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Night falls over the woods like a blanket shaken out over a bed, drooping down over the straight brown trunks and leaves fluttering to the ground every now and then. The flowers ringing the Speaking Tree lift their heads and bloom, reflecting the full moon on their soft white petals; pollen is released in silent puffs and floats around the clearing the Speaking Tree occupies. It looks like a dream, with powdered diamonds in the air and clean shafts of moonlight cutting through the air and pressing magic into the pollen they hit.
Perhaps this is why, when the six-year-old girl stumbles into the clearing with sore feet and her white dress sprouting patches of green and an appropriately terrified fox, she does not question it. She only makes the mistake of stepping into the moonlight, and then breathing the pollen (the latter isn’t her fault, really, the trees whisper later, do you think we would expect so much of a mere sapling?).
She drops to the ground gracelessly. The fox screams. Something stirs in the air, and to an onlooker, there would be a sense of something waking up, something watching and measuring, and then the branches of the Speaking Tree would move without wind nudging them. But this hypothetical onlooker would statistically be a n’heisserfan, and would therefore have shit their pants in terror and run away when the sun set and the flowers bloomed. So we won’t look at this from their point of view.
Instead, the Speaking Tree awakens, and stretches (as trees do after dozing for decades) and asks the flowers what happened. The flowers turn away from the shafts of moonlight for the briefest of moments — we do not know, we saw the sapling step into a refreshing beam of moonlight and then she dropped to the ground like someone had yanked her roots away — and they turn back to the shafts of moonlight, stretching a bit further to douse their petals. Some of them cough out more pollen.
The Speaking Tree peers a little closer at the girl. It has only a vague idea of what human growth stages are; the flowers are more informed because they wake more frequently. If they say the girl is young, the girl is young. But she is much smaller than the average human; the Speaking Tree does know that young are supposed to be fed well, and be plump and healthy and grow a little more everyday. The girl’s limbs have no strength in them, they are thin as dead sticks and the Speaking Tree worries. Oh, how it worries.
It tries to swat at the vines crawling over it before remembering it can simply grow them away, and does so. They slither off its branches and drop to the floor, some of them landing on flowers.
The damaged blossoms squawk with outrage, but then begin to eat away at the vines. The Speaking Tree wants to set the girl upright, but doesn’t know how. Then it remembers the vines and retracts them, or tries to; they flop about, drawing more attention from the flowers.
The flowers sway irritably, but the Speaking Tree has the barest inkling of an idea. It attempts to withdraw its vines, and the flowers retaliate by swatting at the vines with their leaves. It stings, and the Speaking Tree rumbles, quieting the flowers. It tugs at the vines again, and they finally listen, pulled free of the numbing flowers.
I won’t bother you anymore, the Speaking Tree soothes, and the flowers are mollified. They stop shaking in outrage, halting the drift of petals to the forest floor and settling the pollen floating around them. The Speaking Tree concentrates, and the vines begin to lengthen, slithering between the patches of flowers to reach the girl and straighten her so her body rests in a more comfortable looking way. It turns her face to the sky, hoping that her face will catch sunlight later, and prods at the green patches on her dress questioningly. They turn out to be moss, and it wonders at the patches growing so quickly.
Does she not have anyone to watch over her? The fox is long gone, vanishing when it wasn’t paying attention. Well, no matter, the Speaking Tree decides; after all, the flowers will not mind the company, and who will watch over the young sapling? It drapes the vines over her for it knows that humans feel cold, especially when it is dark, and lets the girl take a little of its energy. It doesn’t mind, not when there’s so much it feels as if it might wither away sometimes. The young girl will hopefully grow strong and healthy while she is asleep, and awaken someday to take sustenance properly.
(And here is what the Speaking Tree doesn’t know: the girl has been here before, and she has survived, and she went back to a life of pain and fear. But they always return to the woods.)
Then there is thunder somewhere in the direction of the dragon, and uneasiness crawls along the Speaking Tree’s roots and up its branches. It asks the flowers when the moonlight came and they turn to it, irritated.
You have been disturbing us more since the girl came, they accuse it. We should eat the girl.
The Speaking Tree disapproves, and it lets the flowers know. They wilt a little, chastened, and a flower says grudgingly, It came all of a sudden, like it did when —
The Speaking Tree feels realization sweep through the flowers, and they break out into excited whispers all at once: tokens dawn falling sun no sunset for another few months? don’t be absurd no one allows that we should drink as much as possible tonight more tokens? the girl wears moonlight, if only she’d fallen a little closer —
The last thought prompts a sharp, reflexive wave of disapproval and the flowers freeze. The Speaking Tree takes the moment of silence to extend its branches further, tasting the air through its leaves. Ozone, meaning storms and lightning. A far-off keening, undoubtedly the dragon. Faint vibrations that mean cracking ice: the waterfall is beginning to melt.
Things are changing.
The Speaking Tree shivers, and tells the flowers at the base of its trunk: Wake the others up. Wake them up now.
