Warm and comfortable, you wake slowly to your first deep breath of morning air. The slight chill of early autumn is laced with the scent of fallen leaves and the promise of rain. The air that fills your lungs stings ever so slightly, frost biting into your chest with pins and needles. A watery tear tracks an ambling path line into your hairline, the stark transition from warm to suddenly cold etching its discomfort across the top of your cheek and down the side of your face. Defiant to your growing wakefulness, the petrichor smell of wet moss on stones beckons you back under the warmth of your covers. Only the faintest recollection of looming obligations keeps you from drifting back to sleep.
What was it you had to do? There was something. But what was it?
As you struggle to remember, your flagging unconsciousness begs to barter with your waking mind trying hard to convince you nothing could be worth getting up this early. Grunting your frustration at your mental sluggishness, the haze clears from your mind as it dawns on you, you’re going hunting today… with your father.
Oh, joy, you think to yourself, sarcastically. Wringing your hands into the hem of the blankets you feel it, the bone-deep annoyance at having to get up and suffer yet another day in absolute silence with that emotional stone of a man. Nevertheless, you resolve that he’ll not be stoically chastising you today; at least not for you being late. Stirred more by a wave of irrational anger than anything, you begin to bargain with yourself. At least the forest will be peaceful. It’s better than staying in the village and feeling all those judgmental eyes burrowing into me. Stupid, judgy, hypocrites. Still, with a deep sigh, you relent, letting the rage go with a breathy whisper, “I really hate it here.”
Begrudgingly you open your eyes. To your chagrin, you see that dawn is still a far time off. Quickly, you close them again, not about to brook any more arguments with yourself. At that moment, you decide getting ready in the dark isn’t any real hindrance to you getting up and around.
Sitting up with settled finality, the cozy warmth of your moss-lined covers falls away, your blankets sliding down from around your shoulders. Instantly, a biting breeze turns your skin to gooseflesh all along your arms, chest, and neck. You slide your arms over your bosom as if to quell the chilled ache that’s settled there just before you’re hit with an involuntary yawn. The morning roar that escapes your mouth is deafening in the stillness. Still, it’s the sudden motion to stretch into a back-crackling bend that most effectively alleviates your annoyance, pulling an involuntary groan of relief from your throat.
Smacking the dryness from your lips, you blindly cup your hands in front of you, willing them to fill with morning due. Putting your lips to the tiny pool in your palms, you lean in and greedily drink up the steadily replenishing the stream with every swallow. Then just as routinely, you splash the remaining moisture over your face before flinging the excess from your hands then reaching over – eyes still closed - toward a chair just within arm’s reach. As your hand grips the wooden back, you frown and grudgingly peel up one eyelid to glare at the inanimate thing as if it’s deeply offended you. You ponder for a moment, Where is my… before you see your woolen shift on the floor, a pair of squirrels nestled in its folds for warmth.
“Hey, you two,” you softly chide, reaching down toward their makeshift nest. “That’s not yours.” Gently, you take the pair from their bed and place them at the end of your own before finally drawing the cloth over your head, adding as an afterthought. “Though, maybe I should thank you for making it warm.” The sound of the faintest chitter draws a smile across your face as the pair resettles in your bed and you move to get ready to head out.
Before the chair rests a wall-mounted dressing table. The catch-all bit of furniture is virtually useless in its current state, cluttered with every manner of brick-a-brack. Nothing about the inanimate menagerie speaks to a purpose or a theme. It’s all just loose bits and bobs of things you’ve found while trekking through the woods. A collection you’ll likely add to today.
Tying off the binding of the shift, you peer over yourself in the mirror. You notice your feminine frame as very recently begun to curve and shape toward its inevitable future. An unbidden image of your mother comes to mind, and you feel there is little hope that your petite frame will remain once nature has fully run its course. You dread the thought of having to sprint through the forest, “fully burdened,” but either way, you suppose you’ll have little choice in the matter. You’ll just have to figure it out and adapt.
Standing to gather the rest of your things for the day’s likely-to-be drudgingly eventless “hunt” with your father, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The frosted edge of the glass promising yet another cold winter thrusts you toward a reflective thought.
At six winters of age, you’ve developed into a “young woman” at what you’ve heard other say is an alarming pace. Though you wouldn’t otherwise know any better, you can’t help but notice how much more slowly the other village children your age are growing. For the last couple of summers, none of those kids you’d played with since you were little come around anymore, and barely say, “Hi,” when you pass them in the streets. Though, judging from the sidelong glances you get from their parents, you feel that has less to do with the other kids and more to do with what the grown-ups say about you. It’s made it even more obvious how out-of-place you are amongst the people. You wonder callously how easy it was for once tiny insecurities to turn into major sources of resentment before the irritation dredges up a memory from two summers ago.
