COLD RAIN fell down upon Matasi's face like splinters of iced wood; a sharp staccato beat that stung against his cheeks and drew his attention toward the cold that shook his limbs with such intensity that Matasi couldn't even so much as move to find shelter. Instead he hunched there, in the oppressive darkness that surrounded him outside the city gates, breathless.

  "It is not the storm, kid."

  Matasi's teeth chattered and blotted out any response he could make. He did not need to look behind him to see the towering figure that spoke, a grin full of sharp and pointed teeth with bright golden colored eyes that peered down at him pupiless and fathomless. He could feel the wings twitch at her back and his whole upper body twitched at the sudden force of the motion. The suggestion that the shivering coldness that sunk into his bones was more than the storm was utterly ridiculous; what did she call all of this that raged around them and froze him near solid? Matasi shuddered and tried to wrap his arms about himself as he crouched slightly in the cold.

  Tch. Why did I have to get stuck with you?"

  Matasi stared at the ground, glared at it as he shivered in the cold. He thought 'you're mean' about the giant at his back and felt her rumble and laugh. He couldn't help the fully body shudder, the way his limbs tingled with the motion. Her wings flared and knocked him forward. He stumbled and nearly fell face first into the cold ground; instead Matasi landed on his knees, palms slapped onto the cold mud that oozed up between his fingers like shards of liquid ice. He fought back another teeth clattering shudder with a stuttered breath as the cold wrapped around his hands and made his joints ache.

  "You are a riot, kid."

  A riot? Yeah, Matasi decided that didn't deserve an answer either. Instead he pushed himself up and fought through the desire to just lay on the ground and let the cold take him. He was stubborn and tenacious and while he was out in this storm, stuck in a world that was growing darker by the second, Matasi would be damned if he let himself just die from this. The city gates were right there, and with them potential shelter. If he could only make it through; one step, then another--a shuddering breath and a full body shiver. He twitched his head to the side, involuntarily, and forced himself to move again.

  "Have you forgotten why we are out here?"

  Had he? Matasi knew his reason for being here; he had to. There was a--mission, yes! A mission! Matasi was on an important mission for--someone. He knew the someone, he had met them--hadn't he? Matasi's breath came through chattering teeth and his head started to hurt. His arms were cold and the sky was growing darker and darker as the rain poured down upon him. The clouds grew thick, heavy, and it felt unnatural. The darkness pressed upon him as he wrapped his arms across himself, clenched tight into the sleeves of his top, and it was not right. There was something that sparked on the edge of memory--something--something--

  "The sun is about to set--does your broken memory even recall what that means?"

  What? Matasi shifted, turned his face into the rain to seek out the sun. Surely he still had time to get inside, to get out of this rain and out of the dark and oppressive clouds. Surely darkness had not already overtaken the land and the--the bones, Matasi stared at the ground; when did he start to look at the ground? How long had he been walking over bones? How many bodies--how many--the rain fell cold and heavy and red. It stained everything and Matasi jolted, twisted back with a yell of surprise. His heel caught on the curved edge of a femur and his ankle rolled as he lost his balance and crashed down to the ground. His hand scrapped against bone and his palm stung in response. Quickly Matasi pulled his hand to his chest and clenched it tight there as he stared at the graveyard.

  From above she bent down until her blue-and-black face covered all of what Matasi could see. She smiled, red hair a halo around them as she reached out long and spindly fingers to tilt his head to the horizon. She whispered, needle teeth twisted into a large, haunting smile, "Now pay attention, boy. This one's important."

  The sky rumbled, like a thousand beats of a horses hooves on hard stone. It started quiet, something that was just low enough to be felt in Matasi's bones before it follow the tremors to his limbs and then grew deafening. At the peak there was a sharp shock of light, cracked across the sky. A horse neighed, loud and high-pitched in the ensuing and sudden silence. It made Matasi's ears rang as he stared at the bone and sinew, bloodied creature that reared up on hind legs. Upon it's back a man cackled, eyes of intense fire as they stared down at Matasi, coldly fierce despite the flame. He seemed unbothered by the rain, now painted red that stained his face and his steed like rivulets of blood. His lips were curled, his nostrils flared, and a deep resounding boom reverberated through Matasi's very chest as the momentary light faded back into the darkness.