The flowers frown but comply. They turn to their neighbours and brush petal against petal: Wake up. The order ripples outward through the flowers, through the grass, through the colony of ants at the very edge of the clearing, and to the brave tree that grows the closest to this clearing.
The tree shakes herself awake and stretches, leaves drowsily tasting the air to find ozone and cracking ice and keening dragon. She snaps upright, shaken, and a bird dozing in her branches calls in alarm; she settles herself and tastes the air again to wonder if it’s a dream, and once again finds ozone and cracking ice and keening dragon.
And then she sees the girl encased in vines, and all else is forgotten in her haste to poke the other trees awake and scream of CHANGE CHANGE CHANGE CHANGE CHANGE.
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Let me make one thing clear.
To wish Lucia Whitberg’s fate on anyone else is cruel, and it is so heartbreakingly sad to those who have experienced it that they will not be able to do much else than sit and cry until their breath grows short and happiness is a distant memory.
Now, the Speaking Tree has grown just a little more, with hardier wood and five or six more leaves, in the five years since the girl came to the clearing. It understands the passage of time a little better now that it sleeps less and focuses on keeping the girl healthy. When it does sleep, it sees flashes of her memory and her existence before: sometimes the fox is there, sometimes it is not.
It seems to be three main moments, as far as the Speaking Tree can tell: one, a dark figure looming over her and flashes of pain that make the Tree writhe in sympathy. Two, a boy’s face caught in a laugh and the word “marbles” escaping his mouth, hanging frozen in the air. A crystallized bit of happiness the girl seems to console herself with in the dreams. And three . . .
And three is a flurry of fear and sorrow and uncertainty, and the girl creeping into a place full of things that would have killed her without a second thought (though she didn’t know that, the poor sapling, how could she have known that? the woods ask urgently. We now know her to be one of our own anyway, don’t we?) with a single intent: find Jacob. The fox is in this one, nosing at her hand and pressing up close to her.
Sorrow droops the branches of the Speaking Tree when it thinks too long about the girl: nobody comes searching for her. No other person (for she is not a tree and cannot use the broken curiosity of the other trees as a substitute for one of her own kind) sees her in those five long years. The sun doesn’t fall for a while again, and the flowers at the base of the tree begin getting used to the girl’s presence.
Sharp sounds echo through the clearing; after a moment, the Speaking Tree understands them as words. It has been too long since it has heard Fatum languages.
“Stupid branches!” snaps a hoarse voice. “Getting in my way all the damn time, I can’t even walk for two seconds before getting stabbed by something, oh wait I’m not supposed to wake the baby but who cares anymore? She’s sleeping as soundly as a baby — wait, shit, that doesn’t make sense. I have been talking to myself for far too long. I hate this — oh.”
Another girl stumbles into the clearing, cradling an even smaller something in her arms. A baby. The bigger girl doesn’t look much older than the girl in the vines; somehow, the Speaking Tree knows that the first girl is not growing as fast as she should.
(Here is something else the Speaking Tree doesn’t know: the second girl came here once, for the promise of freedom and greenery and lack of smoke burning her lungs, and she left for the promise of family. But promises can be broken, and they always return to the woods.)
She peers up at the Speaking Tree, and then squints at the flowers ringing it (the sun shines and so they droop, downy white petals overlapping between flowers and flowers themselves leaning heavily into each other). Then her gaze falls on the mound the Tree has so thoughtfully crafted for the girl and her mouth falls open. “You’re dead!”
The Tree wonders why the second girl says so to the first if she is expecting a response.
Almost on cue, the second girl sighs. “No, you’re breathing. I can see the vines moving. Are you sleeping? Wait, you can’t answer me if you’re sleeping.” She moves forward to the vines, and the Tree alarms. It flexes its vines threateningly; the second girl seems to realize it is a threat and backs off.
“Of course, Lucy,” she snaps to no one. “Walk into a forest full of dangerous things, and walk into that forest with your baby sister, and touch the first person-like thing you see. Could you get any stupider?”
The Tree wonders at her anger. What did she do to deserve the ire she heaps upon herself?
“Wait,” the second girl — Lucy — says, horrified. “You’re eight.”
Is that very small? It prods at the flowers at the base of its trunk; they reply drowsily that is very small, but that is bigger than when your girl fell and the Tree snaps she is not my girl but the flowers are already asleep.
“You are,” Lucy says when there is no response. She is still horrified, and the Tree wishes desperately that Lucy could hear him so it could ask her whether that is very young. She approaches the girl again, seemingly unable to help herself; the Tree lets her.
She shifts the baby to lie over her shoulder and rests a thin hand on the vine trailing over the girl’s shoulder. “You may not be six, exactly, but you are very small,” Lucy says. She seems to be under the impression that the girl will eventually wake up and answer her. Her red hair is the colour of poppies in the sunlight; she tilts her head consideringly and her hair shifts to reveal pointed ears.
The Speaking Tree flares its branches in surprise. Lucy’s head snaps up at the movement, clutching the baby tighter. She stares at the Speaking Tree; it stills and waits for her to turn her attention back to the girl.
