil moving deftly across the page.

This time, Hope saw the shadow of the mud clump rise up from the sketchbook, traced in charcoal gray. The pencil pressed down harder, and the mud darkened until the gray was so dark it was practically brown. The girl’s hand moved quickly, making three rapid, curving movements, and the clump was flung forward, landing with a splat on Hope’s favorite scarf, just as she threw herself in front of Sung and Zina.

“It’s a game we play all the time,” the girl said innocently, blue-eyes wide. “You mean you don’t know how to play?”

Hope balled her fists, though there was nothing she could do, not being a student of magic or magecraft, nor heir to enchantment. “You made your point,” she said, trying not to clench her teeth. “Congratulations, you’ve successfully managed to overpower a seven year old, a five year old, and a four year old. Bravo. I’m sure the masters at your schools will be falling over themselves to offer you certification and apprenticeships.”

The girl’s expression darkened, and Hope knew at once she’d made a mistake, insulting her like that. A slight motion of a blue glove, and more of the children were pulling out sketchbooks. Some were opening blue-bound books and flipping hastily through the pages.

Hope hoisted Matvey up, grabbed Sung’s hand—he was still gripping Zina’s—and took off, back the way they’d came, more mud and what felt like small rocks pelting their backs. Behind them, some of the girls were already singing in eerie chorus:

“Flowers curse you,

flowers verse you—

Anemone, an enemy;

we are singing your elegy.

A pansy for your thoughts,

A penny for your thyme.

Upside down yarrow,

your road grows ever narrow;

tansy, tansy, calling for war:

golden witch hazel for our lore.

A pansy for your thoughts,

A penny for your thyme.

Rhodendron, rhodendron—

your road is ending.

Forget-me-not, forget your thoughts,

Forget you fought, you are thus caught!”

Her legs felt weak, and it felt like the air around her was catching at her with tiny invisible hands. It was the singing, it must be—the girls must be using their magic to slow her down. The wind was picking up, and the scent of autumn flowers was swept away by an overwhelming mixture of scents—flowers and wood and smoke and something electric that stung her nose.

Up ahead, just after Windswept Lane, the dust of the road and scattered red and gold leaves were gathering into an ominous swirl. The swirl took shape into the vague impression of a giant being, nearly as tall as the nearby street lamp. Two fiery red leaves darted up toward the massive head, fixing in place like eyes.

She risked a glance back and nearly got a faceful of mud for her troubles. Sung was clutching her head, eyes wide, but expression determined. Behind them, the girl and her gang were advancing. Could she and the little ones sneak through…? A rock snapped over Zina’s hair, and the little girl shrieked, more from fear than pain.

No, they would have to chance the giant—

It took a lumbering step forward, leaf-eyes now glowing like coals, the edges curling as tiny sparks leaked into the air. Sung tugged at her hand, pointing toward Windswept Lane, right at the freshly painted “KEEP OUT” sign hanging over the gate. “That way!”

But she had promised the Cat—

If she didn’t, argued another part of her sensibly, the little ones would get hurt. That settled it. “Come on!” She, Sung, and Zina charged at the wooden gate, Hope scrambling over with Matvey clutched close, and Sung pulling Zina after him underneath.

They didn’t stop when they reached the other side, but kept running down the neat cobblestone lane. Only when Hope could no longer hear the swift rustling of leaves in heavy winds, and hadn’t felt or seen any rocks or mud in minutes, did she stop and turn around.

Zina immediately crouched down, puffing hard, her cheeks red and green eyes welling with tears. Sung stood protectively next to her, still holding Hope’s hand, while Matvey still hadn’t taken his face out of her neck.

Behind them, the girl and her friends stood on the other side of the gate, none of them closer than a foot away from the sign. From this distance, she couldn’t make out their expressions, but their sketchbooks and songbooks hung loosely from their hands, no longer open. The giant wind and leaf creature was nowhere to be seen. None of them were making any move to come closer. They just stared, utterly still.

“They’re not coming in,” Sung said hopefully.

“They’re not going away either,” Hope said.

She turned around and surveyed the road before them. It ran straight between two walls, which were new, before taking a sharp right turn. Maybe they could find another road connecting to the park if they walked long enough. She wasn’t too familiar with the park; only the part she used as a shortcut, but if she stuck to where she knew, they should be out of the park in as little time as possible. They were already late for school anyway. There was no point in throwing themselves into danger by going back the way they came.

There was a sketchpad in her bag, but it was useless. She couldn’t draw a map or way out—well, she could draw it, but it wouldn’t come to life. They only had her wits, but would that be enough?

“Come on,” she said, trying to sound confident. “I know a shortcut.”

🙦

The initial walls were familiar to Hope. In order for there to be a proper doorway into the enchanted land, there had to be some physical representation marking the difference between the ordinary world and the not-so-ordinary one. The walls, soft gray stone layered with moss and twined round with ivy that became greener the further one walked, gradually tapered out into scattered piles here and there, and only by staying to the barely-there paths could one hope to find the way through.

Sticking to the outskirts, where the border between “city park” and “enchanted land” blurred and thinned, was how Hope usually made her way through. As long as she kept her eyes on the ground in front of her, and carefully didn’t think about how the cobblestones sunk beneath her feet like dirt, how the birds singing in the (young, well-tended) trees (that were not as wide as a house and weighed down with branches that undulated in the wind as if underwater) eerily mimicked human voices, or how at the corners of her vision shadow and light flickered, she was fine.

But the park had changed.

Dumbly, she stood staring at the open, grassy field before her. Zina, Matvey, and Sung were looking around wide-eyed, but they’d never been in the park before. They wouldn’t realize how much it had changed.

Before, there had been multiple paths, branching off from the main one and running in all directions. Now, there was only the one path, leading straight ahead. It was lined with sturdy wooden fences, the kind Hope had seen in pictures of farms and fields. The ground gently sloped down and then up again, the rare tree dotting the countryside. Above them, puffy white clouds hung still in the bright blue sky.

In vain, Hope looked around for the little path she usually took. She could feel the children waiting for her to take the first steps forward, but she couldn’t make herself do it.

Perhaps they should simply turn around. Admit defeat, yes, but at least on the city streets there would be little chance of getting lost in a land and never reemerging.

Then again, the gang of children they had just escaped from didn’t play by any rules. At least here, safety was ensured by following the rules.

She swallowed. The Cat’s warning still hung at the back of her mind, narrow and sharp like the Cat’s gaze would be if it were here.

“Hold onto my hands,” she said, inwardly pleased when her voice did not tremble. “No, wait—Matvey, hold onto my right hand. Sung and Zina hold hands; Sung, put your free hand in my pocket. There, just like that. Now.” She waited until their attention was fixed on her. “You must behave yourselves. Don’t be rude. Don’t eat or drink anything. Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”

“Like the stories,” Sung said soberly.

“Yes, that’s right. Like the stories.”

“I don’t know if I like the stories,” Zina sniffled. Sung offered her a clean cloth from somewhere. Graciously, Zina used her sleeve instead. Hope crossed her fingers that Zina wouldn’t do that if they stumbled across one of Them.

Even still, she hesitated to take the first step forward. Sung made the decision for her, tugging her forward, his hand gripping the inside fabric of her jacket’s pocket. The dirt beneath her shoes crunched just as it was supposed to. An ordinary breeze stirred the tips of the golden grass, which rippled briefly and fell still as the breeze died away. A monarch, brilliant orange against the clear blue of the sky, fluttered by, alighting on a spray of lavender but darting away as they approached.

“Pretty!” Zina said, entranced. Matvey stopped to stare at where the butterfly had been, mouth slightly open.

“Pretty,” he echoed softly, looking at the lavender and green-gold fields.

As they walked further down the path, Hope felt uneasiness curling in her gut. The solitary trees ahead of them never seemed to get closer. The heat of the sun on the back of her neck never wavered from clouds or breezes, always just slightly too-warm and verging on uncomfortable.

After what felt like half an hour, Zina tore her hand from Sung’s and flung herself down on the grass bordering the wooden fence. “I’m thirsty,” she complained. “Hope, can I have some water?”

Hope reached into her messenger bag for the bottle of water she usually carried. Thank goodness she’d filled it up this morning—it wasn’t like they could get any more through magic, magecraft, or enchantment. “Only a little,” she said. “We don’t know how long we’ll be walking.” Or if we’ll ever get out, she thought but didn’t say.

The children took turns with the water, and then Hope allowed herself a mouthful. The bottle felt horribly lighter when she tucked it back into her bag, next to her books and sketchpad. Determinedly, she shoved that thought from her mind and surveyed the unchanging countryside around them.

Maybe that was the problem. Hope had never taken the main path before, but perhaps the park—forest or fields—behaved this way when going down the main path; trapping the wanderer in an unchanging maze. Maybe they needed to do the unexpected.

“Okay,” she said aloud, squinting up at the sky. The weight of the children’s gazes settled on her shoulders like a heavy coat. “We’re going to cut across the fields here.”

They climbed over the fence and trudged through the fields, flowers somehow springing up in flashes between the tall grass. When Hope permitted herself a glance over her shoulder, about ten minutes later, her heart lifted. The fence was small in the distance behind them, and the clouds in the sky had drifted to partially cover the sun. She grinned and turned forward again.

Shortly after, they reached another fence—the other side of the field, Hope supposed. It was the twin of the side they had come from, except for one important difference. The path stretched right and left. On the other side of the path, the grass continued for a few steps but came to an abrupt stop against a tall wall, forbidding dark gray and clean of any ivy or moss. The wall stretched as far as the eye could see, left and right.