  The cackle--not a laugh, it sounded more sinister than a mere laugh--echoed all around Matasi. The cold sucked all breath from his lungs as he stared wide-eyed into the darkness. In his ear whispered a harsh, sibilant, "Boy," that struck him in the heart--he couldn't breathe--Matasi couldn't think--

  Red covered his face in the form of fine hair, and the twisted needle-sharp grin of his companion crossed his mind as she leaned over him once more. Her light allowed him to see her plainly as she looked him dead in the eye and said, cheerful in the darkness, "It is time to wake up!"

----------------------------------------

  "Wake up! Matasi!"

  It was a slow and gradual thing to wake up. Matasi blinked open his eyes first, face pressed flat to the bark that made up the floor of the hollow he used as a home. Outside Ferle called for him again as he stared, blearily, at the bottom edge of his bed. It took him time to process the floor beneath him, the bed in front of him, before Matasi carefully pushed upright and rubbed away at the drool on the side of his mouth. He could feel the indentation of the wood on his cheek as he shifted, rubbed at his face and then at his eyes to get rid of the grit, before he shuffled onto his knees. For a moment Matasi forgot why he had moved to his knees, and then loudly he heard Ferle from outside as he blinked away the last vestiges of sleep.

  "Matasi!"

  Right. Matasi blinked and tilted his head toward the opening of the hollow with a momentary contemplation of did he want to? Did he want to wake up, to face the day and leave the hollow, to interact with the rest of the Firkhi and their expectations? Did he want to spend hours at the edge of the Grove with the Watchers? Did he want to spend time with Ferle in the Wood as she gathered fresh pickings from the earth? Matasi stared blankly at the entrance to his hollow until he heard Ferle call again. This time the yell of, "Matasi!" came with a note of impatience, one that sent a shiver down Matasi's spine and had him up on his feet. He didn't call out to Ferle, but he did make a bit of clatter as he raced toward the folded pile of clothes and dressed himself.

  In the minutes it took to make himself at least slightly presentable, and Matasi grimaced when he ran fingers through the tangled mess of his hair, Ferle had not called out again. He took a little extra time to stare at himself in the water-glass--at the way twigs stuck up and around his hair where normally he would have braided it. He stared at the knots that had begun to form, and with a grimace grabbed his comb. He raised it to his head for half-a-second before he thought better of it. Ferle already sounded frustrated with him, if he spent the time to try and make his hair presentable she might well and truly become irate. Better to take the comb with him out of the hollow than to try and handle it now. Keenly Matasi regretted the decision not to braid his hair; the knots and the tangles could have been avoided if he'd thought to do so before he'd fallen asleep--not that Matasi could remember when he'd fallen asleep.

  Comb in hand Matasi made his way through the entrance of the hollow. Ferle stood at the base of the giant roots of the tree. They created an easy pathway up into the knotted woodwork that made up the hollow Matasi treated as home. He hopped from the hollow onto the roots, booted feet a loud thump as Ferle crossed her arms and stared up at him. Still bleary eyed from sleep Matasi clambered his way along the root-formed path, comb in hand. As he came to where the roots met the ground he could see Ktota in the air next to Ferle's shoulder, held aloft by the steady beat of her wings. It had to be deafening, Matasi thought, to stand next to those wings as they fluttered in the air, but as always Ferle seemed unbothered. Matasi had never met a Firkhi bothered by their bonded pixie-kin, actually, even if he couldn't believe he would be able to stoically stand there as wings beat next to his ears.

  "Your hair is a mess," Ferle said once Matasi straightened to a stop in front of her. She held out her hand expectantly, and Matasi flushed as he handed over the comb. Ferle did not have to do much more than gesture before Matasi and turned around and sat himself down upon one of the smaller roots. Ferle followed him, although she hopped up onto one of the thicker portions to be able to stand at head height, comb in hand.

  The first pass of the comb through his hair made Matasi wince. He could feel the bristles catch on each strand, each tangled knot in his hair. Ferle was far from gentle as she pulled the comb through, forced the knots to untangle. His scalp burned with the feel of it, and Matasi breathed through his nose sharply as he tried to fight back the edge of tears. It hurt; when Ferle did his hair it always hurt. She was impatient and forceful and Matasi knew he made a mistake when he came out of the hollow with the comb in hand, but he also couldn't take the time to tend to his hair himself as Ferle would surely have grown irate with him. He'd slept in, after all, and Matasi could recognize that with how high the sun was above the Grove.