The beams of sunlight have slanted considerably by the time she finally turns her gaze away from the Tree and back to the girl. The Tree looks hard — and yes, the baby she is holding has tiny pointed ears. She turns her head suddenly to peer into the trees, narrowing eyes the colour of mature saplings, and the Tree sees the line of flower buds growing down the side of her head. Around her, the grass stands upright.
Then she relaxes and turns to the girl; after a moment, she sits down, shifting to lean on the vines and clasping the still-sleeping baby to herself. Then she begins to talk in a low, sad voice.
The Tree stands still and listens as Lucy talks about running away from home at six (and marvels at the courage it took for a sapling to uproot itself so thoroughly). It listens as Lucy describes being able to work plants with her hands and living on scraps for six years (and suppresses a flinch at the very notion of hunger so thorough). It listens, ever more pain lodging in its branches as she describes, with a broken voice, grabbing her sister from a painful home and telling her to wait and turning around to get her brother, and seeing the house go up in flames (and the Tree cannot hold back a quiver of its branches. Lucy doesn’t notice).
Another one who is more pain than sustenance. The Speaking Tree stretches out its branches towards the nearest tree, the brave one. Liara. She is to be given food and shelter, it tells her. Lead her to the iron gate in the east, far away from the dragon.
She grumbles but passes the message on.
The Speaking Tree decides to figure out how to communicate with Lucy later. It watches, as Lucy wipes her eyes, the flower buds on the side of her head fluttering in the breeze. “My brother is the same age as you — ” She freezes, and the Speaking Tree quivers again, unable to help itself. “Was,” she says brokenly. “Was the same age as you.”
The Tree does not move for a long time, but pushes as much energy as possible as slowly as possible through its vines to Lucy, who is leaning on the vines, and to the baby she is cradling. The sunlight slants, slants, and the Speaking Tree imagines Lucy breathing in the pollen of the flowers that ring its base, and thinks of another girl to watch over and keep safe, and goes as still as possible to keep her sleeping.
It does not work, and the Tree has to work to keep still when Lucy glances up to see the fading sun and blinks. “Oh, it’s going to be dark.” She stands and explains to the girl (and by now the Tree is certain Lucy is slightly insane; why else would she talk to the girl and wait for her to wake up? People don’t need more than one person to talk to and keep company, same as trees), “I would stay, but the flowers near that big tree are moonflowers. That’s probably what got you.” Lucy looks sad. “I’ll come back tomorrow, though.” A pause. “Are you comfortable?”
There is no response. The Tree tries not to feel irritated that Lucy still expects a response.
“I’ll build you a coffin,” the second girl announces suddenly and the Tree’s leaves flutter in surprise. “I’ll build you the prettiest coffin ever, even though you aren’t really dead, and you’ll like it a lot. There’s this tree that has wood of all colours; I’ll get some wood from that and make the coffin with it so that your favourite colour will definitely be there.” She pauses and seems to laugh a little. “What am I doing?”
The baby in her arms finally, finally stirs. Lucy’s face lights up. “Hey, Adri.” She nuzzles the baby’s nose, and giggles when the baby smiles and reaches for her. The flowerbuds on the side of her head burst open, and the ground around her feet turns greener. Moss, no doubt. These faerie types favour symbiosis — balance.
She props the baby up on her hip. “I told you I just needed a few hours of rest. I feel like I could run for an entire day.” She gestures to the girl in the vines. “Adri, say goodbye!”
The baby chirps out “Goodbye!” obligingly, and Lucy smiles so brightly the sun setting doesn’t matter. The flowers down the side of her head flutter open and closed rapidly.
“Let’s go, then.” She bumps her nose against the baby’s once more, before heading straight for Liara. She squints up at the smooth, straight trunk.
Liara extends her branches towards the eastern part of the forest, where the iron gate is. The trees beyond mirror her, creating an archway for Lucy to walk under with her sister.
Lucy’s sapling green eyes are still narrowed. She steps forward, out of the clearing, and a hush races through the trees bent over the pathway. Faerie, faerie, faerie, they chant. Look at her eyes, look at her ears, look at her hair, look at what she cradles in her arms.
Lucy’s ears prick, and she looks as if she would hesitate longer.
Then the sun sinks a little further and the night grows a little darker, and the rush and rustle of moonflowers beginning to lift their heads propels her out of the clearing and into the forest.
The Speaking Tree wonders at the girl in the vines stirring in Lucy’s absence.
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Ravenshook is a peculiar town.
Oh, it isn’t peculiar in the way it is a town; it functions just fine with people running around with buildings and a school and several shops and most recently, a small business. The small business grew a little—not enough to put it on n’heisserfan maps, but enough to attract bigger businesses in secret.
On heisserfan maps—most notably ones made or purchased by Sevignian scientists, theorists, and magusologists—Ravenshook is a question mark. A red question mark. A red question mark that is circled in not one, not two, but five different colours.