You’d been playing hide-and-seek throughout the house with a squirrel. The little guy had lived in the upper boughs just above your bedroom since the previous spring. You’d managed to find a secluded spot atop the reshaped structural support limbs separating the gathering room from the lofted bedding chambers above. While listening for the chitter of your tiny friend, hushed tones of forced calm piqued your curiosity. Peeking out from the lattice of framing limbs, you saw your parents, Tyrriel and Maiden, standing apart, speaking quietly to each other from either side of the arched entry leading up to the dry larder and the kitchen. Usually, an anticipated pang of hunger would have had you swinging your way that direction, waving hello as you carelessly passed between them. As you reach for the first handhold, however, something about the way your parents have framed the picture in front of you seems off… almost combative.
This was not the first time you’d seen them here, exchanging small moments. Initially, you’d gotten the impression that they were simply enjoying a bit of passing solitude, speaking softly of tender things. As you slowly took in the moment, however, your eyes were drawn toward the negative space between them, the atypical wedge of distance somehow forcing them apart while they spoke in hushed tones. Now, instead of hunger, worry sat knotting up the pit of your gut. You’d never seen them like this, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong.
You’ll never forget that day or the image of your mother standing to one side of the archway, clothed tastefully in what should have been a comfortable maiden’s chiton robe. She smelled of sage and mint from her beloved herb garden, where she usually spent her afternoons to relax. In that moment, however, she looked anything but relaxed, with her arms pressed in behind her and shoulders hunched slightly forward in disquiet.
Typically, Maiden was considered an unparalleled beauty, her long fay ears, and high angular cheeks gliding smoothly from sharp lines to the rolling swells of gentle curves, accentuating her overtly feyling nature. Barely any part of that showed now as the acute angle of natural light washed the warm honey of Maiden’s complexion out to the stark glow of bleached bone. Framed sharply by hard lines of shadow, the sun appeared to fight for all it had across every barrier raised by her purposefully feigned stand of disinterest. She looked absolutely deadly at that moment, the dissonant juxtaposition playing across her body sharpening her usually soft and supple features to a razor’s edge.
The only diffused edges along her hardened features came from the voluminous flair of Maiden’s dark burgundy hair that she’d bound up out of her face with a loosely tied cloth headband. The vast canopy of locks branching well beyond her shoulders somehow seemed to sway in some ghostly wind while cascading in a wild curtain down toward the center of her back. With deep, steadying breaths, Maiden pressed the base of her spine hard against the thickened timber of the archway. The way she leaned into the tree gave off the distinct impression that she was pulling strength from it to support herself against Tyrriel’s oppressive posturing.
From your vantage point, Tyrriel’s warrior frame, draped in a loose hempen shirt and wool trousers, cuts an imposing shadow across the entire breadth of the greeting hall. The tight chorded muscles of his lean elven body were just visible through the light fabric of his shirt, adding to the threat he seemed to pose as he stood, palm pressed firmly against the wall holding him rigidly at length against his side of things. That moment was the first time you actually remember ever feeling anything close to worry or anxiety as it radiated off of Tyrriel like a nauseating toxin.
Apparently, your mother must have felt it just as potently. Despite the bizarre discomfort threatening to bring every ounce of bile up from the pit of your stomach, you distinctly remember finding momentary strength from your mother’s open defiance of whatever was happening between them. With her chin up thrust toward Tyrriel, the hard shadows cast across Maiden’s face revealed the bladed angles underpinning the pride of her fey heritage. Set beneath furrowed brows, you catch the harsh crystalline set of topaz in your mother’s usually warm golden eyes. The gravity of the exchange finally sets in when you’re suddenly overwhelmed by an intense tidal wave of sorrow, the force of it rooting you to the spot, instantly paralyzed with apprehension.
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From your lofted hiding place, you’d listened intently as your father’s fear continued rocking you with anguish like nothing you’d ever felt. It was utterly unnerving to feel such intense pain and sadness as he relentlessly unleashed his worries upon your mother. Just as you were about to fall weeping from your perch, you see the resolve in your mother’s eyes coalesce into something more… significant… driven. In the blink of an eye, Maiden’s face went stoic, her posture proud and poised as she slowly stood upright. Emotionally, she was silent, though you’ve later come to feel she had little choice at that moment but to stand and bear up the weight of Tyrriel’s crushing intensity. You could barely register words, but there was no mistaking the unsure, almost terrified tone that penetrated your soul as you just caught your father’s bleating cry, “I can’t do this anymore, May! I just can’t!!! I mean… what if this kills her?”