  Another pass of the comb, and Ferle said with light words, "Jarle did not see you this morning." Matasi's hands clenched and released methodically in his lap at a particularly forceful tug. "You slept rather long."

  "I am sorry," the words came out as a mumble, near incomprehensible although Ferle didn't call him on it. Matasi hissed at another pass of the comb through his hair.

  "We are up with the sun, Matasi," Ferle reminded him. "The Watchers keep our Grove safe, and help turn any lost wanderings back right around before the Wood. It is an important job, and one every Firkhi must do every thrice moon. It is your turn, you know this."

  Matasi swallowed. "Yes, Ferle." He wasn't firkhi though, Matasi thought a little frustratedly. He wasn't anything except some tall thing that wasn't firkhi. Matasi breathed through his nose and through the frustration as Ferle made one more pass with the comb.

  "There," Ferle said, voice chipper. She began to gather his hair in her hands and pulled. It took everything not to yelp as Matasi felt Ferle begin a tight braid. "Jarle was quite upset at you this morning," Ferle continued and Matasi winced. "I talked him around. You did have a long day yesterday, didn't you?"

  Matasi started to nod, and then let out a faint sound of pain when he felt that pull on his hair so he said quickly, "Yes."

  "Hm, I thought so." For a moment Ferle said nothing else, just focused on the braid. As she tied off the end she said brightly, "I informed Jarle that I would need your help today in the Wood. I have more clippings to gather for Anle and Anla to take out of the Grove. I will need your music, and your blade."

  Matasi grimaced, and then turned pleading eyes on to Ferle. He asked a soft, "Can't you ask Akle?" Ferle looked back at him, hands upon her hips with Ktota resting upon her shoulder, wings still. Matasi ducked his head; he knew better than to ask.

  "Would you rather explain to Jarle why you slept in?" Ferle questioned, and hesitantly Matasi shook his head. Jarle could be mean when he wanted to; at least Ferle just tended to get impatient and give him a disappointed look. After a moment Ferle sighed heavily and patted Matasi on the head as she hopped down from the roots. Matasi stood a good head taller than her, and she peered up at him as she said brightly, "Go get your pipes from Nimle and blade from Hekla and meet me at the edge of the Wood. Don't take too long, Matasi!" With a light spin, and a laugh, Ferle took off down the path. Matasi watched her go for a moment before he smacked at his cheeks with his palms and groaned.

  Being a part of the Watchers was boring, busybody work where nothing happened. Following Ferle into the Wood always left him fuzzy headed and tired. It was tedious and time consuming and his throat tended to feel a little raw afterward with how much playing on the pipes he had to do to keep the Mists at bay. Both tasks were not to Matasi's tastes; he'd much rather lounge at the small pool near the Heart of the Grove and watch the fish jump. Another smack to his cheeks got Matasi upright from the roots. Ferle would not be patient for long, so Matasi best go hunt down Nimle and Hekla for the pipes and blade that they kept for him at Ferle's behest. He wasn't allowed to keep the weapon or the instrument himself, although he had asked in the past. Maybe today Ferle would let him take them home after their jaunt into the Wood. Surely he had to be old enough to tend to the items himself by now; surely this would be the moment in which he proved to Ferle he could keep them.

  With another clap to his cheeks Matasi started down the well trodden path through the various firkhi trees. Nimle and Hekla's trees were settled close to the pond, nearer toward the center-most ring of firkhi trees. They were a bonded pair, nearly as old as Ferle herself, and just as pushy and impatient as Ferle could be. Matasi could hardly understand why they had to keep his Pipes and his Blade, especially given they weren't too close to the Loslikht. None of the trees were close to the Loslikht, really, but then not much grew near the entrance of that Wood. With a huff Matasi hopped over a tree, and then onto the stones in the pond, lips pressed together as he moved through the path. It was rather strange, how new things refused to grow near the Loslikht. Ferle insisted that she needed to gather clippings from the Wood, but Matasi never had the chance to pay attention to just what she did specifically. He had to focus all of his energy on weaving the song through his Pipes to keep the Mists at bay even if he didn't know why.