Names have power, you see. Names have power, and to veer from a fate that has been laid out for you is very strange. The town is named after a roost of ravens who, for three thousand years, faithfully avoided one corner of a road; now, it is smoke and steel and grey stinging your eyes everywhere you look. Now the ravens perch on dead trees and examine you as you shuffle down the street.
Now it is no place for faeries.
The boy flinches from fire.
That is unfortunate; in this town of steel and grey stinging smoke, fire is important. Fire begins and ends; fire purifies.
He hears the last statement often; he hears it as he ducks under doorways and is greeted with a faceful of burning faerie-repellent. He hears it while concealing winces as people casually pluck pansies and toss them into smouldering baskets. He hears it in his dreams as his parents hiss, drawing closer to him with hate burning in their eyes and lit torches for hands. He hears it ringing in his ears as he walks down the street and his eyes sting for the lack of green, and his hands twitch to charm flowers from ugly brick walls.
He thinks of burning the town to ashes sometimes.
The Speaking Tree longs to communicate with the girl it keeps close. She is growing still, but she hasn’t spoken to another person in some time, and the Tree worries. Lucy visits her often, and the Tree watches her grow up and change: she gets taller, the flowers in her hair blooming more often. She begins wearing her hair tied back, baring her pointed ears, and walks with a surer stride. She brings her sister, who is also growing up fast and often clad in moss-stained clothes. At some point in the years past, she did make the girl in the vines a coffin: a lovely thing made of rainbow eucalyptus wood and delicate glass. The Speaking Tree was reluctant to withdraw its vines, but the coffin was a gift and to refuse a faerie gift is impolite. Even the Tree knows that.
It is a lazy evening when the Speaking Tree stretches and reaches out to taste the air, and taste smoke and burning things and the faint crackle of lightning. A storm. Probably set some poor tree on fire. The flowers rise later than usual these days — the Tree vaguely remembers why. Something about seasons and shortened nights. They won’t stir properly tonight, anyway, not with a storm blocking the moon.
The house is burning. His parents scream angrily. The house burns faster.
The boy runs.
Ravenshook is a grey and ugly place and the boy cannot ever breathe there, so he follows his nose, follows the scent of green and the faint tang of iron to the woods bordering the town. Nobody goes there, especially the elders, because they were there when the woods sprung out of nowhere and settled down next to Ravenshook. The boy thinks that’s why the town is so aggressively industrial and he wants to hate the woods for it, but he can’t. Not when that is the only place he can breathe freely.
He wants, he wants, he wants. He wants to find his sister, who abandoned him years ago during the first fire and took their sister instead (he doesn’t blame her, what good is he?). He wants to go home. He wants to be safe—
There is a faint buzzing in the air, and the boy is suddenly aware of the trees whispering above him, soft green leaves swaying in the air. There is the customary cacophony of calling birds, like clockwork as the sunset approaches. There is even, if he strains to hear it, a bubbling creek.
There is no longer the smell of smoke in the air. He turns around; the rain is coming down in torrents outside the woods, but seems to keep clear of the strange whispering trees above him. Ravenshook has disappeared into the mist, and the boy feels like he is floating, untethered to his life. These are old and familiar woods, for he stumbled in once as a child. He will find his way around.
What does he have left?
He steps further into the woods, heart hammering, and nearly trips when someone says, HELLO?
“What?” he calls out, shaking. “Who’s there?”
The trees rustle in surprise (how the fuck does he know what they were feeling?) and there is another whisper. Did he hear us?
The boy stares up into the branches above him. “Me?”
The trees rustle excitedly and okay, so the boy can hear trees speaking now. It’s not like his life wasn’t strange before and what does he know about normal, anyway? And he can also sense their emotions, apparently.
There is a cacophony of voices, all trying to talk to him at once, and the boy sits down, legs giving out. The voices stop, and he senses the trees peering at him worriedly.
Is he dead? inquires one.
Maskinn, warns another.
I’m sorry, Maskinn says petulantly. He sat down. He’s had a long day. I’ve never seen a dead human before.
“I’m not,” the boy says hoarsely.
He can feel the attention on him. Dead? asks the second tree after a long moment.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“Human," the boy clarifies. He has always known this, clung to this truth among the whirlwind of his grey life. Whatever he is, he is not human.
There is a rustle of intrigue among the trees. They take a moment to consider this—he can feel them deliberating, and it’s both intriguing and invasive at the same time.
Where do you grow? Maskinn offers, apparently trying to be nice and only baffling him.
“Where do I grow?” the boy echoes. A flutter ripples through Maskinn’s leaves in what is probably the arboreal version of a nod. The boy sits there, gazing up into dark green leaves and trying to figure out how to explain that humans don’t put down roots — wait. Oh. Maskinn is asking him where he lives.
He gets to his feet cautiously now that the trees aren’t bombarding him questions. “Nowhere.”
Humans don’t put down roots anywhere? the second tree asks curiously. It’s nice to know he was spot on with translating tree-speak.