They clambered over.

The path stretched right and left. The wall loomed.

Hope swallowed. Which way?

Left seemed the logical choice, but logic held little sway in this land. Right seemed counter-intuitive, but the opposite of the logical choice was in itself a kind of logic. Her breathing came faster—all she had was knowledge from stories and what she remembered from school, but she had no special training for how this place actually worked. What was she supposed to do? What if she chose wrong, and they were trapped or hurt or died—

“It’s actually neither,” said an unfamiliar voice to their left, and they all jumped.

There was a man on the other side of the fence, leaning on the rail with his arms crossed. He had slightly too-long dark hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed lately; combined with the faded denim trousers and patched shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he looked very much like the workers from the countryside that came into the city every so often, to find new opportunities or see the sights.

Looks, however, could be deceiving.

Especially when the person in question had appeared out of nowhere.

Hope steadied her breathing and took a moment to think. “I didn’t hear you very well,” she said cautiously, mentally crossing her fingers that none of the children would comment on the man’s sudden appearance. Some took offense to that kind of notice. “Could you repeat that, please?”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that with me,” he said pleasantly. “I’m as human as you.”

She eyed him warily.

He didn’t seem offended.

“Okay,” she said slowly. She was pretty sure he was telling the truth—that was a pretty blunt statement to make for Them. “So...do you know the way out…?”

The man pointed over her head.

Only the wall was behind her. She looked at him, confused.

“Over the wall,” he said patiently. “You gotta climb.”

Zina and Matvey made identical noises of complaint, and Sung peered suspiciously at him. “What’s over the wall?” he said loudly. “A trap?”

Hope winced, but the man only grinned. “Nah. It’ll end up being some wall in the city somewhere. Probably.”

“Probably?” Hope echoed.

He shrugged. “Never been out that way before.”

“I’m going to try it!” Sung declared, tearing himself away and across the grass, scampering up and over the wall before Hope could so much make a sound of protest.

She started forward anyway, heart in her throat, when his head popped back up over the wall. “Hope, you have to see this, it’s so strange,” he said, eyes wide.

“Sung! Get down from there!” she shouted.

“But it’s the city!”

“You said it was strange!”

“It is, but it’s the city!”

Hope glanced helplessly back at the man, who only shrugged, rueful. “Sorry. Didn’t remember how impulsive kids that young can be.”

She frowned at him, but he really did seem apologetic.

Whether or not he was telling the truth, Sung was already there, so they were going to have to follow. “Thanks,” she said to the man, not sure if she meant it, and pulled the other two children after her towards the wall.

First she handed Matvey up to Sung, with the strict warning that he was not to let go until she had come up the wall—Sung only laughed, which made her crosser—and then she put Zina on her back, climbing up the wall with aching arms and legs.

When she made it to the top, she hauled herself and Zina over until she was perched on the top of the wall, next to Sung and Matvey. Sung was still laughing, and Hope opened her mouth to tell him to knock it off, until she looked down, and laughed herself.

They were sitting on top of a brick wall, not even two feet off the ground. Hope twisted around to look behind, but the fields and stranger were gone—only an ordinary strip of grass sat behind them, in front of a stately building that she recognized as her favorite library.

“We made it!” Sung cheered, hopping down off the wall with Matvey, Hope following suit with Zina. “We made it, we made it!” He danced around Zina, waving his arms enthusiastically.

Zina, by contrast, had a thunderous look on her face. She plopped down in the grass, folding her arms. “I did too much today,” she said. “I’m not going to school. Hope. I did so much walking. I don’t even want to go to the playground. We’re going home and I am going to sleep forever.”

Matvey hadn’t even bothered complaining. He simply lay down in the grass and closed his eyes.

Hope rubbed her own eyes, wishing she could do the same. Above them, the afternoon sky was blue, but clouds were starting to gather, promising later rain. “We’ll go home,” she said. “We need to tell someone what happened, anyway.”

🙦

The next day, Hope sat outside on the steps. The Cat had leapt from its usual perch and was pouncing on the red leaves.

She propped her chin up on her hands and sighed.

The Cat looked up.

“I wonder why things changed,” she said to him. It wasn’t really what she was thinking about, but she had to say something. “It used to be a forest.” The Cat was silent, waiting. “I wish I could—” Her throat closed up suddenly. If she could do magic or magecraft or anything, she could have stopped the girl and her gang. She could have come up with a way out of the park. She could have been more sure about the stranger. She could have been better.

The Cat sprung up to sit beside her. “You are the way you are,” it said, tail twitching. “You are the only you that you can be. That’s the best way to be.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Oh,” she said, “I do love you, Cat.”

#inklings challenge #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #imagery: wind #imagery: tree #the story is complete for now but may end up getting more?? so idk #it feels incomplete to me but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #my writing #hope springs

[redpanda-redpanda]

My story for my first year doing @inklings-challenge. I was very excited to be part of this and Life, as it likes to do, decided to get very busily in the way, so I didn't get finished yet. Hopefully I'll be able to soon, and when I do, I'll post the rest.

The story is (eventually) an intrusive fantasy. I always see intrusive fantasies that take place in "our world", but I was drawn to the idea of what it would be like if it happened in a fantasy world. So here's my take on it, with more under the cut.

Faithless

In the deep, dark dawn of the first day of spring, a boy without faith stole the Lantern of the Gods.

Fin had not started off that morning with the intention to steal the Lantern. He had gone out to look for medicine. But getting the correct medicine meant talking to Ice, and Fin hated talking to Ice because everything always seemed to get twisted.

Like that morning, for instance. He had gone to ask for help, because Ice knew where to get the medicine and doled it out to Fin as payment for a job well done. He had found Ice in one of the usual haunts, playing cards with some older men.

“Come join me, Wildfire,” Ice called when he spotted Fin. “I’ll even let you deal the first hand.”

Ice always called him Wildfire. He said it was because of the shirt Fin had worn when they’d met, the one that had been his old man’s, with the holes in the hem and the band’s name and logo splashed across his chest in a ball of blue flame: Wildfire. It had been his old man’s favorite band, and it was Fin’s, too. He hated Ice, but somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate that nickname: it had too much of his father in it.

Fin, who did not want to waste his time playing cards, sat anyway, because that was how it was with Ice. You did what he wanted and then, if you were lucky, you could ask him for what you wanted. If you were even luckier, he wouldn’t kill you. And if you were luckier still, he might just help you.

So Fin played cards and made little conversation and wished he were anywhere else but here.

Finally, their opponents left with grumbles and curses and Ice swept up their winnings into a bag, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. He tossed one to Fin.

“For your help.”

Fin caught the coin, and almost did his lip curl over his teeth. It wasn’t even a good coin: not worth the price of bread, really. But he nodded at Ice as if grateful and pleased and stuck it in his pocket, because a no-good coin was better than no coin at all.

Ice leaned on the table, languid with victory, and blue smoke from elsewhere in the bar drifted over him. “So, Wildfire, what brings you here at this time of night? I assume it’s not for games of Chance.”

Fin glanced around and saw no one near: the barkeep was at the bar and their opponents had drifted to another game at a different table. Everything else was lost to the shadows. “I need the medicine.”

“Let’s talk out back, Wildfire.”

Fin followed him, hating this, hating that he didn’t know if Ice was pissed off or genuinely had something to tell him that he didn’t want others to overhear.

Out back was a brick alley that led to nothing but wall and garbage that made Fin’s nose crinkle. Ice ignored it and leaned against the wall, a foot on the bricks, and lit a cigarette. Light flickered from the bulb over the door, making shadows on the sharp patterns he’d cut into his hair. “So, you need medicine.”

“Yes.”

Ice blew out a breath of smoke that and Fin was reminded of a dragon from the stories his mother had told him when he was little.

“Hmm,” Ice said, and that was all for a long time.

Fin fought the urge to fidget. Instead, he stood there, smelling the grease from the bar and the too-sweet rot of the garbage and the salt that blew in on the humid wind from the sea. A rusted fan rocked back and forth in the building opposite, reflecting with the embers of Ice’s cigarette in the black, still puddle from last night’s rain.

Finally, Ice dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his boot. “All right, Wildfire. Ask me what I want you to steal.”

Fin had always been good at getting in and out of places he wasn’t supposed to be, but Ice was better. Fin had been so proud the day Ice had noticed him, had seen his talents for the skill they required, had asked him to join him and his crew.

Fin couldn’t believe he had ever been such an idiot.

But there was no way out, not now.

He had tried, once, and it had cost him everything. When there was nothing left and no one who would help him, Fin had gone back to Ice, and he hated himself for it, but what choice did he have? Very little, and none of them good.

So, now, he pressed the words out through clenched teeth and felt as if they were made of acid. “What do you want me to steal?”

Ice looked down at his hand, turning it over to survey his nails. “The Lantern of the Gods.”

“What?” Surely he had heard wrong. Ice couldn’t mean –

“The Lantern,” Ice repeated, eyes flashing up, “of the Gods.”

Clearly Ice did mean. Some religion must have seeped into Fin during childhood – or at least a very strong superstition – because he found himself horrified.

“What? But that’s – that’s –” It was the Lantern of the Gods. “That’s impossible.”

“Now, Wildfire, that’s not how we play this game.” Ice strolled over and lifted Fin’s chin and, slowly, thinly, he smiled as Fin glared, hoping to cover up the fear that churned his belly. “If I say ‘sit’, you sit. If I say ‘run’, you run. And if I tell you to steal something, even if it’s time itself, you steal it.” He let go with a jerk. “Got it?”

