Make things right. I have to. I must.

In the wake of Swishy’s final attack, the curses were purged from the area by his golden energies. But triumph didn't stop the onset of embarrassment and vulnerability. The shadows were healing: flecks of black ooze slugged toward the original surface upon which they were cast. The darkness under the treetops was filling in again.

The darkness crawled; it desired; it clamored to have their avarice fulfilled. He'd achieved a major victory—he fought off a wrathraven. But the enemies kept coming. The vast soulscape undulated with activity—with Trey no doubt caught in the chaos. Swishy inhaled, exhaled, and stretched his shoulders. Stay strong, he told himself. Strength is inside—and the problems are outside. The curses would return to their unending surveillance in no time. Swishy hated the watched feeling. His moment to himself was ruined. His aloneness was no longer secure.

Swishy raised a hand high and gathered the nearby wheat around himself. He constructed a STRAW SHIELD—hut-shaped, a hotel room for one.

Cozy.

He pressed his palms to the inner wall, insulating it with gold-straw—a curse ward, a boobie trap like the Altruistic Altar dungeons he'd watched Trey traverse.

The boy eased into his hiding place, his baby bunker—with a circular viewing window. He scanned the birds as they circled above, their bodies blocking the light that filtered through the treetops. The blackbirds cast cycles of sun and shade like the ceiling fan at home; their pattern of stalking was rhythmic and predictable. After several passes of flight, Swishy decided that he was properly hidden. He focused on relaxation, slumping his shoulders and unclenching his hands. A plan—that's what he needed most. And to rejoin Trey…and Myst.

Yuck.

He half-expected Myst to show up—and was relieved when she didn’t.

Swishy gazed outside his hut window.

A colored-dyed horizon. The postcard loveliness had returned as the dreadful wrathraven evaporated into soot. Postcard…he’d seen them in the city’s souvenir shops but never considered that they were a real place. He knew this to be the kind of Stormcellar Ruby had dreamed of. He grew sad for Ruby, sad for the sugar wraiths. The childhood version of his summoner strolled through his mind, thin arms, grumbling stomach, souring heart. The boy wished for everyone to have the home they deserved. He swished out his best version of tsk-tsk, mourning this imperfect world.

The pink skies, the radiating red-oranges of dusk, and the V formation of birds darted across the sun-scarred clouds.

The scarecrow flapped his wing in rhythm with the birds, wishing he could fly his way up The High Chasm. Flap, flap, flap, flap. But the hard way—life seemed always to be about doing things the hard way. He had to walk. He lifted a foot up and for the first time noticed the heft of his Timbs. He’d come to accept his grounded destiny.

Pressure. When had Swishy gathered so much pressure? He worried about the curses; he worried about other wrathravens; he worried about his ability to fix the city. Could he give everybody everything that they wanted—while giving himself a heart? Anxiety spidered through his straw in irregular staccato movements.

He meekly swished out his worries and cried. Soulful streamlets trickled from his gourd, amassing in the rind groves. The hut itself succumbed to Swishy's influence: the gold-straw insulation deadened into normal wheat. The walls flaked and crumbled. The structure was intact, but ugliness was upon him. Alone in his hut, Swishy's misery flowed and flowed. The negativity collected into floating black atoms, submerging Swishy within a condensed shower steam of sorrow. A dark time. A cold soul time. He hated that life was like this.

As soon as Swishy released one wave of tears, his head filled again. His chest heaved; his fibrous gourd sockets creaked from their abominable contractions; and his soul spilled out in blue rivers. He held his gourd in his too-tiny hands and cried.

The spirit of mourning moved him so. This was his first chance to evaluate his losses. Space was supposed to be a good thing. A place where he could scarecrow with glee, spreading his arms wide and carelessly. But the solitude made him feel like he was packed into a crate. The more he reflected, the smaller his world got.

And what’s worse? Swishy had to get moving. He needed to return to Trey. The darkness here was active and full, yet Trey couldn’t even begin to access half of its activity. Trey didn’t live in the shadowdeep world, which Swishy used to be relieved about. But now it stressed him. What if they attacked? What if his friend couldn’t see? He needed to be there and he wasn’t.

There were a thousand ways to die in the world—and thousands of more ways to lose oneself in the shadowdeep.