  A shiver ran down his back and set all of his nerves alight as Matasi thought of the Mists. He jumped to the next stone, and then the next, and tried to bury the uneasy feeling that came to him. There was something not right about the Loslikht, beyond the Mists or the creeping, black Vines within. Something about it always felt weirdly unwelcoming and Matasi could never quite figure out why when the Grove itself was rather welcoming and comfortable a place to be. That isn't to say that the firkhi couldn't come across as unwelcoming, they really could given the way the religiously guarded the borders of the Grove and the Wood, but in his entire memory Matasi could not recall a single outsider near the border of the Grove.

  With one last jump Matasi landed on the small island near the far edge of the pond which housed two, large firkhi trees. Nimle and Hekla sat outside on the roots that curled up from beneath the ground, spindly fingers wrapped tightly around the sheathe of his blade and the halter of his pipes. They looked at him with large, unblinking eyes and needle like smiles on their faces. Matasi straightened immediately upon seeing them. Both of them regarded him for a long, long moment, and then they stood from their cross-legged seats. Nimle approached first. She hopped down from the roots of her tree and stepped right into Matasi's space, enough that Matasi edged backward just the slightest bit. She held the pipes out quietly, and Matasi stared at her back for a moment.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  After a second, Nimle shook them in Matasi's direction, and then said, "Well? Take them, foundling." Matasi reached out and clasped the pipes, but Nimle still held fast. In return he waited; he refused to try and pull them from her again. He still remembered the last time, the way the tree had bent and smacked him with a branch. He didn't need that again; the last bruise hurt enough. "Play them strong, play them sharp, and do not falter. You hear, foundling?"

  Matasi nodded his head and Nimle let go of the pipes. He quickly belted the harness into place and when he looked up it was to Hekla right before him, blade in hand. Matasi startled; the firkhi could move rather fast when they wanted to and it always made his heart race and his breath catch in his throat when they did so. He took half-a-second and not more to settle himself, and then reached out to grasp the blade in Hekla's grasp. She let out a sharp whistle of warning and before Matasi could even protest a branch of her tree smacked him across the back of his head. Matasi hissed through his teeth as Hekla said a sharp, "Did I tell you to take it, foundling?"

  "No," Matasi mumbled. He hoped to get out of this meeting without being bruised again, and with a hiss he rubbed at the growing knot on the back of his head. In return the branch waved between him and Hekla warningly before Hekla shoved the blade into Matasi's chest.

  "You will not need it, but hold it all the same," Hekla said sharply. "Do not point it at what you do not intend to injure, foundling, or on your head it will be."

  "Yes, Hekla," Matasi said, words barely audible. Hekla huffed and by the time Matasi blinked she had settled down next to Nimle. They both watched him, and with a quick wave he turned and raced back toward the rocks in the pond. His head throbbed annoyingly as he leapt across the stones, back into the path, and then took a sharp left toward the Loslikht.

----------------------------------------

  "How long are you going to spend looking through these dusty old tomes?"

  Tlila did not bother to look up from where she flipped a page of a book as long as she was tall. She read through the words quickly, before she turned to the next, and the next, and the next. From off to the side the clatter of bones accompanied the movement of Onkahu, who scrapped their nails along the stonework of the edge of the well. At their side were two pixie-kin, Alila and Stati, who were rather young by pixie-kin standards. They were the only pixie-kin who kept themselves out of firkhi business, and as such were mildly tolerable to Tlila. Except, of course, in this moment.

  "Tlila," Alila whined, and Tlila slammed the cover of the book shut with a huff as she turned to regard the other pixie-kin. "Stop ignoring me!"

  "I will take as long as I need to!" Tlila snapped out. She turned as Onkahu twisted and began to shake their head sharply with a rattle and clatter of the bone and stones woven into their hair and to the bone mask upon their face. Tlila stilled for a moment, watched as Alila and Stati drifted closer to Onkahu, before she sighed heavily and said a short, "Sorry."

  Slowly Onkahu signed, Forgiven, and then tilted their head to the side. Do you need another? they asked, hands and fingers and arms moved near in a blur with the words. Tlila ducked her head for a moment and then gestured up high on the shelf.

  "That one, please?"