You knew instantly he was talking about you, though you continued to ponder, pointlessly asking yourself, “Does he mean me?”
He’s almost yelling when he says, “… and have you seen the way people look at her? She’s growing too fast. It’s completely abnormal, and I’m concerned about what it means for...”
You never heard the rest of what he said as she finally reached out to soothe him. You didn’t really feel a need to, though. As if to spite the warming envelopment of your mother’s calming aura, the chill of your father’s severely blanket judgment of you has left a lasting wound on you to this day. Was he right, though? Before that moment, you’d never considered yourself odd or strange. You’d always just been you. But the planting of that single seedling of doubt about who you were would forever change who you would become, and ultimately shape who you are now. When you confronted him about it later, you felt exuberant to see the pain wash over his expression. A vile involuntary byproduct of feeling vindicated that has since left you bitter with yourself and untrusting of your own emotions.
Still, you got what you wanted from the confrontation. Your father told you the truth about your parent’s conversation. As it turned out, he was scared for you and your wellbeing. “You’ve grown at twice the rate of your human friends,” Though you were unsure, at the time, what he meant by “human,” a smart kid like you parsed out the meaning in context as he added, “… and nearly four times faster than that of my own kin… elven kind.” And that made it official. You were an outcast. You saw it in his apologetic face the moment he realized the slip-up, though he said nothing, even remaining quiet about your mother’s side of the conversation. That, however, you’re pretty sure you caught as the memory of her softening expression brought you back to that moment.
Temporarily stunned from the implications of what your father just said, it took a moment for your muddled mind to clear. In the fog you nearly missed your mother’s reply. Picking up her rebuttal mid-stream, it took you a second to catch on to what she was saying. She was aggressively reminding your father that she, herself, was brought forth into being a fully realized adult of her kin. For her, there was no “growing up.” You momentarily picture that recessed chamber your mother showed you a few years before, a dark watery crevasse where the reflecting pond outside nestled right up to the base of the very hearth tree you all now called home. “… don’t you see it?” Maiden’s bellow brings you back to the moment. “The very nature of who I am, what I am, as well as my grove, have adapted to our lives growing together… to becoming a family.”
You, it would seem, are assumed to be just another form of adaptation – so everyone seems to believe. Per usual, you are spoken of as if you’re some anomalous thing, only one of the myriad new developments to be watched over and cultivated, just like any other living creature burdening their lives. Even still, you know there’s something more substantial going on with you that no one wants to talk about. You know there’s something about you that scares everyone, something so abnormal that no one is willing to speak about it beyond hushed whispers, but you feel their thoughts. You always have. You feel everyone’s ebbing emotions every time they look at you. It’s like a tidal wave of anxiety fraught with fear and uncertainty; uncertainty of who and what you are, of what troubles you will ultimately bring them.
Blinking free from the memories, you begin leaning in closer to the mirror, turning your head side to side. At the edges of your reflection, you take in the expansive halo of your gold-shocked red hair. Moving in closer, you examine the constellation of cinnamon freckles dusting the pale almond flesh of your nose and chill-rosing cheeks. There, you notice, to your frustrated resignation, the faintest hint of darkening specks that have peppered your cheekbones and migrated towards your frizzy hairline. You even see the tell-tale sign of new dots scaling up the angular slopes of your long fey ears. Back and forth, you lament one side, then the other before finally settling in upon your emerald eyes. Glistening like gemstones flecked with golden filigree, you recognize that underlying current of angst in their brilliance. In their depths, you see the spark just waiting for fuel to burn, your roiling temper just waiting to catch fire and flash hot. Just the sight of that volatile ember begins to stoke your rage, and you pull your gaze away from yourself, trying to reign in your self-loathing, the constant struggle for self-control roiling up from the depths of your soul.
Closing your eyes to the vision, the emotion, and the encroaching tirade, you breathe deep, taking in the morning chill. You’re grateful for the cold as it sooths and mollifies you into a more contemplative state of mind. Here, you can almost examine yourself objectively – almost. As you have many times before, you try to examine that well of frustration as an outsider. Rarely, have you been able to do more than scratch the surface, but the question persists, where does this rage even come from? Pushing thru the anger into the depths of you, you ponder aloud, “Am I really so hideous?”