Fin trained his eyes on the ground. “Got it.” The words passed through lips numbed not from the cold of a too-early morning, but from anger and fear.

“Good.” Ice took a step back, but he was still too close for comfort.

Fin couldn’t resist one last question, though. “But why? What do you need it for?”

Ice dropped his hand. “You,” he said, “don’t ask questions. Whether I want to sell it or admire it is no business of yours.”

“But –”

Ice jabbed Fin’s chest and scattered his thoughts, hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. “I bet you can’t do it.” Jab. Step. “I bet you’re scared.” Jab. Step. “I bet you’ll just run away and leave your mother to rot.”

The last five words were accompanied by jabs and Fin’s back hit the wall and Fin, with a scowl, batted Ice’s hand aside. “I can do it.” Maybe. “I’m not scared.” He was. “And I won’t run away, so you leave my mother out of it.” After all, she was the reason he was here in the first place.

Ice surveyed him a long moment, his eyes that gave him his namesake unblinking upon Fin’s golden ones. Then, slowly, he smiled, and it was a thin smile, sharp as a knife’s edge, and the back of Fin’s neck crawled with gooseflesh. “Good. Bring it to me before sundown and I’ll give you the medicine. If not…”

“I know!”

Fin’s fingers curled into fists. Ice didn’t need to finish. Fin knew what would happen “if not”: his mother would get sicker and weaker and thinner, and then she would finally die, and Fin would be left with his little siblings on his own.

“I know,” he said again, softer. “You don’t have to remind me.”

His point made, Ice turned and walked away, his boots splashing in the puddles. He waved a gloved hand once and said, “Sundown. You know where,” and then he was gone.

Fin pounded a fist against the wall of stone behind him and cursed, then cursed again. How was he supposed to steal the holiest of holy artifacts without someone noticing? And how was he to take it to Ice without getting caught? Not that he had much of a choice, not really. Not when it came down to it. After all, he wasn’t about to let his mother suffer – not again – and even though he had tried to find work, no one would take him. He was either too young or too poor or they’d heard of his “reputation”, and so he had found himself here, working for Ice.

His mother would hate it.

For a moment, guilt twisted at his heart, but her condition twisted even more. She didn’t have to know how he got the medicine, and he didn't have to tell her. There was no other way to get what she desperately needed.

He ran a hand through his hair, so pale that it looked almost blue, and it fell back to hit just above his shoulders. Then he clapped his bulky headphones over his ears, shoved his hands in the pockets of his faded jacket, and went to stake out the Temple of Light.

*          *          *

The door to the Temple was open, and no one had been inside. It was cold and windy, dark and still damp from last night’s rain, and so Fin slipped inside, dripping water onto the mosaic floor. He made a droplet-trail over the sun, and then the moon, and then the stars, though he didn’t pay much attention to it. His eyes were trained on the Lantern.

It was said to contain the souls of the dead.

Fin had never seen it before, just as he had not been drawn into the temple before. He had a vague idea of what temples were like, and an even vaguer memory of his father once taking him to one when he was very small and smelling incense and hearing people sing. There had been no Lantern, then, for it had not been the right time of year, and it was a different, smaller temple besides.

This temple was large, built onto the remains of what was said to be the first temple in the port town of Midlothian. It was full of high, sweeping halls and windows of sparkling, colorful glass, and bright cushions for sitting and praying. Beyond the great doors and even greater hall at the far end of the Temple was an island ringed in water and pillars that rose beneath open sky. And there, at its heart, was the Lantern.

It sat in the knothole of a great tree that rose into the open air above it. Lights strung through the branches and cast a patchwork of shadows to the ground below. Fin padded closer, his headphones around his neck like a foam-and-plastic necklace, his hands shoved into his pockets. As he drew nearer, crossing one of the tiny bridges to the island, he saw among the lights and leaves tiny slips of paper. They hung from small wind-bells which rung in the breeze.

Pricked with idle curiosity, he reached up a hand to snag one of the papers and stopped its fluttering. On it was a name. Just a name, that was all. But, as he read it, he felt a shiver go up his spine, for the name wasn’t just any name, but his own: Fin.

Fin crimped the paper so tightly he could feel the warmth of his fingers through it. No. It was nothing. Just a strange coincidence. He gave a snort and let the paper go, and it fluttered and once more the bell rang out above him. Scared by a coincidence and a name. Ridiculous.

He stuffed his hands again into his pockets and, trying to ignore how fast his heart was beating, shuffled over to the hollow that held the Lantern. He stared at it for a long moment, at the lights that bobbed inside it like fireflies, only blue.

For the holiest of holy artifacts, the ancient relic didn’t look like all that much. Just a lantern, really. Like one of the ones you could buy in any of the shops on any of the streets of the quay. The lights were probably fake, too, just some fancy sort of technological trick.

Not that it mattered to him, really, because he had come here for a job, and he was going to do it. And now there was no one around, and even the street outside was quiet save for the lap of waves far below in the harbor and the rattle of shutters in the dark.

It was the perfect opportunity.

Before his brain caught up to the idea, he was reaching up and out and he had the Lantern cupped between his hands. He only had time to realize that it was warm before he shoved it inside his coat, and then he was running.

He did not think to look behind him. He did not think that someone else might have been watching, or that the opportunity had been too good on purpose. He did not think at all, except that he had done it, and now he must run, and, if he ran fast enough, he might get his reward.

He ran, darting out into the dark, carrying the Lantern with him to light his way.

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #imagery: light #imagery: tree #imagery: water #story: unfinished

[rowenabean]

Part 1 of probably 4 in my Inklings story! (I've written it all but haven't divided into chunks, fyi. The rest will be here over the next few days.)

If you read what I posted before? You've read this bit, although it's a bit more polished and one of the characters has had a name change.

@inklings-challenge

#posting the first chapter today because i promised myself i would post it and then i didn't finish editing today #ended up spending a bunch of time waiting for my car to be fixed #inklingschallenge #imagery: wind #imagery: tree #genre: portal fantasy #team lewis #my writing #inklings22

[toothanddraw]

A Song for Saprotrophs

@inklings-challenge 

I did it. I dusted off the old short story format and wrote it. I hope you like it (a little.) It’s rushed too, so I want to go back and refine it sometime. I enjoyed learning about Chesterton during the challenge.

Team Chesterton

Category: Intrusive Fantasy

Imagery: Tree, Bread

Word Count: 2,040

“Stop! Don’t eat that.”

My instructor told me that as I washed the bite of sandwich down.

Apparently, the bread was found to be moldy. I couldn’t taste it. The team of trainers apologized profusely, and the kitchen staff rolled out some pre-dinner stuffed shells. Their embarrassment charged the air and what could I say? That’s something I didn’t want to learn. It’s not as if I could tell the difference myself.

Fisher didn’t know this, he didn’t care.

The dog sat up, then returned to the ground, thumping his tail when the trainers passed again. I turned to him and could tell through the blurry bubble of vision I had left that he was a black lab, not a yellow.

I had known him for 10 days. He was the best thing that happened to me post-forty. Every night, still angry about what was taken away: “Thank you for the dog. Thank you for the dog!”

I set my napkin down and took hold of the harness handle and heard him shift to look up at me expectantly. That’s magic.

Enough to forget about some moldy bread that I couldn’t even taste. At least they told us. This class was legally blind, we probably wouldn’t have known.

I think I was the only one to eat it. I think. I didn’t hear anyone complain about their stomach issues later. And I kept quiet about mine. I’ll spare you. Still, a little bit of mold shouldn’t have done that.

Fisher rested his head on my back as I sprawled on the bed in the student’s quarters.

He technically wasn’t allowed on the bed. But I figured off-duty is off-duty.  

I would have told someone, I really would have, if the full effects of what I ate had shown up in the last two weeks I stayed at the school.

But Fisher and I were trained, bonded, and gone months before the side-effects kicked in.

Mold is a type of fungus. I’m sorry if you already knew that. I’m not a mycologist, I’m a credit analyst. Some molds are good. Penicillin is a type of mold. Some molds will kill you. I wasn’t dead yet, months later, so that was good news. I hadn’t even thought of the bread until I took a hike with Fisher.

It was a warm late September afternoon and the wide fire roads through the forest made a windpipe for trees, still full of leaves. I loved these woods. I would have been here sooner but there’s a lot of pressure around going back to where you used to go with someone you loved.

It wasn’t half a mile in when I began to smell a lot of rich food. Someone must have been having a banquet of a picnic. The savory smells hit first, like tender protein, fall-apart bird meat. Buttery smells mixed in: roasted walnuts, oliveoil dripping off of bread. I honed in on it. It was curiously strong, it must have been right off the trail.

But when I got up to it, from what I could tell, it was a tree. Fisher stood at the ready while I knelt down and felt around the base. The smell was so intense I had an absurd picture of an offering upon silver platter on the ground.

A mushroom met my hand. One of those blurry yellow-brown ones. My stomach growled.

Fisher sniffed the cap out of polite curiosity but didn’t go to eat it. No. I was the one salivating. Like a crazy person.

Fisher licked my arm.

I took the mushrooms home with me, walking back past other delicious smells.

I had mangled them so it was hard to get an ID on them. Especially with text-to-audio descriptions of pictures. And the feeling of hunger I had towards them did not abate.

I had to know what they tasted like. Like a dumb kid on the playground. I didn’t stop at a taste. Or a bite. They were so tender and delicate.