“Lots of humans do.” The boy shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere to go, so I guess I’ll just wander these woods until I die.” It’s hard to believe he might, though, when every breath he takes here fills him with energy and smoke doesn’t sting his eyes.
What he said was fact, and he stated it as such, so he doesn’t understand the horror that flashes through the trees. No! Maskinn says urgently. Don’t die. We like you.
The boy shrugs, but their concern is touching. “I don’t think I am in any position to control it, but thanks for your concern, I guess.”
There is a pause. I’m Verda, the second tree says and her introduction unlocks a flood of overlapping voices: Iacom and Skarvis and Kenass and Beryl and Sericea and Mirth and Chloe and Roscoe—
Ease up on him, Maskinn scolds and the boy feels the cool firmness of the forest floor on his elbows, and realizes he’s been knocked on his back by the flood of voices.
“I’m okay,” he rasps out and the trees radiate disbelief. But they don’t press it anymore, and the boy is surprised to find he can identify each one of them as he feels the place out mentally.
He gets to his feet. “I really am okay. Just, maybe, don’t speak all at once? It’s a little more powerful than you’d think.”
The trees’ branches sway in delight. He called us powerful! He called us powerful!
The boy blinks at the trees, and decides to let it go.
There’s a lot of rustling and whispering for a few minutes; the boy wanders aimlessly. The air is heavy with the scent of rain and there are birds chirping in the trees; he feels a strange connection to them. A hummingbird flutters in front of his face and he frowns at it. “You should be sleeping,” he tells it and the bird flies a circle around his head before zooming into the trees.
When he returns to where he started, the trees are vibrating with excitement. “What’s going on, guys?” he says warily.
You tell him, Maskinn insists.
No, you talked to him first, Verda shoots back. Her branches flutter. You tell him, you tell him!
“What is it?” the boy says. He knows he should be wary of whatever the hell they’re planning, but the clean air is relaxing him far too much to bother.
You said you haven’t put down any roots yet, right? Maskinn says eagerly.
“I did say that.”
Would you like to put them down here?
The trees’ branches droop with the weight of anticipation. The boy looks down at his feet. “Right here?”
No, Verda says. In our woods. As a whole. Would you like to be part of our woods?
The boy smiles, unable to help himself. You do not know my name. You do not what I am.
You are kind, insists another tree. We know what ‘not kind’ is like.
And your name does not mean anything to us, Maskinn adds. You can talk to us. We would like you to stay.
You have to go talk to the Speaking Tree, though, Seriçea grumbles. The Speaking Tree doesn’t like anybody trying to talk to it.
“I would like to stay,” the boy says, testing the words on his tongue, and smiles when they feel right. “Show me where to go.”
The trees shake their branches a little with joy, and the boy marvels that he is the cause of it. They bend and twist their branches gracefully, forming archways of glossy wood and jewelled green leaves, and as he passes under the branches, he trails his hand along the smooth wood of the trunks. They hum in response, pulsing magic through the air. He looks back on a whim, once, and finds nothing but dark green. The borders of the wood are long gone, and the only thing he can see now is the moss sprouting in his wake.
Something rustles in his hair; he puts up a hand and finds a crown of flowers, now blooming. He cannot tell what kind or even colour they are now. His ears itch, and he feels around to find they have sharpened into points.
He walks through the archways for maybe twenty minutes, stopping every now and then to lean against a trunk, close his eyes, and breathe deeply. The purity of the air is overwhelming. Everything is green and alive, and in the darkening light of evening, he feels more alert than ever. He goes deeper and deeper into the woods, and is beginning to think the Speaking Tree lies at the other end, when the trees thin suddenly and he comes upon a clearing with what he recognizes as a banyan at the center. (That’s another thing he’s noticed about these woods, besides the magic: they don’t play by the rules of nature.) Its trunks are numerous, twisting and tangling with each other; the branches are stately yet wild, arching into each other and dropping roots among the moonflowers clustered around its base. It seems to be growing in a particular direction, away from something made of glass and wood. There is a well-worn path from the edge of the clearing to the object, cutting through swathes of flowers and grass. A single, brave tree leans into the clearing, as close as any of them dare to get. He lays a hand on her trunk: it is warm and hard. Liara, she says in an echoey rumble. Pleased to meet you, Prince.
Prince? He files away the question for later. “Is it safe for me to go?” he says bluntly.
There is a pause. It will not harm you.
Well, that’s reassuring. The boy steps forward, wincing already at the thought of trampling the flowers, but his foot meets bare ground. The flowers have leaned away, making a path for him. He bends down and strokes their petals in thanks; they flutter in answer, and when he steps further, they straighten up behind him.
At the base of the Speaking Tree, the ground is grassy and smooth, with only a ring of moonflowers to break the ground. He peers at the baby trunks and is not surprised to find glimpses of moon-white petals peeking out at him.
The boy wonders whether he has to be in contact to communicate with the Speaking Tree, spread out as it is; he’s about to reach a hand out when it shifts, fifty trunks moving in unison. He gapes as it straightens and extends its branches, the moonflowers in its base ruffling their petals before relaxing and drooping again.