Opening your eyes once more, you see the objective truth. You are growing quickly into the stark beauty of your mother whether you like it or not. You know it’s foolhardy to hope you can go through life unseen, and in that moment, you wonder if being glared at isn’t the better option. At least that way, you won’t have to worry about anyone really hurting you. At least that way, you don’t have to worry about people whom you might care about leaving you – like your friends have – without a word why. At least that way… you know you’re safer.
The unbidden tears that cloud your eyes threaten to fall unyielding as your vision wobbles. You close your eyes as hard as you can against the flow, trying desperately to compose yourself. As you take a slow, steadying breath, you hear your father’s words projected into your mind, “Breathe deep. In…. Hold. Out… Hold.” It immediately irritates you as you let out a strangely jaded chuckle at the irony. Of course, he’s right; and here, alone with your thoughts, you can… begrudgingly… accept the truth of it. With an angsty huff, you lay out your garments for the day. Trousers, a wool jerkin, a leather belt, pouch of stones (that you’re pretty sure you’re not likely to need) a hunting knife, another small bag for twine, bits, and bobs, aaaaannnnd… that’s it.
Pulling on your padded trousers and leather jerkin, you hear a melodic voice from another room below yours holler out in an almost sing-song tenor, “Greenbriar Sparrowwood, you had better get down here, or your father’s leaving without you!” You know he won’t, but you roughly shod your feet in well-worn yet sturdy moccasin boots before throwing a supple woolen cloak over your shoulders as bracing from the chill.
Downstairs, you see your mother and father engaged in a rather languid embrace. You cough, “eh, hem,” and look down as if seeing them like this is imprudent at best. Either way, it feels all sorts of… ick. The thing is, it’s not the first time you’ve seen them so enthralled with one another, though you’re thankful it’s nothing more involved.
To say your family lacks modesty is… well, it’s a bit of a misnomer. The reality of your life is one where the body is as much a form of nature as a tree. You clothe it just as a tree grows leaves or a bear grows fir. For you and yours, clothing is a tool, not a means of concealment. Nevertheless, modesty in the company of others is an appreciated custom amongst the mortal races, and so you – sometimes begrudgingly – oblige, but mostly for your father’s sake. After all, he, as an elf, was once a part of those mortal races.
When you were younger and obstinate in more straightforward ways, your mother would have to coax you into clothes by dawning them herself. You noticed how uncomfortable it made her to be overly encumbered by so many layers, but she confessed to you that she did so to respect your father’s friends. She understood that the fey essence of her being made her a natural source of temptation for them, despite her own wishes to the contrary. Because of that, she wore what her father described as “reasonable amounts of clothing” whenever in the company of guests. When it was just family… well, shifts were about as much as you two would stand to cover yourselves with when no one else was around; your father’s prideful, self-important “dignity” be damned.
“You ready for a cold one?” your father asks, his gazes still fixed firmly on your mother’s. Rolling your eyes at their overt display of fondness, you wordlessly reply with a mocking presentation of your cloak before trudging toward the passage outward. As the two of you ascend from the tree basin, you turn toward the west.
There in the pre-dawn shadow, the cold north winds bite into you full force. You blink through watery eyes as you bind back your wild mane, tucking it deep within the oversized hood of your cloak before looking up. By far the most massive tree in the grove, you are still wonderstruck by the immensity of it. From here, you can just make out spiral forms of integrated passages as they twist upward into the maple’s shadowed canopy. As your eyes glide through the blackened underbelly, you can just make out your own bough-braced room, its shadow a stark relief against the last remaining bit of full moonlight piercing through the darkness and growing cloud cover. You can’t help but smile as you gaze further along to the twinkling array of ambers, yellows, and greens glinting at their edges as your amplified sight – even in this low light – begins to pick up the first hints of sunlight brightening the eastern skies. The picturesque view of mornings like this never cease to amaze this time of year, and it’s a long moment before you catch your father in your periphery leaning against the side of the tree.
The expression on Tyrriel’s face is knowing and contented as you make eye contact with him. It’s abundantly clear that his sapphire blues have been watching you intently this entire time, tracking the awe blossoming from your eyes and over your cheeks. The revelation leaves you inexplicably vulnerable as your self-consciousness slams into you like a bag of hammers, and you divert your gaze in unreasonable shame. His approaching footsteps bring your eyes to his face, but he’s gone passively stoic, almost sad as he strides past you, asking rhetorically, “Ready?”
You nod anyways and fall into step behind him and out into the dew-laden morning.