ZLAVE's intent flowed through his head, its dark magic controlled by gold-wheat bindings fastened to the letter edges. Swishy was determined to calmly receive the lesson. The word’s horrific feelings were mixed with Trey's kindness in introducing it to him. Trey’s love was the most precious thing in his life. And that’s what gave Swishy so much sorrow—the startling un-love of everyone else he’d met. Nobody warned him of a thing. Everyone’s words and gestures were pitfalls and snare traps.

Without even using his soul touch to read people’s memories, Swishy knew what most people were about. He developed street wisdom now. He acquired fighting skills. He could exist as his own boy, his own swish. And it was lonely. A cold wind blew through the dried leaves and crushed wheat of his soul. He was tired of getting chipped away at. His body healed but his experiences hardened into scars.

This world is way-way-way-way too hard to live in...

A new intent bubbled up inside. T-R-A-U-M-A, the letters drifted upward and downward and from one side to the other, nothing that gave him a significant shock of damage. But they applied gravity to his gestures, a cosmic weight that he couldn’t yet begin to comprehend. He never grappled with these memories in the dark. He missed the unthinking life as a lower creature. A lower creature had value in this world as simply itself, populating Cearth, texturizing it. He wanted to be a sliver of shadow, a pretty color, a distant shadowclaw for a human child to gaze upon.

Everyone’s aspirations were so large and so grand and so specific. Anything a person wanted was hard to achieve. But he’d already had the greatest happiness as a simple bird. He was a boy of atmosphere, a part of the Cearth that no one wanted or needed. They'd see his flight, become happy, and move on.

But humans were born with an assumed importance. Even though he now sensed the scarecrows crawling their way into the new Stormcellar, seeking further evolution, further gifts. There was nothing scarecrow about them, nothing that inspired a soul-lifting “T”.

The TRAUMA inside buzzed like a bee—but it shrank to a more manageable size. He’d stifled that drone, too, atop everything else—the memories, the blackwheat generation, the cursed shadows, the souls in his wing jabbering about their future conquest of Swishy’s consciousness and body.

Too much, the conscious entities were too much, but Swishy felt…okay? A surprising development—he was okay.

Oh wow.

He lifted his head from his hands. His straw was dampened and dark with his soul tears. He was a wet wheat, a stuck-together wheat. He wiped his hands across his parka and dried up as best he could. He adjusted his collar of feathers. He equaled out the lengths of his hoodie strings. The boy did a pretty good job of getting himself together. He didn’t have a mirror that he and Trey often checked their outfits in. But he did the best he could. Swishy made do. Swishy was proud.

The scarecrow felt a little better. Not T-pose better—but better. His heartbeat stabilized. He often considered what he carried inside—dark or gold or the standard rye in between. But his mind skimmed over those thoughts. He refused to protract his harmful wallowing.

Swishy took a breath. He imagined Trey holding the front door open for him as Swishy adjusted his stiff-tongued Timbs.

You ready, my guy?

Yes. The scarecrow nodded.

Swishy opened the door to his hut and stepped outside. With dried eyes and a calmed mind, he convinced himself that he was ready for more.

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(…)

SWISHY HAD WORRIES on top of worries on top of worries.

The cry helped him—momentarily at least—but reality waited right outside his hut to collect him.

Swishy stared at the surrounding area. The trees were mowed down by beak-shots. The tree trunks piled atop each other as a graveyard of Swishy’s discarded shields. G…U…I—the letters for guilt started to bloom inside and throb like an ache. But he closed his eyes, focused on his heartbeat, and smothered the cursed intent. He learned that he had poor control over his magic. He noticed this when watching Trey wield his new Z moves. Trey, a human through and through, had limited exposure to the shadows and couldn’t wield as much. But Swishy’s abilities were powerful—it was no wonder they were often beyond him.

His negative feelings—and his positive feelings, too—resulted in time after time of unwitting spell activities. He was learning to moderate his emotions just to live better. He was tired of feeling badly. Maturity was the aim—yet the maturity occurred in his magic control as well.

The guilt was there, though, in small letters, internalized but mostly harmless.

This feeling sucks but I’ll take it, heh…

Embittered but un-injured, mused over his current predicament.

The more he was told that he needed to minimize himself, to sacrifice himself, for the health of the planet, the more he believed it. He was standing, a scarecrow posing over the carcasses of the nature that’d died for him.