The Speaking Tree settles again, obviously pleased. Hello, it says. Prince.
“Why do you call me Prince?” the boy says quietly. He is awed in the face of this massive tree, humming with magic and knowledge, and the Speaking Tree’s clearing does not deserve anything above a hushed voice.
You wear a crown. All princes wear crowns.
Ah, it means the flower crown. “Thank you,” he replies, because what else can he say?
There is an uncertain pause. I have not spoken to humans in some time, the Speaking Tree admits. You must correct me if I am wrong.
“You aren’t technically wrong,” the boy says. “All princes wear crowns, that is true. It’s just that princes wear crowns made of stone and metal. Mine is of living things.”
You wear roses, the Speaking Tree rumbles. And you wear them well.
The boy reaches up to touch the flowers; they’ve retreated into buds with silky-smooth petals. “I see.” He clears his throat. “The other trees say you hold authority over who stays and who goes in these hallowed woods.”
He gets the impression that the Speaking tree is reconsidering him. Did they, now.
“They did,” the boy echoes. “So I have come to ask your permission to stay.”
Do you have kin who will come searching for you?
“No,” the boy admits. “They are all dead.”
The wave of sorrow he feels from the Speaking Tree rocks him back on his heels. He gasps and plants his feet.
My condolences, it says in the rawest voice the boy has heard, by ear or by mind. Losing kin is an unpleasant experience.
The boy shrugs. “I don’t really care.”
There is a wave of—something, suspicion?—from the Speaking Tree. No?
“They hated me. They exposed me to danger and to tears. I don’t particularly mind that they’re dead. I might even be happy that they’re dead.”
The Speaking Tree relaxes, and the boy has a fleeting thought: why can he read these trees like a book? “So, can I stay here?” he says, bringing them back to the matter at hand.
There is silence, and the boy begins to fear that he may have earned the Speaking Tree’s ire somehow, when it speaks. I would ask a favour of you in return.
The boy blinks. “Sure. What is it?”
There is a movement in the corner of his eye; he turns to find a single vine swaying from the Speaking Tree’s branches. When it knows it has his attention, it lurches towards the wood-and-glass object he noticed earlier. He picks his way through the moonflowers drooping at the base of the tree, murmuring thanks to them when they lean out of his way, and stops at the object. Now that he is paying attention to it, he sees that it is a coffin of wood grown from the ground, with bark peeling off in strips to reveal bright colours. The lid of the coffin is glass, so clear that he might have thought it air if not for the dirt and vines and everything lying awkwardly across it.
“Do you want me to clear these away?” he asks, and when he receives no answer from the Tree, he takes it as a yes and begins pushing the vines off.
There is a surprising amount of debris on the glass, like someone shovelled whatever they could find near them on top of the glass. It’s a wonder the glass hasn’t broken yet. He wipes away the final smudges of dirt with his threadbare sleeve and leans back, satisfied with the coffin lid gleaming in the faint moonlight. Behind him, the moonflowers murmur sleepily.
Fresh vines, greener ones, climb up from the direction of the Speaking Tree and prod at the lid, sweeping across it and checking for obstruction. When they find none, they slither back into the darkness. The boy turns around to face the Speaking Tree. “What’s the verdict?”
You speak very informally, the Speaking Tree intones. Like a child.
The boy raises an eyebrow, even though the Speaking Tree can’t see it, strictly speaking. “Does it bother you?”
The Speaking Tree’s branches ruffle in thought, and then the leaves settle down. It does not bother me. The favour I desire is this: I care for the girl. I would like to communicate with her. You must teach me how, and you must take good care of her. You must also advise me on what she needs. I have noticed that humans do not eat the same as trees do, and that human food is not abundant in the forest, so you must go out and retrieve food for her when needed, or for the other inhabitants of this forest.
“A girl?” the boy says. Then, “Other inhabitants? Other people live here?”
Yes, the girl in the coffin. More faeries live in the east of the forest.
The boy leans back over the coffin, and he can make out a sleeping figure inside. That makes sense. Coffins are for people, not built to be empty.
He snaps himself out of that morbid train of thought with an effort. “I don’t know how much I can teach you to talk. You can only communicate with her like you do with me if she is inclined towards doing so. Otherwise, it’s fruitless.” He considers the rest of the Speaking Tree’s demands. “I can do everything else you have stated. Obtaining food . . . as long as I have money, that’s not a problem. But I don’t exactly have any of my own, so—”
Look in my hollow, the Speaking Tree interrupts.
The boy searches for ten minutes, going round and round the clearing and apologizing under his breath to the flowers he tramples. He finally gives up and asks the Speaking Tree where it is; it directs him to the side facing the coffin. It tells him to reach into the hollow; he obeys and feels cloth. He pulls it out—clothes of some kind—and shakes them out. They’re black and warm and a little too big for him, and he loves it. “This isn’t money,” he says out loud.