I wondered after they were gone if I was having some kind of grief-induced psychosis by taking and eating something from the forest park. I panicked the rest of the night, waiting for symptoms of mushroom poisoning to manifest. All the while wondering. Apologizing for being so stupid.

A week later I still felt fine. A week after that, the singing started.

A hum. A pleasing hum in my head as I walked into the bank where Fisher’s celebrity status had not lost any shine. I annoyed everyone else, asking if someone was singing. After work, it kept up, on and off. It was never too loud and I could ignore it. I scheduled a physical.

And then it made contact.

Just impressions. Like “I’m here.” “Do you know I’m here?” “Hello.” And repeatedly: “We need to find the trees. We need to find the trees.” All melodic. No words as people would define it, though they translated easily enough.

I know what you’re thinking. I ate some mold and some mushrooms and now I was hearing things. But if I was tripping out, it was rather disappointing. I used to have vision. If all of this was a side-effect of a hallucinogen, shouldn’t my brain be treating me to colors and details?

Distinctly, I remember wrapping my arms around Fisher in my apartment and trying to will away my anxiety about it. I reminded myself that I was going to see the doctor next week. I could make it until them, no matter what music my head was playing.

Fisher licked my arm.

And the voices surged in wonderment. A curiosity that was distinctly not mine rang through my head. As if it realized all of a sudden, what a joy it was to hold a dog. “We need to tell the trees!” Undercutting that was a sudden jealousy that was mine. A love outside my own for my companion. My eyes. Fisher.

You need to understand, there was little to no confusion about which thoughts were mine and which ones were the intrusive others. They were very happy to be in my head.

I was a nervous wreck. I called out sick.

…

I didn’t want to return to the forest park. The voices did. They wanted trees.

“What are you going to DO to me?” I shouted, out loud, in my empty apartment. I slid down the wall to the floor and sobbed, fully aware that I needed serious help, terrified of the implications.

An impression came. No words. Of pressure. Just below the surface of the skin across my shoulders and chest. There was a confusion. A profound befuddlement, even an embarrassment that was not mine. The voices quieted to a thoughtful stirring. It shocked me out of my terror.

In the middle of the night, I woke. No fear stained my thoughts yet. In the split second of calm came a deliberate question to me: “Are you earth?”

In my AC, in the dark, on the polyester sheets, I answered: “No.”

A different strain of music. Another question: “Are you bread?”

“No!”

Fisher sneezed incredulously.

The voices puzzled and burbled in my brain.

The good thing about being very tired was that sometimes, it beats the feeling of fear. “Please shut up. Let me sleep.”

For some reason that worked.

...

“We need to tell the trees.” The voices told me.

“You have a system of mycelium beneath the surface of your skin.” The doctor told me.

She was a blurry, kind-sounding woman. She seemed way too eager about this. “There’s a powdery mildew coming off of your inside-elbows. We’ll see what the lab has to say about the samples. I’ve never seen this before in my life or studies… But you’re otherwise healthy!”

And then she prescribed me some antifungal cream and pills. She went on to explain that fungal infections happen. They just didn’t happen quite like this.

She didn’t know about the voices.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would pick up my medication from the pharmacy and stop this strangeness.

Tomorrow was the day, too. The bad one on the calendar. Maybe it meant something that all of this was happening now. I knew what I had to do.

“Fisher,” I told him, “If you see me reach for anything I’m not supposed to eat tomorrow, bite my hand off.”

His tail thumped against the ground.

He never barked, that one.

The voices in my head, the music of the mold and mycelia, seemed less a conversation to themselves and more of a performance that night.

I itched the inside my arm as I listened. The singing changed, different voices harmonizing. Rounds, layers of lovely thoughts and ideas spun out, intending that I should listen. Intending that I should find their music beautiful.

“It is.” I told them finally. “It’s really good. Good singing.”

…

I was back at the forest park. Once again, delicious food-like smells were everywhere. But now I knew better. I wasn’t taking on anymore voices. I had picked up my prescription earlier that morning and would work to set things right after my hike.

Fisher led me down the fire road.

“I feel like I’m still wandering alone in the dark sometimes,” I told Fisher. “Even with you. Even if I could see.”

The singing was less complicated at the moment, more direct now. Almost like concrete words. Just happy to be here, in contrast to me. It was tempting just to float on whatever the fungi were feeling, without my baggage.

I found a spot I felt was about right and sat down, my back against an ample, blurry hickory. “Alright. You’re at the trees. What do you want?”

To my surprise, I felt a jolt through my hand as I settled myself on the ground. A transmission. A call.

And immediately, a response back through the base of the trunk.

I caught recognition. I placed both palms flat against the ground and then I listened.

So many voices. Distinct and mature. It was like I had stepped inside a marble hall with a thousand giants conferring.

It was them. The forest. Tall complex singing and ideas in the trees and the fungus (which had their own voices and acted as translators and networkers between the trees.)

I listened in as I was announced and appraised with curiosity and a tiny sense of shame. I spoke. And as I responded, it felt like a tribunal, I just wasn’t sure who for.

“Animal, animal. This is an animal,” the forest decided. Many voices nodding along.

And from me: “They are bread. They are ground,” they insisted. “Where else would we be?”

“What is this? Who are you?”

And they explained. I listened through the lives of the great and simple. The trees, the co-operation. The competition of plants and fungus. All the while, they spoke. They traded information. And I got the impression: I was an ambassador. Not just a devourer of plants and other animals. I had a voice to present to them and a translator that I took in with that cursed moldy sandwich bite.

“You came after! Yours is a different line. A kingdom of creation we have not heard from. A mover. A killer and a die-er. Welcome! How strange and wonderful your voice.”  

“It has to stop,” I pleaded. “I regret it. I need to make it right.”

The fungus that I had growing in me felt fear for the first time.

I removed my hands from the ground, like shutting the door on the council chamber. I took out my medication.

The voices within me sang. “They said we had no earth. They said we had no bread. (We told them about the dog.) They said we grew on the body of higher voice. Have we done wrong?”

I had never heard them so distinctly before. They had grown.

“I’m sorry. You can’t stay here.”

“Please! We need to break bread. We need to break ground. We need something to eat or we’ll die!”

“Even if I die?”

At this, Fisher sought my face to kiss.

The voices held their silence. I held my breath. I understood.

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #imagery: bread #imagery: tree #story: complete #Short Story

[secretariatess]

I See Fire: Part 1

Status: Incomplete

Team: Tolkien, secondary world

Imagery: Tree, fire

@inklings-challenge

I was hoping to complete it today, but today turned out longer than expected and despite having a couple of hours left, I have completely lost focus.

I do plan on finishing it. Since I didn’t have much of an outline when I started, the story started developing some more while in writing, so I apologize for any inconsistencies found in this part and in the hopeful next part. Also, apologies if it seems rushed.  I wanted to do a short story, as I usually write novel length, so I may have just went too fast.  Story after break!

The Glade was alight with pixie lanterns, and packed with the nymphs of the Great Emerald Forest.  Despite the lack of room, mass movement indicated there was a dance, though music couldn’t be heard over the loud cheering, laughing, and general chatter.  Darting in and out of the crowd were pixies, sometimes landing on someone’s shoulder to rest their weary wings from their flight dancing, or to speak directly into the nymph’s ear.

Up on the branches of the quiet trees sat -or stood, precariously- nymphs who desired more room yet still wanted to be a part of the festivities.  Those in the trees and those on the ground called out to each other, either asking for more refreshments or trying yell out a conversation that no one could actually understand.

Everblue and her friend Laughingleaves sat on a high branch of an oak, occasionally plucking off dying leaves to shred them and sprinkle them on the dancers below.  Elated by the atmosphere and the one too many sweet drinks they had consumed, it was of particular amusement when they could see a piece of leaf get stuck in someone’s hair.  So great was the amusement, in fact, that they would shriek with laughter, clutching at each other and the branch so they did not fall down.

A slight pause in the noise distracted them.  The pause was followed by an even louder, collective cheer, followed by applause.  Everblue and Laughingleaves frantically looked around in the crowd, trying to find the source of the commotion.

“It’s Sequoia!” Laughingleaves cried, not even pointing him out for Everblue’s sake.  She scrambled to her feet.  In her haste, she almost toppled over and she was forced to steady herself by grabbing a branch above her head.

Everblue also got to her feet, using the trunk beside her to help.  Still scanning the crowd, she asked, “Where?! Where?!”

Laughingleaves, keeping one hand on the branch above, jabbed her finger at the crowd.

It took Everblue a few moments, but after forcing herself to concentrate she was able to make out the dark red head, moving slowly through the crowd as it parted for him.  Everblue inhaled sharply.  It was just a glimpse, but she got to see him all the same.  The reason they could have this celebration in the first place.

It seemed so odd, so dizzying, to know she was in the not-too-distant presence of a hero.

Several months ago, the nymphs found themselves stuck between a highly contagious blight and a battle with one of the Fairy tribes, Charu. Many lives were lost, and in addition, the Fairies would take the fallen trees.  When it was made known that Sequoia had been captured by the tribe, there was great alarm, and several stood watch at his tree to make sure that the tribe didn’t find it and cut it down.  However, Sequoia returned to the Forest, head held high as he declared the battle over. The Charu tribe would no longer fight with the nymphs; they would no longer hunt them for their wood.

Upon hearing the news, nymphs from all over the forest started pouring into the Glade to celebrate.  Tales of his valiant fight with the Fairies spread all around, even before they got the news from Sequoia himself.  Every time a story came around to Everblue, it was wilder and grander than the one before.