The shadows were torn away in chunks. The remaining curses groaned in pain and loneliness upon the bleached surfaces. The wrathraven had absorbed and used them. But the golden scarecrow technique had also done a number on them. While the peeves were prone to feeling alone, now that they were ripped from each other, the aloneness doubly flared. They were incomplete, spiritually maimed as collateral damage.

He removed his gloves and rubbed against the trees, the leaves, and the frequent patches of wheat stalks. The vegetation enlivened and thickened. The plants arose and glowed. Everything he touched achieved the luster of gold, a magic light to distract the patrolling snitchtalons.

He rushed around the fractured trunks, offering healing. His hands gloved atop the broken bark, straw weaves conjoining one broken end to the next one. The damaged wood drew closely as the threaded wheat looped and tightened. The magic coursed through the tree as Swishy willed it back to life, feeding the tree his heart. And the tree healed, brand-new bark cleared of aged rings and wear, a patch that didn’t fit with the rest of its ancient-looking structure. But he kept going, wrapping its roots in conjured gold-straw, nursing its detached form with magic.

The tree lay on the ground, glowing in patches. Health ebbed from the swish-treated portions, the flowing enchantment traveling to the tips of the willow eaves.

Dang, now how do I get this upright?

He felt better—momentarily. And then he felt worse, the few glowing trees amongst the dozens of dead ones. He wasn’t close to making things right. Each fallen tree, each eaten bird, seemed like a step backward. At least in Ruby’s world. He wondered why he could never seem to do for himself without taking from others. Additions to Swishy were subtractions from the planet. Even as he relaxed, comfortable in his moment of safety, he felt bad for his thriving. Maybe he was having too good a time. Who knew?

Swishy pressed onward to the next tree, patching it with golds—thinner golds, but this is what he had. Whatever was inside, he’d offer. Swishy, outside of his confusing circumstances, happily defaulted to this uncomplicated aspect of his nature. His mind drifted to Trey, seeking him out, planning with him. But he couldn’t ignore the trees, the damage to the forest. He was focused now. The forest, the home of the curses, had its own importance. He tried to set aside his grudge to open himself to the possibility at least.

It wasn’t the fear of Ruby that made him stay. He just wanted the trees to grow back. He wanted a comfortable place for the shadows to return. Swishy never meant to make them homeless, to strip them of shadows. Even as he healed the trees—undoing their scars, rebuilding their mass—he was encouraged by the thin bubbles of remnant shadow slowly stretching and reintegrating beneath the woods.

The trees came out imperfectly, Swishy at this point having very little heart to spare. Crowns of wheat rose around the roots in healthy stalks. His enchantment was functional but serviceable. The trees, while felled, had returned to life.

Finally…

Swishy was eager to escape the woods. He’d repaired the forest as best he could but his reputation amongst the local curses was shot. The shadows were everywhere, crawling away from Swishy’s presence. These were either the remains of the wrathraven or the nearby curses who’d witnessed the fight. The gold aura still radiated from the attack site, chasing the curses away from the area.

Then he rushed as far away from the area as he could, leaving the gold rake behind—a victory flag for one, but mostly as bait for any enemies. What he needed now was to reconnect with Trey. There was no time for the sky-watching, the bird-watching—though his gaze was pulled by the birds. He flapped his wing, a powerful dark wing blasting through the nearby shrubs. He’d make it up there in time.

Snitchtalons shot across the pink-scarred skies, fouling up the beauty with their aggressive flight. Their feathers decorated the air—beautiful feathers attached to polluted souls. Swishy knew curses lived in the plumage. As the feathers fell, drifting upon Swishy’s wing—the wing went out of control.

Scrawk! Scrawk!

His wing flapped and flapped, releasing cursed winds—a wrathraven technique, just on a smaller, Swishy-sized scale.

“What the heck are you doing?” Swishy recoiled from his wing, trying to avoid getting hit in the face.

Get him! Get him! He can’t master us. Not this pumpkin-spiced bitch!

Swishy knew his wings contained curses but they were louder now, more cursed. He’d eaten a lot of feathers, a lot of enemies, and most recently a powerful, strong-willed beast. The wrathraven grudges and collected souls cried out. They were protesting the dominion of Swishy. The scarecrow had won but the curses inside hadn’t given up on their intent to corrupt and take over.