There will be human currency in there when you need it, the Speaking Tree tells him. The clothes are yours, and there is a hood for the rain. It sounds pleased with itself. I know humans don’t like getting wet.
The boy feels the outside of the coat to find oilskin. He shucks off his moss-stained clothes, and pulls on clean ones before slipping on the oilskin coat. It’s soft and comfortable and he really likes it. “What do you require in return for the clothes?”
Nothing, the Speaking Tree says, surprised. This is part of your stay here. You dress like the others. You wear clothes I make.
The boy smiles. He knows kindness when he sees it. “I appreciate it—” He breaks off, realizing he doesn't know what to call the Speaking Tree. “Is there a specific way you wish me to address you?”
There is a long pause. The boy waits patiently.
I would like to be addressed as Alvum, the Speaking Tree says at last.
The boy nods. “I appreciate it, Alvum.”
And you? The Speaking Tree’s branches flick twice, triggering a gentle rain of green leaves.
“Names have power,” the boy reminds it. “People judge me by it all the time and you’ll kick me out if you learn it.”
The Speaking Tree is a tree. It doesn’t have eyes, so the boy shouldn’t feel like it’s staring into his soul. You stay here on the condition you protect the girl and help the other inhabitants of the woods. If you don’t do those things, you cannot stay. Unless your name determines your behaviour towards them, I don’t think you have reason to worry.
The boy looks at his hands and curls his fingers in. He remembers the weight of the torch, the panic in his system. The lightning and then the rain.
“My name is Tenebris,” he says and there is a shift in the clearing. He feels the flowers on his head ruffle open, flaring their petals in response to the anger and wariness radiating through the clearing.
There are frightened noises from the flowers and from Liara, at the edge of the clearing. He maintains eye contact with the Speaking Tree, watching as it twists its gnarled trunks into place and pulls itself to its full height.
Dark prince, it snarls and what can Tenebris do but laugh or cry? He chokes on something between both.
“Does my name determine my behaviour towards the denizens of this forest?” Tenebris says, parroting the Speaking Tree’s words. His heart is hammering — the Speaking Tree looks like it might uproot itself through sheer will and kill him for daring to bear a dark name. “You tell me. All the power I have, I have been given by you, and I have nowhere to go.”
The last part seems to soften something; there is a pause, and the Speaking Tree drops to the ground, setting off tremors. The moonflowers shift restlessly as its trunks gnarl once again and dig into the ground, as it relaxes its branches.
You have power of your own, it says at last. Don’t waste it. Stick to the eighth division of birds.
Tenebris blinks. “What?”
But the Speaking Tree speaks no more.
In the morning, the birds descend on him. Most of them are small — hummingbirds, haartlaubs, sparrows, a kind of kingfisher he is certain is not supposed to be in these parts — but some are larger, like hawks and babblers and eagles. They fly circles around him, and most of them settle at his feet only after he pleads with them to do so. Some of the hummingbirds have settled on his head, pecking curiously at the flower buds peeking out of his hair.
They look up at him with intelligent black eyes, waiting. The hummingbirds shuffle around in his hair some more.
He sighs, and the birds take it as acquiescence, because they rise up excitedly, flapping and shoving each other. He plucks the hummingbirds out of his hair very, very gently — they complain, and he rolls his eyes.
He steps back, clearing a bit of space. He thinks about what the Speaking Tree told him, that he has power of his own. He remembers the moss springing up in his footsteps, and the points of his ears, and the crown of roses that sprouted in his hair sometime between loud-ass trees and warm wooden archways.
He raises his hands and lets the birds settle on his thin, underfed arms.
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they will return they will return they will return
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Jason is so, so fucked.
He’s lost in strange woods—woods that feel exceedingly off for some reason—and this close to breaking down crying thinking about the schoolwork he’s missing while lost in strange woods, and he might also die in these strange woods, because he doesn’t know what the hell his magic is doing in response to the sleep magic that has settled here.
He doesn’t want to think about his mother’s reaction. At best, she’ll ground him for years; at worst, she’s going to start crying.
If he wasn’t freaking out, he’d be fascinated by the enchantment. (He’s fascinated anyway, and he doesn’t know if it’s a facet of his personality or just a response to danger that he’s doing so. He doesn’t want to find out.) Normally, sleep magic is bottled up and given in small doses to the intended subject, although places and objects can be enchanted to put somebody to sleep, like in the fairytale of Sleeping Beauty.
These woods, however, are absolutely dripping with sleep magic. He lets his eyes unfocus to double-check: bright splatters of magic cling to every leaf and every cell of bark, outlining strong lines of branches and pooling in the hollows and grooves of the tree trunks. He focuses back into the material world before he gives himself a headache.
Okay. First order of business is staying alive. Second, find people sympathetic to him. Third, get the hell out of here without a second look back.
(Here is something the boy will learn: those who visit once will come back. After all, they always return to the woods.)
He catches movement in the corner of his eye and goes perfectly still and silent. He can hold his own in a fight, he’s faced off against Rachel. Ice crackles under his black fingerless gloves.