  Onkahu nodded and scrambled around the edge of thornless vines; they gave them a wide birth as they moved to the old stonework shelves and the runic covered books and journals within. Carefully they clambered their way up to the higher shelf and grabbed at the thin tome that Tlila gestured to. It pried free easily enough, and with prize in hand Onkahu dropped back to the ground. They placed the thin book down atop the previous one and then retreated back with their head canted to the side as they watched Tlila. For a moment Tlila hovered over the cover; the book itself had no title. It was probably nothing more than a personal journal of some sort that came to rest in this place as an offering in history passed. That meant the words would not be easy to read, written in some personal script in a language nigh lost to the world. Tlila stared at it a moment long before finally she turned, hands upon her hips, and looked to Onkahu who stared at her, and then to the two pixie-kin at their side.

  "Alright, fine. What is it," Tlila demanded.

  Alila and Stati exchanged glances while Onkahu stayed very still with eyes that practically bored into Tlila. She tried to ignore the heavy gaze and focus instead on the two younger companions impatiently. It was Stati who floated closer, braver, and who decided to speak this time.

  "It's just...have you tried the Well?" Stati questioned, and then drifted back when Tlila huffed angrily. "I don't mean offense! I swear!"

  For a moment, a long moment, Tlila held on to the anger--and then she let it go with a heavy breath and a ruffle of her wings. She wrapped her arms about herself and glanced to the unnamed book, unable to look at Stati and Alila. She knew they only wanted to help even if they didn't understand Tlila's urgency in the situation. She knew they worried for her, even if they didn't understand what upset her so. Heavily Tlila gestured toward the Well in the center of the room, a deep bowel cut into the stonework that once bubbled and teamed with iridescent, shimmering water. Now it lay silent and dry.

  "There is no more of the Water," Tlila said heavily. "I checked there first, but...but we used the last of it a long, long time ago I am afraid." She could still remember that moment too, with stark and terrifying clarity. Vaankehi collapsed against the far wall, wrought with fever as the Black in their veins spread farther and farther through them. Tlila remembered crying, begging someone, anyone to save them. She remembered cursing, too, blaming the Gods for this, for what had been done to this place and to them. The Well had bubbled in her rage and grief, gave enough--the last--of its Waters to her, and she'd filled the smallest of a leaf cup with it and fed it to Vaankehi drop by precious drop. Their fever broke, and eventually they seemed almost whole--and then the Vines came for them and there was nothing Tlila could do about it, not as she was then and not even as she is now. Tlila clenched her fist and closed her eyes to the memory, the reminder of the failure that still burned within her.

  Onkahu signed something, but Tlila did not see it. She only knew they did so by the clattering of their beads and bone mask. After a second Stati translated while Tlila tried to rid the memory burned within her from her mind.

  "Not...all of it," Stati said slowly, and Tlila snapped her eyes open as she turned to look to the young pixie-kin.

  "What?" Her gaze darted from Stati to Onkahu who began to gesture at first slow, almost hesitant, and then with faster and faster frequency.

  It takes...a lot, but...there are drops. That come. I have found if I play the Well responds. Do you wish to see?

  Tlila stared for a long, long moment. "Play what?" she asked, voice near breathless, and Onkahu twisted their head back and forth until the beads nad bone practically mimicked laughter.

  The oldest of old! From before, before, where wood eats and forgetting comes. Do you wish to see?

  "Show her, show her!" Alila cheered, and Stati bobbed in place to encourage and with a twist of neck and shoulders that was Onkahu's attempt at a smile, they began to play.

  Tlila drifted to the floor as Onkahu twisted themself around, made a racket of bone and bead until it turned rhythmic and captivating. They slapped their hands against their thighs and stomped their feet into stone, shoved themselves backward until the beads struck the wall, then the ground, and then the mask. It was a writhing, dance of noise that became a percussion of sound and something that Tlila could not put to name. It felt like a rise of energy, a build up of some static thing in the air that raised the hair upon her head to stand upright. Tlila could feel something, the faintest of a metallic taste on the back of her mouth, enough that she rose into the air and felt--full. Too full, too bloated for a small body from it all and then--then Onkahu collapsed like a puppet with their strings cut, a loud clattter of bead on bone on stone as they dropped to the ground with nary even a breath for a long, long moment. Tlila drifted forward, worried for a moment, but then that chest rose and fell and their fingers twitched with the faint hint of life as their limbs trembled.