She didn’t believe any of them, though she loved hearing them told.  She sat wide eyed, listening to the newest tale of Sequoia’s heroism, all the while dreaming up how it actually must have gone down.

But looking at the top of his head now, she found she didn’t care to know the real story.  Just knowing that it was because of him that they did not have to worry about the Charu tribe was enough for her.  How many generations before her were be able to say they saw a hero like him?

Taking deep breaths, she found that the trunk was not enough to keep her steady.  She reached out and weakly grasped Laughingleaves’s arm.  “I can’t believe he’s actually here, in front of us.”

Laughingleaves responded with a giggle.  “I just hope I can remember this moment when I wake up,” she said.  She reached up and grabbed some leaves.  She handed some to Everblue.  “C’mon, let’s see if we can reach him!”

Everblue absentmindedly took what was offered her, not understanding the task at first.  When she saw Laughingleaves tearing her portion of the leaves, some of her sense returned and she began joining her friend.  When she had torn them up small enough, she did her best to toss them at the target. Laughingleaves’s contribution shortly followed.  To their disappointment, the pieces did not go far from the tree, but that did not stop them from trying again.

Their attempts were joined by others in the trees, some having better luck than others.  Sequoia either didn’t notice, or was unbothered by what they were doing, continuing his way through the crowd, occasionally stopping to say something in someone’s ear and laughing at something someone else said.

Eventually, he moved out of reach, then out of sight. Everblue tossed one more handful of shredded leaves, watching them slowly float down to the forest floor. The hero of the celebration now having passed through, the festivities were starting to fizzle out.  Nymphs were returning to their respective trees, and the Glade slowly emptied.

Laughingleaves and Everblue dismounted from their perch, hopping their way down on one branch to the next.  On the last branch, Everblue lost her balance and came crashing down, Laughingleaves barely missing her.  Dissolving into a fit of giggles, the two got to their feet unsteadily and began making their way back to their section of the Forest, the Lumberhome.

The transition from the Glade to the Lumberhome had a sobering effect.  Gone were the pixie lights, the cheerful glow, the elation of basking in a hero’s glory and the end of battle.  What took its place was the grim reminder of what was lost in the battle.  Stumps littered the entrance of the Lumberhome, many of which had been those Everblue knew, and even considered friends.  The night sky peered through the remainder of the branches; a pretty but unwelcome sight.

The smiles faded from their faces and they wound their way around the stumps with bowed heads and solemn expressions.  

Perhaps worse than the sight of the stumps were the rotted carcasses of the nymph trees who succumbed to the blight.  They were dotted around the stumps and those not yet infected. Everblue’s heart twisted when walking by one in particular- not even half as tall as the trees around it, its remaining leaves were dried and furled up, knobby branches pointing to the ground. It used to be a young boy nymph, one of Everblue’s favorite patients.  Even at his worst, he would always attempt to greet her in the most cheerful manner and make her laugh by telling the most ridiculous jokes.  Every time she walked by it, she was reminded not just of him, but of the day she first discovered him dead.  As they walked by, one of the leaves released itself and dropped unceremoniously to the ground.  Everblue turned her head and took deep breaths.

Laughingleaves stopped, noticing the gesture.  Everblue blinked rapidly, trying not to cry.

“We’re going to be clearing this area tomorrow,” Laughingleaves said in a soft voice.  “Did you want a moment before we got back home?”

Everblue nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  She turned back to face the remnants of the young tree.  Swallowing hard several times, she whispered to it, “I’m really going to miss you.” She paused, feeling a tear escape her attempts to hold it back and slide down her cheek.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”  She reached out a hand as though to touch it, to caress it as though she could comfort it even in death, but kept her hand at a careful distance.

Laughingleaves reached for her other hand and squeezed it tightly. When Everblue was ready, she dropped her outstretched arm and leaned into her friend.  The two of them returned to their trees in silence.

  It was late morning when Everblue finally arose.  She stepped out of her tree, stretching and trying to wake her mind up enough to think over the day’s tasks.  There was a pang of guilt as she realized she had been so late in waking up, which meant leaving the other caretakers of the Lumberhome with the job of running around and tending to the other nymphs.

The job of a caretaker was a busy one in the Lumberhome. The Lumberhome provided wood for the Fairy tribes -at least, the ones that didn’t wage war against them- cultivating and strategically cutting down the quiet trees to do so.  The use of sharp blades and other objects posed certain threats to the nymphs, both to their trees and their spirit manifestations. Painful as the injuries were, pain management was one of the simpler tasks of a caretaker.  It was the diseases and infections that could result from improperly treated or untreated injuries that caused concern.  Everblue prided herself in the knowledge that she delivered the upmost care, that no patient of hers ever worried about getting even a minor infection.

Of course, that was before the blight came.

She was about to set off, to check over her regulars for any new cuts and to tend to those suffering from the blight when she felt someone coming up behind her.  She turned around quickly, not particularly paying attention as she had a feeling it was one of the other caretakers coming to see what was taking her so long.

“I’m up now, you don’t have worry about wak-“  She stopped midsentence, realizing it was not any of the caretakers.  In fact, it wasn’t even anyone from the Lumberhome.

It was Sequoia.

Rooted to the spot, her mouth hung open as her mind raced through a thousand different things she should do as an apology for mistaking him for someone else and give him a proper, respectful greeting.  Apology still pending, she felt her arms spread open and her torso bend slightly, as though the two of them were exchanging bows at the beginning of a Fairy reel.  Of course, this only added to her horror and embarrassment, yet she seemed unable to correct herself.

Sequoia smiled warmly at her, oblivious to the fact that she was making an absolute fool of herself.  “Greetings. I am told you are Everblue?”

Somehow, she squeaked out a confirmation.  There was a pause, as though Sequoia was expecting more from her. Her tongue untied itself, and the apology let loose- all in one word.  “IamsosorryIthoughtyouweresomeoneelsethatwon’thappenagain.”

Still smiling, Sequoia blinked several times.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”  Something on her face must’ve told him that saying it the first time was horrifying enough, for he quickly said, “You know what, never mind about that. I actually came by to ask you something.”

Her?  He wanted to ask her something?  Her mind abandoned coming up with ideas to rectify the situation to searching through her memories to find some clue as to why the hero of the Forest would not just know her name but actively seek her out to ask her something.  She felt her hands coming together to form her barkbook of notes.

“I heard that you are one of the more exceptional caretakers of the Lumberhome,” he said, “and have quite a deal of experience with the blight that’s been wreaking havoc in the Forest.”

Experience?  It almost sounded as though he believed her to have some cure for it.  Did he not see the carcasses, or had Laughingleaves and her crew removed them already?

“I-I don’t know about experience,” she mumbled.  “But I have taken care of patients with it.”

“That constitutes as experience,” he said brightly.  “Which is something I’m looking for. See, I am gathering a few nymphs to find the blight and rid the Forest of it.”

She gave him a confused look.  Wasn’t that what they were trying to do already?  They just hadn’t found a specific treatment to cure it.

Noting her confusion, he continued.  “I know diseases normally can be taken care through treatment and proper care for prevention, but I have seen one case before where one disease did not, years before the Great Emerald Forest was even born. It was a kind of rot, and it acted peculiar for a disease. Regular treatments only delayed death, and prevention measures only lasted for so long. It was later discovered that the rot had a different source- a more, ah, sentient source. Found deep in the forest, hiding in the shadows, there was some sort of creature that was the rot. The disease the nymphs suffered from was something of an extension of itself, and it fed off nymph trees to keep itself alive.”  He hesitated, a dark look briefly interrupting his otherwise gentle expression.  “It understood speech, it could taunt us, and it could move around. It had to be killed before the disease could be cured.”

It was something out of a horror story.  A disease that was actually a creature, capable of moving around and talking?  At the same time, destroying a forest?  Just the thought of it made her lightheaded.  She glanced over at her tree, wondering if it would be terribly rude to dive back into her protective bark until she had rid herself of the memory of Sequoia’s tale.

In a much quieter tone, Sequoia said solemnly, “I believe that this blight is similar to that. So in order to cure everyone of the blight, I think we have to find its physical manifestation and kill it.”

She took several deep breaths to steady herself.  Sequoia thought they were actually living in this nightmare?  Somewhere behind her she heard a twig snap.  She jumped and whirled around.  Her breath caught in her lungs as she frantically searched for the source, fearing that this blight-creature would pop out and maul the both of them.

When nothing made itself known as the source of the noise, she slowly turned back to Sequoia, hands behind his back as he patiently waited for her to gather herself.

“I’m sorry, you want me to help you?” she said barely louder than a whisper.

“Yes. Precisely.”

“I’m no warrior. You would have better luck with one of the lumberjacks.”  She gestured in the direction of the lumberjack location.  “I think you’ll also find them to be very strong.”

“I already have my warriors,” Sequoia said.  “What I need is a caretaker with experience with the blight.”

“But, why? You already said in order to cure the blight, it- the creat- the manife- the thing has to be killed. What use would I be? I can’t do anything against it.”  There was a pleading note in her voice.  She was asking not just out of a sense of logic, but rather also out of a sense of self-preservation.

“Because it can only be killed in a certain way,” Sequoia answered.  “The most effective methods of treatment reveal the method in which it can be killed, even if the treatment might not rid a nymph of the illness. We can’t just go in there with whatever weapons we’d like and expect to kill it. We need a caretaker’s knowledge in treating it to help us figure out how to kill it.”

“And you want me.”

He beamed, happy that she was grasping the whole thing.  “Precisely!”

