He knelt on the ground and felt the soil breathing. It was a hesitant feeling, a quiet one. This soil had been dead not long ago, but now life was blossoming again. His hands dug into it. The earth crunched beneath and between his fingers; it was a ticklish feeling.

The soil had been dead not long ago, now life was blossoming again, he dug his hands into the nHe concentrated, ignoring the shivers and droplets of sweat running down his body.

Outsiders would never understand. They couldn't feel. Some of them expected incantations, sacrifices, rituals. Superstitious nonsense. The reality was easier and all the harder at the same time. Spectacles were unnecessary; it was simply natural. He felt, no he saw all the bugs and worms and spiders and lifeforms so small nobody had bothered to name them yet. He had spent days finding them and leading them towards the village's soil and now he could see them. They made his fingertips tickle, his toes hum with a melody. The sign that they accepted the place he was humbly indicating, that it was good enough. His work was nearly done.

He took a deep breath and started weaving. As tight as he could, he wove the life he brought into the soil. Everything alive was made of threats. Threats of magic, thinly, finely woven. People like him could feel them, work with them. Outsiders thought of it as manipulation, condemned them until they needed them. Shortsighted creatures they were. But people like him could not truly hate them for that. If the unity lay at one’s fingertips it got hard to hate.

He felt a sharp pain in his hands, toes, knees whenever he lost a life. Weaving was a delicate art, best done with a clear mind. It took him a bit longer than usual to fulfill his task. After he was done, he opened his eyes. The ground was now covered in grass, covered in flowers, covered even in a few bushes. And the buzzing life was already calling to more of it.

He stood up and turned to face the men behind him. The earth on his fingers encouraged him. Life, still life. He could feel it.

Their armor was dark red and dead. Too clean and so poisonous.

He held his hands up, palms upwards to them. "I kept my end of the bargain", he said. There was an edge to his voice, a slight hissing that betrayed the unfamiliarity of their tongue. Human languages were hard to grasp.

"Silence, Monster" one of them cut him off.

That was not nice. Moska’s feathers fluffed. He would have tried to flatten them hadn’t it been for the dirt on his palms. Humans were easily provoked by other creatures’ body language. "I did what you asked me to do", he said again and looked at the human who had spoken.

The men shivered as if they were of one mind. "I said shut up!”, the one said. He sounded scared and Moska knew perfectly well why. Another, a bit taller, with yellow hair and a pink face, stepped forwards. Sword at the ready, he looked Moska in the eye and smiled. It was an ugly smile. His straight teeth were almost as yellow as his hair. "We don't know where they are", he said.

Moska growled. He made a step towards the human, his dirty hands clenched. But he could not... he could not feel the men. None of them. They were escaping him. Worse. Their essence was shielded from him; he could not reach for their threats. He reached not into emptiness but a wall. That was worse. This had been a trap. A perfectly set up trap. He wanted to run but to where?

The impact sent him staggering backward; he could not see the shooter. He was too stunned to care. The arrow in his chest was close to his lung, he felt it. No pain, though. The shock took care of that. And instinct let him stay where he was; focussing his attention inwards. Healing first.

It took another second for him to run. He stumped over the land he had encouraged to live. Only seeing the forest in his mind’s eye. The only place he had left to go.

More impacts.

No pain. Less and less attention.

Foot in front of foot, root, stumbling, falling... Dirt.

He felt the soil breathing. His own breath was hesitant now. Quiet.

It had all been for nothing.

They hadn't known.

All for nothing.

Everything he’d done. He let it go. The breathing. He let it go.

Moska did not feel the butterfly landing on his nose.

Pain exploded in his forehead, and the scene vanished. He cursed as the world began to swim in front of his eyes.

"Kirdain?"

’Atela?’

'Yes?'

"Can you hear me?"

'Have you…?'

"Kirdain?"

'Yes.'

'Oh shit.'

‘What do we do?'

“Kirdain?! Talk to me!"

'Tell Telassi.’

Whack.

“Ow!”

He blinked a new wave of tears away and this time, he saw his actual surroundings. He sat on wooden floorboards, held his face with one hand, objects scattered around him. They turned out to be shoes upon closer inspection. Shoes he had knocked from a table. And one pair of very finely made shoes, with feet and legs and a whole person inside them.

Barba's expression was somewhere between worried and annoyed. "Sand and snakes, what was that Kirdain?", she asked.

"What was... Oh shit!" He got to his feet. His sister extended a hand to help, a hand he needed to keep his balance. "I just... I saw..." 'The call was genuine. We are closest' “… I have to go. We have to go", he ended his sentence inelegantly.

"What? What are you talking about? You acted as if you had a seizure or something, you will not.."

"Listen", he said, letting go of her hand. Trying his best to make sense. "I got a call... mental call, I need to help someone." He turned away, stopped when something caught his eye. “You’re hurt.”

"What?" Irritation bled from her voice. She followed his gaze to her hand, then looked at him pointedly. "Kirdain. This is your blood."

" ... oh", he said. "Well, in that case." He turned around, the feeling of unfinished business in his steps, and left.

He needed to be quick now.