  "Tlila, look!" Alila called, and Tlila drew her gaze from Onkahu and the worry that gnawed at her--what happened, why were they collapsed like that, why did they seem pained from it all?--to follow where Alila pointed down deep into the basin. She felt her heart stall in her throat as she saw down at the bottom the smallest bit of Well Water, barely enough to be a sip. It bubbled, slowly, there. Above Onkahu twitched, and rolled themself over. Their palm slapped to the ground and Tlila turned to see them drag themselves to the edge of the Well by the tips of their fingers. They made no sound aside from the beads against their mask, against the ground, and the cloth that scrapped stone, or the palm that slapped flat to be used as force to pull them. They were silently as they leaned heavily over the lip, a small handmade waterskin in their grasp that they lowered down with one gangly limb. THe Well Water greedly flowed into the open cap, and then Onkahu dragged it up and twisted until the top closed before they offered the waterskin to Tlila.

  Onkahu sighed with exhausted limbs, For you, and held the waterskin aloft.

  "I--Onkahu I--" Tlila floundered for her words for once, unsure of what she just witnessed but only assured that whatever it was took its toll out of onkahu in some way. The unaging child had been here for as long as Tlila could remember, and she'd not once seen them like this, so still and quiet and flat. She was not sure if she wanted Well Water if it came with this cost, whatever this cost might be, and she hated how gorged she felt in the aftermath.

  "It's okay," Stati said, and he fluttered into Tlila's side to jolt her out of her thoughts. Tlila looked to him, hands twisted together. "Onkahu always recovers."

  "Yeah, give it time and they'll be fine!" Alila cheered. "So take it."

  For a moment Tlila felt tempted to reach out, but thens he looked at the waterskin and slowly shook her head. Tlila drifted up into the air, away from Onkahu as she said, "I can't," and did not elaborate further. She couldn't take it, not after all that she witnessed. "You...rest. Onkahu."

  Tlila turned, returned to the unopened journal, and pried the cover from the first page to read.

----------------------------------------

  It was hours before Onkahu twisted themself upright, eyes sudden bright behind their mask as they tilted their head. The beads clattered as they moved, as they focused into the sudden and sharp silence in the world. At their side Alila-dear and Stati-dear tumbled into wakefulness. The two had long drifted off into slumber as Onkahu recovered from how their limbs ached, the pain in the throat of their core as they worked through the draw that such a performance took from them. They could not recall why they had done so, only that Tlila-friend who-was-kind, who was big-small and small-big and wrong-wrong-wrong in so many ways was worried. They had a little worry and a big worry and it colored everything about them, in this place, in this moment, in their presence. They wanted to make it right somehow and the music seemed the right way of it even if they cannot recall why anymore.

  Onkahu cannot recall much these days. The Wood ate from even them, just longer and slower about it in the end. They blinked and stared out the eyeholes in their mask, breath heavy against their cheeks as they listened. They were still, as still as the air that even seemed to hold itself. After a second they slumped forward and clenched their fists when the silence remained. Upon either side of them they could hear Alila-dear and Stati-dear twitter.

  "Again?"

  "How many days has it been this time?"

  "Could have sworn he'd only been gone a day."

  Yes, Onkahu sighed, slowly and shaky with a tiredness that dragged upon them, forced them to blink and sway with ache-and-pain-and-sorrow. The silence rang hollow in the way that Onkahu had not registered before, that the music had played soft and sweet in the air like a poison that begged you, lured you in with kindness before the serpent would strike you where you stood. Onkahu shuddered heavily and got to their feet. Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy was back in the Wood, lost again in the Mists, and Onkahu could not fathom what it did to him to be here again, so soon after the last. They had guided the boy out of the wood not even a few days ago and, barely hours afterward they heard the music again. They had not thought that the little wooden-walkers would try again so soon, yet the silence, stalking-deepening-darkly told Onkahu otherwise.

  "Is something wrong?" Tlila-friend pulled herself from her book as Onkahu crawled onto their feet until they hovered over the ground, low-settled and fingers pressed just barely against the dust on the stones.

  "They brought him back," Alila-dear said sharply as Onkahu tilted their head and listened. Where, where, where? Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy must be somewhere, drifting lost and lonely. The confusion would taste sweet-bitter and sorrowful as the Wood ate and ate and ate like the greedy little thing it wasn't.

  "Who?" Tlila-friend demanded and Onkahu twisted their head the other direction as they narrowed their eyes. They drifted forward, slowly, swaying as they listened.