She held up her hands and backed away a little.  “I think you’ve got the wrong nymph. I don’t think I’m the best caretaker for the job.”

“Well then, do you have a suggestion for who is?”

“Anyone else, really.”

“If you cannot give me a name, I think I will stick with the suggestion to go with you.”

She stared him incredulously.  “What makes you think that I would be good for this?! There are plenty of others with more caretaking experience, and are braver.”

He brushed aside these points.  “I would prefer you because I’ve heard that you’re rather meticulous in your care. You don’t just figure out what works and what doesn’t work; you figure out what works, what works better, and what works best. For this kind of task, I don’t need just someone who can list off various treatments that alleviated symptoms. I need someone like you.”

She wasn’t actually expected him to have a well thought out reason for wanting her specifically.  She tried to find a way around it, but was coming up with blanks.

“I’m not asking you to fight. I’m asking you to use your skills to help me take it down.”

Honestly, that did seem better.  She still wasn’t keen on chasing down a blight that actually thought for itself and moved around, but on the other hand, it would mean saving the Forest from something that had the potential of wiping them out.  Besides, if there was anyone to trust, wouldn’t it be the hero who stopped the battle between them and the Charu tribe?

 Hesitantly, she nodded.  “Alright, I’ll go with you.”

 “Fantastic! Let us be off then,” he said.  He immediately turned around and started striding off.

           “Wait! Now?!”

           “Of course! I can’t wait around. We need to go and meet up with the other two.”

           Other two??  Other two??  She felt that this adventure would require more than just two others.

           But her pondering of the situation had left her in the dust.  Sequoia was already quite a distance away.  She raced after him, slowing her pace when she reached him.

             It wasn’t a very long journey.  Sequoia just brought her back to the Glade.  It was, however, awkward.  While Sequoia seemed comfortable with the silence, she spent most of the time wondering if she should speak, and if so, about what.

           When they entered one of the clearings in the Glade, she saw the two others Sequoia mentioned.  One of the two was short and thin with dark skin characteristic of an ebony tree nymph. The other was almost twice the first’s height, having all the muscle that the first lacked and then some.  White hair covering his head and face came down to the middle of his torso.

           Sequoia reached them in a single bound, his added height making the first not so short and the second not so tall.  Beaming at them, he gestured grandly to Everblue.

           “Lads, I have brought our caretaker!” he said.  “This is Everblue.”

           She bent forward slightly in show of respect for the two.  It was then that she realized she never thanked Sequoia for what he did for the Forest.

           “Greetings!” the ebony nymph said, with a lopsided grin.  “I’m Ceylon, from the Wild. Truthfully, haven’t been out this far before.”

           Everblue dipped her head in response and shifted her attention to the second nymph.

           “Call me Great Oak,” he said.  His tone was not harsh in any sense of the word, but his deep voice demanded respect. “From the Towers.”

           That made sense.  There was a rumor that the Towers were full of older, taller trees that had figured out how to move their trees to get away from the shorter, younger ones.  No one really heard of a young or short nymph coming from the Towers.

           She had been around tall nymphs before, but Great Oak seemed a lot more intimidating than those before him.  Perhaps it was all the muscle.

           Ceylon moved closer, crossing his arms and his grin turning very quickly into a serious look.  “So you’re our expert on the blight? What can you tell us about it?”

           “I-I-“ she stammered, looking over at Sequoia for help.  But all Sequoia did was give her an encouraging look.  “Well, I wouldn’t say expert. But I have made observations.”  She held out her hands and summoned her barkbook, checking over the marks in the bark.  “I’ve noticed the blight acts kind of like an anthracnose, except it has a wider range of victims than normal anthracnose. Younger nymphs are more likely to be infected. Deciduous nymphs are more susceptible to getting it; coniferous nymphs seem like it takes longer for infection to set in.”

           Great Oak and Ceylon, both deciduous nymphs, looked at each other before looking over at Sequoia.

           “That makes fighting this thing difficult,” Ceylon remarked.

           “Well, I never promised it to be easy,” Sequoia said.  “But now we know that the two of you have to be especially careful.”  He turned back to Everblue.  “What about methods of treatment?”

           “So far we in the Lumberhome have been implementing a lot of preventative measures,” Everblue said.  “Such as keeping the floor clear of dead leaves. Infected twigs and branches we’ve been pruning and burning with the leaves, and it seems to slow infection and infection rates. But once someone has it, it still spreads abnormally fast. Careful grooming was the best thing we could do. Nothing else seemed to have an impact.”

           When she had finished, Everblue, Ceylon, and Great Oak all looked to Sequoia, expecting him to have an answer as to what to do next.  Sequoia rubbed his chin, staring thoughtfully at the ground.

           After a while, he said, “So you would say that it thrives in leaf litter?”

           Everblue glanced down at her barkbook and nodded.

           “Well, I suppose that would help narrow things down,” Sequoia said.  “If it likes leaf litter, then I think one of the first places we should check out is the Thicket.”

           That made sense.  Everblue nodded her agreement.

           The Thicket was the section of the Forest that had the least amount of interaction with everyone else, including the Fairy tribes.  Having so few visitors to clean up for and being so close together, Everblue could only imagine how much leaf litter there was.  

           Without waiting to see if everyone else was in agreement, Sequoia beckoned them forth, already trotting on towards the Thicket.

           How determined he was to get rid of the blight, Everblue noted.  And to do so quickly.

             In order to reach the Thicket from the Glade, they first had to cross through the section of the Forest known as the Orchard.

           The Orchard nymphs grew various fruit trees, of which they collected and traded with the Fairies.  Anything they deemed wasn’t good for trade they took for themselves or other sections of the Forest, usually in the form of sweet drinks for festivities.  The Orchard bordered the Thicket with only a river between them.

           When they entered the Orchard, they were met with the strong smell of apples. Quiet and nymph trees surrounded patches of the Orchard, with the inhabitants tending to the apple trees closest to them. Here and there were Fairies, talking and bartering with the nymphs over a bushel.  Many of the nymphs gave them a cheerful wave as they walked by, only to become more enthusiastic when they saw Sequoia.  Sequoia would return the excited wave with a smile and wave of his own, but he didn’t stop to chat with anyone.

           Everblue wasn’t sure when she stopped.  She knew she was walking behind Ceylon one moment, and the next staring up at the trees around her.  Ceylon noticed that she was no longer with him and turned back.

           “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

           She lowered her head to look at him, brow furrowed in confusion.  “There’s something different about this place, and I can’t put my finger on it just yet.”

           He looked around to see if he could identify it for her.

           She knew it wasn’t just that it was a different section of the forest; she had been in the Orchard before for ingredients to help cure an odd disease or two, so she already knew what to expect upon arrival.  Though last time, there weren’t the telltale signs that the Charu tribe had been through.  Stumps were dotted through the trees, which jarred the aesthetics.

           “It’s not a bad different, is it?” Ceylon asked.

           “No, I don’t think it is,” she said.  “It doesn’t feel . . . bad to me, just . . . different.” Shaking her head, she started to continue on after Great Oak and Sequoia.  “Maybe it will come to me later.”

           Ceylon was slower to follow, still glancing around as though there was a sign somewhere that pointed out the very thing they were looking for.

           Everblue hadn’t taken very many steps when Ceylon grabbed her arm to stop her. “Nothing’s rotting,” he pointed out.

           She stared at him for a second, realization slowly dawning.  “Oh!”  She looked around, as though what he was missing would suddenly materialize.  But his statement was true; while the Lumberhome and the Glade had several carcasses of nymph trees that succumbed to the blight, there was no evidence of that here.  But that made no sense.  The blight was Forest-wide.  Had the Orchard already figured out the secret to curing it?  She looked up into the leaves to see if she could spot any telltale signs of the blight.  She could spot some, though it looked as though they had recently been groomed, hiding evidence of the disease.

           “I suppose their cleanup crew is very efficient?” she surmised.

           “Very,” Ceylon agreed.  “There isn’t even leaf litter.”

           She looked down, and sure enough, the floor of the Forest was void of dead leaves.  She looked back up at Ceylon and asked seriously, “Do you suppose the way of killing the blight is by cleaning up the Thicket?”

           He pressed his lips together, but everything in his eyes said he so desperately wanted to laugh at that.

           Everblue realized the ridiculousness of her question and giggled a little sheepishly.

           “Perhaps we should catch up with the others,” he suggested.

           She nodded and they hurried after the other two.

           It was not until they had reached the other side of the Orchard that they finally caught up.  Everblue couldn’t help but notice the whole way that the Orchard still lacked the carcasses prevalent in the other sections.

           In the last patch of the Orchard, Sequoia had finally been stopped by one of the Orchard nymphs.  She had an extremely excited expression on her face as she chattered at him, the topic of conversation going all over the place.  But as excited as she was, her way of speaking sounded a lot more relaxed, so she was in no hurry to wrap up the conversation.  Sequoia patiently listened to her, nodding his head at intervals with an enthusiasm matching hers.  Great Oak stood closer to the river with his arms crossed.  He was so still Everblue almost overlooked him.

           Everblue came up to Sequoia, feeling a little guilty.  She had a feeling that if she and Ceylon had not lagged behind, this nymph wouldn’t have trapped him in a time-consuming conversation.