His bag was at his side, so were his daggers but he had left sword and armor at the Blacksmith's house this morning. While he was used to wearing the leather gauntlets and armor over everyday clothing he didn't need to and it made him stand out less. Leaving his sword put the guards at ease.

Now, on the opposite end of town with precious little time to spare, the carelessness was painfully obvious. He reached for Atela without slowing down. 'Where are you?'

'Northern gate. Where are you?'

'On my way to the Blacksmith's home.’

'No time for that.'

'I have no armor. No sword.'

'Still.'

'But - '

'Kirdain, it's urgent.’ There was no way for her to have missed his annoyance but her urgency was the stronger feeling. It boiled in his blood and made him turn around and go back.

He separated his mind from Atela’s, didn’t stop but slowed down, and conjured a new layer of skin over his wound. It itched and raised his eyebrow in an unpleasant, tight way. Still, it was better than having an open, bloody gash on the forehead.

He wiped the last bit of blood off from his hands and onto his pants when he crossed the threshold of the northern gates.

Since the northern stables were the fancier ones — they had been built to host the Elves’ mules and donkeys and the few horses their riders might bring — and were always kept to these high standards, Atela had chosen to stay here whenever she needed a break from bipedals.

Her saddle was here, too. Kirdain saw it sitting next to her.

With proximity came a new wave of restlessness and he increased his speed without really noticing it. Her hooves had messed up the ground already.

When their eyes met, she snickered.

’What?’ he asked without a pause. He grabbed the saddle and fastened it around her belly.

’You messed up your skin’, she said.

’That bad?’

’It stands out.’

Kirdain grimaced. Having an ill-colored patch of skin was not deadly but if Atela with her very limited sense of color could see it, then how bad was it really?

Saddle in place, he mounted Atela.

'Ideas?'

'He ran towards the forest. And that armor…’ she trailed off.

'Wreorgian', Kirdain finished.

‘Yeah.' Atela said.

‘Through the mountains?’

‘No. Let go of your self, Kirdain.’ She began to run.

He bit his tongue. Slowly, he pushed through the barriers around his self and entered the space they could occupy together. While he had been conscious of her movements all the time, he could now feel her muscles moving, her hooves meeting the ground. He felt his own weight on her back, he saw both of their visions combined. And the deeper he went, the harder it was to tell the difference.

In a corner of their shared soul, they knew that this should come easier to them. They were Twospirits. Born to be one. Yet their minds still fought it. And what others described as the ultimate peace, they found disquieting.

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They liked to be connected, to feel the other but joining into one being was just strange. Memories the other wasn’t invited into, emotions, truths they hid from themselves. All these things tended to surface whenever they linked like this. Over the years, they had learned to not go poking around and to trust each other enough to not actively hide things. They had yet to discover something against that feeling of vulnerability.

While increasing their speed, they shifted their mind to more urgent matters. Magic flew between, among, around them. Enhancing speed and stamina.

They were headed towards the Wreorgian dependency and would hopefully arrive there in two hours.

They were looking for a male Moska, an ongai.

This male Moska was a witch.

Hopefully not a dead witch.

There was more to consider, and while a part of Atela’s subconsciousness concerned itself with the physical act of running in the mountains' shadows, they piled up what they knew about Ongai health care.

They had never healed an Ongai. The Moska’s magic would keep him alive until he ran out of strength. They could close the wounds and enhance the strength. Help the body to repair the damage. But if the ongai had been poisoned, there was little they could do without the right antidote.

Two hours later, Kirdain found himself back in his own body, the boundaries around his self sturdily in place. His stomach ached, and he felt pressure at the lower part of his throat. Cold sweat glistened on his brow.

The red afternoon sun touched the protector hood. Wreorg was a flat patch of land, nestled up against the feet of the Gold Peaks. The slumbering volcano — Marsha Larga — had brought fertility to the region. Small villages and lonely farms were everywhere. Small patches of heaven for those who weren’t allowed to live inside the city.

He could skip the farms but even searching every village would be a waste of precious time. He needed to find the ongai, and do so quickly. At the outskirts of the first village, he saw pigs and goats but no indication of larger fields.

Atela turned away. He, against his instincts, closed his eyes. He unclenched his jaw, rotated his shoulders and neck. He felt his joints creak and a tenseness he hadn’t been aware of, left his body. He exhaled, and with his breath, the world got smaller, scaled-down more and more.

Then, he began to search.

Human minds didn’t buzz with life. They were too troubled and complex. Animals did that and plants. Human minds felt like warm fires in the distance. He felt many of those and touched them only lightly. A fast series of impressions to guide him through this search. Atela’s mind was close to his, ready to pull him back should something hurt him.

A butcher, the pig's terror. A crack and a crying child. A widow. A lover, creaking of a bed frame. Hands working grounds, feet on a barely used track. Secrecy. He focussed on that, followed the mind. Dark intentions, murder. Hunger. Kirdain left that mind when the traveler came in sight. Nothing he could do now. He would find the highwayman later. The traveler’s fear, terror, and pain hurt, and he spurted away.

He turned towards something else. A feeling too intoxicating to even question it. All his senses prickled with a buzzing, he followed it. He was so eager to witness this odd celebration of first life, that he didn’t notice how far behind Atela and his own body fell.