  "The foundling!" Stati-dear chimed in and Onkahu dug their fingers into the earth and breathed out slow. There. Sorrow-sweet like something almost familiar-and-forgotten from what had been taken-eaten by the Wood, a time-before and time-missing that always brought to mind Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy. Onkahu did not wait for Tlila-friend's response, they took off into a loping stride low to the ground out of the Well.

  With focus and twisting-sure feet they hopped Vines and ducked below Mists. They dragged their feet until it shuffle-stepped and whisper-hissed and edged the Mists away with the slightest bit of not-music after everything that Onkahu had done recently. They couldn't sing-dance-play like before, still wrung-out and thin-tired and drawn-tight beneath their skin. They couldn't truly play, but Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy could if they could remind them of it. Remind them of the little instrument at their hip that they have forgotten-lost again. They could play and dance and break the Mists away and Onkahu would drag them to safety-space and safety-peace and Tlila-friend because enough was enough and Onkahu was done. Onkahu was tired of listening to sweet-calls and whisper-lies and music-that-hurt ontly to turn to greedy-silence and starving-hunger-want.

  They did not notice the flutter at thier back as Stati-dear and Alila-dear raced after them, heavy-breathed from the speed at which Onkahu moved. They kept their singular focus on the aching-silence like a bleeding-stunted wound that called to them in desperation. The silence that tore them asunder once in memory-lost and forgotten and taken and aten. Onkahu twitched, a viscious movement that clattered their beads against their mask in a stacatto of sharp beats and the Mists responded, swirlded up into a fury as they whispered-wailed-wanted until they drifted up and away to reveal Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy huddled into the root of a tree with his arms wrapped around his head. For a moment Onkahu stilled, hovered over the teen as he shivered until the world went still. Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy raised his head with large eyes, seeking-seeing-searching-soul rending as they landed on Onkahu. The boy breathed, slow and steady, and calmed.

  Okay? Onkahu sighed with a clatter of noise. The Mists swirled away in an angry huff, and a Vine halted in its path along the ground. Onkahu stomped a foot and sent the thing skittering away beneath the earth and out of sight before they focused back on Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy. Distantly they heard Alila-dear repeat their words for the unwooden-teen who bore no fruit nor root nor wandered the world until he could wander no more. They waited, watched, as slowly Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy nodded his head.

  "Y-Yeah," Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy said hoarsely, and Onkahu's lips curled as their head shook from the rage of it, the knowledge that song-and-sorrow had played for days-and-days-and-hours until the voice had lost the sibalent, sweet-sounding timber that drew Onkahu forward as curious as something-no-longer-named. The Wood ate that, Onkahu thought, and shoved themself forward. Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy yelped, lively and living and Onkahu grinned beneath the mask and grinned in the way they shook themself from top to bottom. They pulled Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy upright and reached around him for the pipes he kept to his belt, ignored the way he let out a little faint squeak-like mouse-like small-like sound as Onkahu did so.

  With prize in hand Onkahu scrambled backward and watched as Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy swayed, swum, drifted in space for a moment before he reached out with grabbing needing wanting fingers and Onkahu shook themself again before they reached back with the pipes. Once Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy had pipes in hand Onkahu swiped their fingers and twisted around with a short, This way, and started to clamber their way low to the ground off into the mists.

  "W-Wait!" Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy stuttered, voice cracked at the end from overuse, and Onkahu paused enough to tilt their head and waited. A moment, then a soft, almost dazed, "Thank you," from the teen who then raised pipes to lips and played. The music eased an ache in their chest, and then shook themself happy before the gestured a sharp, Follow, and began to weave their way back into the Mists. They would not lead Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy back to the entrance this time, no. Onkahu was done with trusting the little walking-wooden-wandering things with this teen. They had seen the Wood eat and eat and feast upon this one for longer than memory lasted and they were done watching-waiting-wishing. Instead Onkahu decided quite abruptly that Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy could benefit from the Well and from Tlila-friend who surely knew where the teen belonged. It was not here, that was plain enough and sang of sorrow-bitter touch-hungry pain.

  Tlila-friend would know, Onkahu decided, and they could not wait to see what twisting-changing-singing the two would make with each other. Perhaps Matas-Vharon-Matasi-boy could aide Tlila-friend in her heavy-pain and aching-hurts that Onkahu could do no more for. Onkahu had done what they could now, the rest was on these moving-breathing-living things that were stagnant Wood-food like Onkahu.