           “-just absolutely love the way Fairies’ hair flows, you know?” she was saying. “Especially since ours is all stiff, and takes a good breeze to get it moving. It’s really all I can do to not reach out and touch. I’ve been tempted! To the point where I had my hand up and everything! But last minute, I stopped myself.”  She noticed Everblue approaching and immediately included her in the conversation.  “Greetings! Welcome to the Orchard! Name’s Autabella- I run this place here! We’re not really in season. We have citrus here, so we’ll be popping in the wintertime! Should back during that time if you haven’t already.”

           There was slightest pause in Autabella’s speech and Everblue took the moment to quickly get a word in.  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Everblue, and I have a question.”

           “Oh, what’s that?”  The prospect of a question got Autabella to stop her flow of chatter.  In the absence of words Everblue noticed that she had a bright yellow crystal tied to her throat.

           “It’s about the blight,” she said.  “I noticed that it’s very clean in this section of the Forest.”

           Everblue didn’t get to finish the question.  Autabella jumped in, already having an answer.  “Oh yes, Sequoia was saying you guys were going to chase that thing! Said he had a theory it was living? Anyways, when the blight first hit, we were concerned not just for ourselves, but also for our fruit trees. Got worried that it affected quiet trees as well. So we make sure to keep everything as clean as possible to prevent infection. The other side got hit quite hard, but here on this end, next to the river, we actually haven’t seen a lot of infections. Some say it’s because we’re keeping ahead of things, others say it’s the water, still others say it has to do with types of fruit trees. But I don’t know myself. I’m not a caretaker. I just help them clear away and burn diseased leaves and branches.”

           When Autabella mentioned the water, Everblue glanced over at the river. Autabella continued talking, oblivious to the fact that Everblue had stopped listening.

           So this end of the Orchard wasn’t hit as hard?  And some said it was the water?  She slowly made her way over to the riverbank, next to Great Oak, and kneeled beside the water.  The Lumberhome had its own creek, but the water hadn’t done anything against the blight there.  Nor had she heard from caretakers of neighboring sections that being near water made a significant difference.  If the caretakers thought the water had something to do with it, then it meant that there was something in this water that made it unique.

           Initial inspection did not reveal anything special about the river.  She cupped her hands and dipped them into the water, taking a sip of what she pulled out.  It had a slight metallic taste.  Beside her, Great Oak bent down, intrigued by what she was doing.  She jumped, squeaking a little, as she had forgotten in his stillness that he could still move.  

           “Did you find something?” he asked her in that deep voice of his.

           “What?”  Just as his movement had caught her off guard, so did his question.  But when she realized what he said, she let him repeat himself all the same so she could hear his voice again.

           “In the water,” he said, gesturing to it.  “Did you find something in it?”

           “Possibly,” she said.  She jerked her head in the direction of Autabella, who was now happily telling Ceylon about the gifts the Fairies would give them in exchange for the fruits, such as the yellow crystal on her throat she called brimstone.  “She had mentioned that infections are low on this side of the Orchard, and that some believed it was the water. I figured if I could figure out what’s unique about this water, I could see if has anything to do with the low infection rate.”

           “Is there anything different?”

           “It tastes like it has a high metal content,” she answered.

           Great Oak dipped his hand and sipped some to see for himself.  Frowning thoughtfully, he nodded in agreement.  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?"

           “With luck, it’s copper.”

           “With luck?”

           “I’ve heard that it’s useful against fungus-based diseases,” she said.  “In the Lumberhome, we don’t have a lot of access to it, so burning diseased parts is usually our go-to. I try to keep some on hand, but I haven’t had any in a long time.”

           “You think it will work against the blight?”

           “It works against other blights,” she said.  “Perhaps it will work against this one.”  She stood up.

           Her movement caught Sequoia’s attention.  Carefully, he sidled away from Autabella, leaving Ceylon to listen to her all by himself.  “I am hoping that’s a look of discovery?”

           She gestured to the river.  “I think there are low infection rates here because the river has high traces of copper. I would have to test, though, to see if it actually works against the blight or if it’s just coincidence.”

           Sequoia bit his lip.  “Well, I guess it’s a start.”  He turned to Autabella.  “Autabella! I apologize for interrupting, but I had a couple of questions?”

           “Yes!”  Autabella whipped around, smacking Ceylon in the face with her leafy hair.

           “Do you by chance know if there is copper in this water source?” he asked, pointing to the river.

           “Oh, yes!” she replied, bobbing her head.  “Up the river there’s a Fairy tribe that does a lot of mining and smelting, and copper gets into the river. They come by often, giving us copper tools in return for our fruits. The tools are pretty an-“

           “Copper tools?” Everblue and Sequoia said in unison.

           Autabella blinked in surprise.  “Yes, copper tools.”

           “Would it be too much to ask to use those tools?” Sequoia asked.

           “For your mission?” she asked, confused.

           “It may help,” Everblue interjected.

           The nymph hesitated.  “Well, I guess I don’t see why you couldn’t. We just keep them because they look pretty, for the most part. Only a few of them do we actually use.”

           Everblue sensed she was about to go down another tangent.  “One more thing,” she added, before she had the chance.

           “Yes, one more,” Sequoia said.  “Are there any vessels we can use to carry this water around?”

           Autabella looked from Sequoia to Everblue, then back again.

           “I would like to test the theory that the water is actually responsible for low infection rates,” Everblue said.  “As a caretaker, that is.”

           “Oh, you’re a caretaker? You must know what you’re doing, then.”  Autabella bounded away.  Moments later, she reappeared.  “I can’t spare much in vessels, so all I have are these. They’re too old to use for fruit drinks.”  She handed Everblue two canteens made of animal skin.  “And I have these copper tools.”  She handed Sequoia a couple of daggers and small picks.

           Looking at the tools made Everblue’s bark crawl.  When she had heard ‘tools,’ her mind immediately went to images of the axes and saws they used in the Lumberhome: Nice, long, and sharp.  Which would have provided the three warriors with some distance to keep themselves from touching the creature disease and thus decreasing their chances of getting sick.  But the ones Autabella brought them guaranteed no safety.  In fact, the warriors would have no choice but to get uncomfortably close in order to do any damage with those, and there was no guarantee that copper was actually the material that worked.

           The only way she could see this going well was if the blight creature was actually smaller than she imagined it.

           Sequoia, however, did not seem dragged down by these concerns.  “Most excellent, thank you!” he said cheerfully, flashing Autabella a grin.  “I believe we are ready to search the Thicket.”

           Autabella shuttered.  “I wish you all the luck then. We haven’t seen anyone from there in a while.”

           Sickening words, really.

           She turned back to Ceylon, reaching up to her neck.  “Here, let me give you this!”  She took the brimstone necklace off and handed it to Ceylon.  “If you like it, you can keep it. Maybe it’ll be a good luck charm for you.”

           “Oh, thank you!”  Ceylon accepted the gift with bright eyes.  As the three moved away from Autabella and towards the river, Ceylon told Everblue in a low voice, “I like yellow.”

           She gave him a bemused smile, not sure what to do with the information.

           Great Oak straightened as they approached the edge of the river.  “We ready to cross?”

           “Yes!” Sequoia answered before confidently stepping into the water.

           Everblue was not as confident.  She swallowed hard as she stared at the other side.  She didn’t like Autabella’s statement that they hadn’t seen anyone in a while.  The carcasses in the Lumberhome were bad enough.  If no one in the Orchard had seen anyone from the Thicket, what could they expect when they reached the other side?

           Was there anyone left saving?

           “Is there something wrong?” Great Oak asked.

           She jumped, tightening her clutching on the waterskins.  Sequoia was already halfway across the river and Ceylon was not too far behind him.

           Great Oak noticed the look on her face and offered, “I can take you across. The water will not go over my head.”

           She hadn’t even considered any fear of crossing the water, but with Great Oak’s offer, she found it was the best comfort she could receive in the moment. Blinking rapidly as an attempt to not betray the emotions of her real thoughts, she nodded.  Great Oak knelt down, his shoulders level with her.

           “Get on my back,” he said.

           She clambered on, a little awkwardly, and wrapped her arms around his neck.  She buried her face into his left shoulder as he rose up, trying to hold back the wave of fear.

           The easy part was finished.  A fact she was reminded of as Great Oak stepped into the river and started wading to the other side.  With every step that took them closer to the Thicket, she was all the closer to coming face to face with a sentient disease.

           A sentient disease.  How fast this was all going.  How ridiculous that sounded.

           How surreal.

           She almost wanted to tell Great Oak to turn around.  That this wasn’t for her.  To leave her behind.  She needed another day to process this and prepare herself.  Another day at the very least.

           But as they reached the other side, the image of the young carcass flashed into her mind.  She remembered telling the remains she wished she could do more.

           They were now on the other side.

           Well, wasn’t this doing more?

           Great Oak gently set her down on the dry ground and she stepped away unsteadily. She looked down at the waterskins in her hands.  She had missed her chance to fill them with water and return to the Lumberhome.  Maybe going after a sentient blight that could talk and move was doing more than what she had been doing previously in the Lumberhome, but so was taking this water back to her community.

           She looked up to see Sequoia saying something to her, but she couldn’t make out his words.

           How cowardly she was in front of Sequoia.  Here he had gone and saved the entire Forest once, and now he was going to do it again.  He even told her he wasn’t expecting her to fight.  Couldn’t she just do this?

           She knelt down and filled the waterskins.  When she was finished, Sequoia beckoned them into the Thicket. They stepped through the underbrush and between the quiet trees.