Bees and flowers and leaves smiled at him, worms in the ground, even a mole he could feel. Life, so much life in the winter. Winter was dull, but here, here it was spring already. He walked through this daydream, inhaling it, letting his mind flow open and unrestrained, he feasted with the bees on the energy in the air.

And then, he touched the Ongai. Pain, sheer, mortal pain swallowed him like a serpent swallowed a mouse. He felt his body gasping, Atela grasping him, hurling him back into his body, away from the pain. But it followed. He could feel the pain scratching on his mind's walls like a Urduki scratched on childrens' windows at night. Then, as if nothing had happened, it vanished.

‘Are you okay?', Atela asked.

'Yes.’ He felt her reassuring touch at the edge of his consciousness.

Still, he missed the weight of his sword at his side.

They found the Ongai hidden between bushes at the edge of a field full of spring flowers and bushes.

The Ongai was tall, like all members of his species. His body was covered in bronze-blue-silvery scales. they were tiny. He had no hair but blue, green, and brown feathers covered his head. They hid his holes for hearing and indicated his gender. A female would have horns. Two big teeth, like boar’s tusks, split his lower lip.

His eyes were closed. His simple, brown tunic was ripped and soiled, probably from being dragged through the dirt. Kirdain saw green liquid, the Ongai's blood, oozing out of several wounds on the torso. He knelt beside him for closer inspection.

Those bastards had removed the arrow shafts without the heads. Already skin started to enclose them. Removing them wouldn’t be the problem. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t done significant damage, or the damage had already been healed. Even with his very limited knowledge about Ongaian physique, he could heal that person. The problem was the poison. It was a slow one, slow but lethal. And he had no antidote for it. His mind alone wasn’t enough to neutralize it. Renor could have done it, but Kirdain’s old master was far away in Nahandrain.

He had no cleaning alcohol and no idea how to create the stuff, so a heated blade was his best option.

He would remove the arrowheads with the other one and his fingers, then he’d close the wounds with the heated one. He nodded to himself. Good plan. When the fire was done, he cut the thin layer of skin around the first arrowhead open. More green blood oozed out. The ongai groaned softly. Kirdain pushed and cut more tissue until he could move the arrowhead around a bit. He dug into the wound with his fingers. The flesh was warm, squishy and sticky, and easily pushed aside. He got a good hold on the arrowhead before lifting it out. It made a wet, squishing, disgusting sound when he removed it from the wound.

Three times, he repeated the procedure. He could and dug and pulled until he had all of the arrowheads on this side. Two were on the back.

Before he could turn the ongai around, he needed to seal the wounds. The blade was hot enough by now, and he pressed the metal on the flesh. It hissed, a small cloud of blood and steam evaporated, it stank and the ongai screamed a bit. This too, he had to do three times. But he put a piece of wood into the ongai’s mouth to protect his tongue.

Then the same procedure on the back. Finally, at one point, he was done. He was full of blood, his hands shook, his both daggers were bloody as if he had murdered someone.

‘That looked professional’, Atela said.

He managed to turn away from his patient before he threw up.

He did not stop shaking, afterward. He cleaned his mouth and hands with water and grass, got a bit of water into the ongai as well. But he didn’t stop shaking.

‘What now?’ Atela asked.

Kirdain shrugged. He didn’t know about any covens or lone witches out here. Nor any contacts they could ask for help.

‘You decide,' he said.

'We bring him to the forest.'

The White Forest was the ongai’s place of origin, and a lot of them still lived there. Kirdain wasn’t sure how the ongai regarded witches. They would find out about that the hard way.

‘It's closest. We can make it by nightfall.'

Kirdain gazed at the sky. Two, maybe three hours of sunlight left. 'Not nightfall’, he said. ‘The moon will be highest when we are there.’

‘Still fastest, especially if we link again.’ She didn’t sound eager but she was right. ‘What about him?’ She asked.

‘I got this,' Kirdain said.

He closed his eyes and reached for their bond and the magic contained within it. In his mind, he took a long piece of wood and enveloped it in wool and feathers. He attached it to a wooden frame, added four small wheels to each side of it, and one long piece of leather that was put around all four of these wheels. At last, he added rope and sticks to link the construct to Atela’s saddle.

His head ached when he was done. He rubbed his eyes. The construct looked steadfast enough. Who would have thought that learning how to make good shoes would come in so handy one day? He could stop and make minor repairs along the way if he had to. Atela looked at the sled doubtfully.

‘I hate these things,' she said.

Kirdain petted her coat. He wasn’t really fond of them, either. It was a last resort because they could not bind the Ongai on Atela’s back. He could, however, with some extended effort, put the body on the sled, secure him with some rope, and then add everything to the saddle. Tying a working knot took a while. His vision swam and the cold air made his fingers stiff.

He felt the burn in his shoulders when he pulled himself in the saddle, and for a second, he just lay there, face pressed close to Atela’s warm crest. She didn’t mind.

Linking was always easier when he was tired. He gave himself to the unity Atela’s open mind could provide, and was swept away by it like a leaf by the force of an ocean.