The path of darkness, the path to flight, meant stifling the voices. You couldn’t let the intent take up space inside you. The health of his gourd and heart depended on it. Fortitude, he’d hone his fortitude.

All good thoughts—except the flapping irritated him.

“Shut up,” Swishy swished, slapping the wing over and over and over.

The wing settled; it even pouted. We’re going to take over. You’ll see. One day, we will be dominant one, you’ll be the henchman…But the way the wing settled back upon the shoulder blade was defeated. The curses talked their talk but Swishy realized something funny—the wing couldn’t reach his face.

“You’re so stubby and so cute.” Swishy poked his wing with Myst-learned mischief. Poke-poke. Poke-poke.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

“Love you, too, Wingy.”

I hate—wait, who’s that?

Wingy stiffened; Swishy stiffened. They were one—or one body—after all.

And then came the sudden thud, a man crashing into a nearby tree.

(…)

“Is that…” Swishy anxiously swished.

Ugh, your stupid friend. Right when I was going to be the big shot, here comes Mr. Zappy Zap.

Swishy plucked a finger full of wheat from his shoulder and stuck it into Wingy—who started eating it. There was no mouth, just a crunching, ruffling absorption. Swishy didn’t know how it worked but it was working. So he gave it more straw.

That’s good stuff, so calming. No wonder the city is so crazy for you. You’re a loser, but a delicious loser.

Swishy stood there feeding the wing as possible-Trey crawled around on the ground.

A delicious wheat boy, future bread…The wing drifted off into a slumbering cadence. Wait…wait…are you drugging me?

“Straw-chews are straw-chews. That’s a mean accusation.”

Another finger full. Another round of indulgent crunching.

Thanks…Damn, I forgot what I was even mad about…

Swishy snapped his head toward the direction of the sound and the crumpled form of a person. The form staggered upwards with limp body language, a puppet rising from the ground. The body language didn’t indicate Trey but the form—the black skin, the parka, the murder-colored Timbs—matched him. But he had a hard time believing that Trey was in there for real. He read the soul and found only limited traces within that body. Thin soul strings maneuvered within the chest cavity, tugging this way and that way, causing the extremities to jerk accordingly.

Trey—or his vessel anyway—spotted Swishy and ran toward him. His arms swung with the awkwardness of someone who’d forgotten everything he’d known about running. The assessment proved accurate as well—because Trey tripped and fell. He didn’t even grunt in pain. He lifted his dirt-caked face and smiled. The eyes were empty, but his cheeks were pulled up as far as they’d go, forcing the eyes to scrunch and squint. He ran off again without brushing the dirt off himself.

That’s definitely not Trey. My friend keeps it clean!

Swishy lowered into a fighting stance and drew up a weapon—not a rake this time, he didn’t need so hard of a measure for his friend. He’d pulled up a garden spade. He twirled the golden hand shovel around with all the video-game-acquired dagger artistry.

“Trey, what’s wrong with you? Stop!”

But Trey sprinted onward. He stumbled. He reached to the floor to steady himself. And he continued along.

“My guy, say something!”

Trey plodded along and this time raised his hands toward Swishy, reaching out with those empty eyes.

“Come on, come ooon.”

But Trey wasn’t stopping and Swishy needed to make a decision. He gripped the spade and imagined a proper attack. But his mind drew blanks. He dropped the shovel and what would come would come. He held his arms outward just like Trey.

“You want a hug, friend? Free hugs, let’s have it!”

Thud!

Trey tackled Swishy to the floor, clutching and clinging and rubbing his face against the wheat. A hug. An actual hug. But a pet-like hug. If Swishy had any doubt that this was Trey, he knew for sure that this wasn’t Trey. He wasn’t using his words. He was acting like a kid. He was acting like the initial version of Swishy, altar-fresh and trusting. He stared into his friend’s satisfied face and saw the version of himself that still thought the birds liked him.

Ah, the good old shadowclaw days…

Swishy clutched his friend harder, basking in the embrace. He couldn’t stand the idea of a non-clean, non-collected Trey. He picked the twigs and leaves out of his hood. He even brushed the dirt off his face—but kind of made it worse. The smudges were comical and lovely.

“Whatever, I tried. And whatever again—because you’re here…”

Heart eyes, wing flutters, and the tightest squeeze Swishy could ever dream of giving.