           Everblue had been to three of the six sections of the Forest, and had heard of others’ experiences in one other.  The Lumberhome during the day was filled with noises of the lumberjacks, talking to each other as though they were deaf, and the occasional noise of a tree being felled. In between those noises, the wind would play with the leaves, the squirrels would chatter, and the birds would squawk protest at the lumberjacks’ work.  The Glade was always filled with merry noises, singing especially, as Pixies would join the nymphs in their song.  And when it was sad, there was still music.  The Orchard was filled with a buzzing, of chatter and of insects.  Though she never set foot in the Wild, she had heard that it was always making some kind of sound, whether flora or fauna.

           The Thicket, however, was eerily quiet.  Even the wind held its breath, refusing to disturb the leaves.  There were no bird calls, no Pixie voices, no squirrels quarreling with each other.

           Just, silence.

           The noise they made going through the underbrush was unnaturally loud, and Everblue was certain someone would come out and scold them for being so noisy. But it seemed as devoid of life as it was noise.

           Light also was lacking.  Here and there, spots of sun shone through, allowing just enough to let them see. But not enough to set Everblue at ease.

           She sidled closer to Great Oak, holding the water close to her chest. The Thicket nymphs were tight-knit, yes, but so tight-knit that everything would be this still?

           They continued deeper into the Thicket, the trees getting closer and closer together.  But still, there was nothing.  No sound. No life.  Nothing.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #secondary world #imagery: tree #imagery: fire #my word doc decided to change formatting halfway through

[shorthaltsjester]

the mighty nein - critical role

this is a place where i don't feel alone. this is a place where i feel at home.

#also with softer vibes. i offer They #every silly little brainheart found family deserves a to build a home edit #the mighty nein maybe most of all. thats my family #also the lyrics deliciously well suited to m9. #when jester pulls that. stupid tarot card for fjord. home or traveler. and there's a carnival wagon. and veth says Thats Us! . them #i just think about . the tower is their home the xhorhouse is their home the lavish chateau is their home the balleater. the mistake. #the nein heroez. veth and yezas apartment. the dome. fjord and jesters living room floor. #a bar with a silly name on rumblecusp #also like. the song has stone and dust imagery. gardens and trees. #the inherent temporality of life and love and how that holds no bearing on how greatly people can love. im losin it okay. #ive been making this edit for days straight with my computer screaming at me for trying to shove 143 episodes of cr into a 2min20sec video. #crying becuase. theyre a family do you get it. they were nine lonely people and most of them had given up on seeing their own lives #as something that might be good. something that might make the world a better place. and in the end they're heroes. #and it doesn't matter if no one else knows because They know they're heroes. and they wouldn't've believed that was true when they met. #rattling the bars of my enclosure. to be loved is to be changed #posted on twitter and want to get in the habit of posting here too bc. #general reasons but also bc . i have noticed some of the ppl liking/sharing it are also ppl who shit on my ops by vaguing about my posts #which is in general whatever but does leave a funny taste in my mouth. #critical role #the mighty nein #cr2 #caleb widogast #caduceus clay #jester lavorre #fjord #veth brenatto #yasha nydoorin #beauregard lionett #mollymauk tealeaf #my posts

[an-albino-pinetree]

Doppelgänger Jax? Doppelgänger Jax!

Character idea/colour palette inspired by @corpseacoast art !

He looked analog horror in the grey colours <:] 🩶🩶

She Mandela on my Catalogue till I Uh Oh! Bad Decision Mark!

#my stuff #cw scopophobia #cw disturbing imagery #tree makes an appearance #doppelgänger!Jax #tadc jax #jax #tadc #the amazing digital circus

[greenlaut]

orange tree

myrrh in your lungs and the golden disk haloed behind your head

your face is made for war

(would you trip and fall like a shot dove?)

.

(irl stuff below cut)

since my father's death i have been doing awful with drawing. i can't bring myself to make art. i feel like i lost something. i can't understand it—i still can't.

this is the first piece since my father's death that feels like i'm back in my own skin.

i have been playing assassin's creed lately to pass the time. when i was a teenager, i loved ac very much. altaïr was my favourite as a teen. i think it's the rage and helplessness that we share that made me identify with him. i couldn't afford the games as a kid so i'd spend hours just watching walkthroughs, looking at fanarts, and reading fanfictions. years later and now as an adult, i'm playing ac unity that i got on a whim when it was on sale. i think i'll purchase ac1 when it's on sale later. for now, i will indulge my past self by playing as a french man doomed by the narrative.

while it's off topic, this piece is inspired by the relationship of palestinians with their oranges/orange trees. free palestine.

#i wrote the poem part #vivid dream imageries of a man picking an orange tree and his hands covered in blood #i thought his eyes are made of gold #assassins creed in the year lord 2024 #my art #altaïr ibn la'ahad #altair ibn la'ahad #assassins creed #assassin's creed #ac1 #assassins creed 1 #assassin's creed 1

[welcome-tothe-harehotel]

Unhinged angy stick boi, and a stupid meme under the cut v

Cw for: Gore, blood, Graphic content

#my stuff #cw gore #cw blood #cw disturbing imagery #hotel!jax #hare hotel au #hotel au #tree makes an appearance #tadc au #horror au #tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc jax #jax #shitpost

[mt07131]

fall out boy + marine/marine-adjacent imagery

Short, Fast, And Loud // Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here) // Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends // Get Busy Living Or Get Busy Dying (Do Your Part To Save The Scene And Stop Going To Shows) // XO // Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am? // The (Shipped) Gold Standard // What A Catch, Donnie // 27 // The Phoenix // Save Rock And Roll // Irresistible // Uma Thurman // The Last Of The Real Ones // What A Time To Be Alive

#fall out boy #fob #evening out with your girlfriend #take this to your grave #from under the cork tree #infinity on high #folie a deux #save rock and roll #american beauty/american psycho #mania #so much for stardust #maeve.png #web weaving #web weave #oh this was a fun one #these boys fucking LOVE their imagery #entirely inspired by the 27 line btw

[newwavesylviaplath]

in the land of gods and monsters, i was an angel

#gods and monsters #lana del rey #lana del rey paradise #girlblogging #coquette #hyper feminine #tumblr girlies #2014 tumblr #this is a girlblog #cinnamon girl #lizzy grant #girl interrupted #born to die #tropico #vintage americana #americana #vintage #70s #hollywood #sunset blvd #catholic imagery #motorcycle #farrah fawcett #btd summer #palm trees #60s #film camera #nymph3t #lolita1962 #lyric posting

[daughterofcainnnn]

hes never looked more beautiful

#southern gothic #rural america #preachers daughter #ethel cain #religious #mothercain #religious imagery #hayden anhedönia #ethelcain #southern gothic aesthetic #sun bleached flies #strangers #american teenager #family tree intro #family tree #ethel cain ptolemaea #ptolemaea

[thekidsarentalright]

keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you

#haiii :3 just a lil simple lil collage <3 #for one of my fav fob songs i rly. wanted to use the imagery of burnt paper so xx #as per usual i am uncertain that it looks good but!!! it was fun to make regardless #txt #c.txt #fall out boy #fob #nobody puts baby in the corner #from under the cork tree #digital collage #collage #p: 100 #p: 500

[anicehomicidaltree]

What’s this? New Priest au angst?? In the year 2024???

#we’ve had heart angst we’ve had mind angst #now it’s souls turn to suffer #this was supposed to be more of a sketch but I got very carried away with it #I forgot I wanted to put like feathers around him like he just had his wings ripped out but I forgor #it looks better without tho #chonny jash #cccc #chonnys charming chaos compendium #cj soul #cj whole #priest mind #tree's art #tw religion #religion #tw religious imagery #religious imagery

[fox-guardian]

im sad i wanna do a poll on which fear people like the most aesthetically speaking but there aren't enough poll options :(

so i guess rb this and write in the tags which one/s are your fav aesthetically out of the rest, based on canon imagery and whatnot

#ramblings with major #the magnus archives #tma #i really like the vibes of the end #i adore the death tendrils in oliver's dreams and how they're treated as fleshy veins but then we get similarly shaped stuff later #like the tree roots in his domain #i like <3 tentacles <3 and they are very tentacle-esque to me #especially with the whole tenderly holding the boat thing #and the Feeling of eternal patience.... very cool #AND WE LOVE THE OVEREXPOSED PHOTOGRAPH AND RED-ORANGE LIGHT IN HIS DREAMS ALSO #and i KNOW oliver isn't the only end person there is but he's the one with the most like. imagery in it. everything else i recall is like #'well there's a dead guy that isn't dead' 'i had an out-of-body experience' etc #that's not as strong of an aesthetic #but yknow what is?? GRIM REAPERS AND GRAVEYARDS BABYYYY there was a couple of those too #I ALSO LIKE THE FLESH AESTHETIC <3 MMMM FLESH <3 #love meat and bones and blood and Industrial Noises #not much else to say there. meat <3

[koukaaa-descent]

Both of us are going to die here. I just hadn't thought you'd be first.

#lethal company #lethal company bracken #lethal company employee #oc monsoon #oc indigo #koukart #the lore for these 2 is actually driving me crazy #i drew this ripping my heart out #this is . kind of a visualization to when monsoon dies #carrying a star... #i couldnt get the imagery out of my head #brackens = plant = Flammable #and then i thought about how trees burnt from the inside out when they got struck by lightning #and then. monsoon #carrying a star for a purpose it could not possibly understand #dying in indigo's arms #where its life began #i hopebthis conveys the desolate sort of sadness i feel when i think about these 2 #this is platonic Just in case i needto clarify #indigo is not wearing gloves here btw . i havent decided his skin color yet so we're stickin with monochrome colors #something somrthing about holding a heart in your hands and watching it cease