Something rustles insistently to his right; after three full minutes, frozen into stillness, Jason gives into the temptation to look.
The stranger is tall, with imposing black robes and a staff of roses. The robes rustle once, pointedly.
In the shadows of their hood, eyes flash faerie green.
Jason straightens, trying to give off a calm atmosphere. “Hello,” he says politely. “Sar seya.”
They tilt their head, before nodding once and taking a few steps back. They seem expectant.
Jason frowns. “Do you want me to follow you?” His hands tighten involuntarily on the straps of his messenger bag.
The stranger nods again and they step back.
Jason takes a hesitant step forward, and they—not quite disappear, but it’s pretty damn close—into the trees. A second later, they appear a few dozen feet away.
Deeper into the woods.
This is how he’s going to die, isn’t it? But he steps forward once more, twice more, and then he’s giving chase despite himself, dashing between the trees with ease and tracking the stranger by their odd scent of pine and burnt lemons. Once again, his mind is drawn back to the strange enchantments over the woods, and how those enchantments are dissolving anything that isn’t leafy in under thirteen seconds—he’s been counting.
The chase continues for some time; Jason isn’t sure how long it goes on other than knowing it's been less than an hour. The stranger comes to a stop in front of a pair of massive iron gates shrouded in mist. Jason skids to a halt and ducks behind a tree. Just in case.
They tip their head up and the hood flutters back to reveal closed eyes, a sharp profile, and a crown of flower buds. They raise a pale hand, sleeve slipping down to their elbow, and they hold it there patiently.
A few minutes later, a sparrow flies down to perch on their hand. It cocks its head and chirps softly at them; they murmur something back without opening their eyes.
The sparrow turns its head to the gates and sings into the quietness of the woods.
The stranger’s eyes open at the sound of footsteps on the other side of the gate, and the sparrow stops singing to fly off. They square their shoulders and twist to look at Jason, still hidden behind a tree. The flowers in their hair are red roses, and he was right—their eyes are faerie green. They nod at him, pointed ears twitching, before drawing up their hood and slipping away between the trees as easy as breathing.
It hits Jason that he just followed a stranger into the enchanted woods and to a scary, faerie-looking iron gate. He is such an idi—
The gates rattle and Jason startles. From his position behind the tree, the mist seems to be clearing up. He grabs some of it—it’s just water, after all, not too different from ice—and wraps it around himself, spreading it among the trees near him as well so that it doesn’t look suspicious. A female voice says loudly and clearly in Tesme, of all things: “This stupid gate has a place reserved in hell! Open, damn you!”
Another voice, this one higher and younger, says coolly, “It’s rusted over here, Lucy, how do you forget? Here, let me help.”
There is a bone-jarring skree, and the gates shiver before parting. The mist clears away fully to reveal a green, writhing canopy of vines above the gates; as the gates move, the vines move with them, slithering over the iron to form something like a roof. Fascinating. He resolves to ask about the vines if whoever lived there is friendly—if not, he has resources.
He breathes deeply, relaxing as many muscles in his body as possible so that he won’t reach for his bag to check.
A tall, wiry faerie steps out of the gates. Patches of fresh moss spread over the already green ground from her footprints, spreading to touch each other. Her long red hair is tied back in a simple ponytail, and white begonia buds are woven through the right side of her hair. He blinks at the resemblance between the stranger who led him here and this faerie. Maybe they know each other? Maybe they’re working together, the stranger dropping off all the lost people they find in the woods and the faerie helping them.
Maybe they’re hostile, Jason, and you’re getting ahead of yourself, he chides himself.
The faerie puts her hands on hips. “Well, Gray, what do you think?”
A girl emerges from the gates. She looks to be about twelve years old, and says in a surprisingly cold voice for such a young girl, “It’s misty.” Her skin is brown, unlike the other faerie, with undertones of green, and her hair is thick and brown and full of twigs, spilling over her shoulders. Something black and shiny slithers through her hair.
The older faerie gives Gray a half-fond, half-exasperated look. “And?”
“And there’s someone hiding behind that tree.” Gray points at his hiding spot without looking up, cutting through the mist, and—yeah. He should have expected that.
“Good,” says the older faerie, looking pleased. “And what else?”
“They’re scared?” Gray looks up and narrows her eyes. “And they’re looking at us.”
You know what . . . it isn’t like Jason’s known for his sense of safety, despite what his friends say. And the faeries will find him either way. So maybe it’s better to take the initiative?
He drops the mist and pokes his head around the tree. Both the faeries’ gazes lock on him. Their eyes are wide with surprise; they probably didn’t expect him to be so stupid.
“Oh, hello.” The older faerie’s green eyes are bright in the mists — too bright. Are they . . .
“Are your eyes glowing?” Jason blurts out, and then desperately wishes his penchant for asking questions at inappropriate times was put to sleep by whatever weird-ass spell is working its magic over the woods.
The faerie, thankfully, doesn’t take it the wrong way. Her face softens for some reason. “Yes.” She cocks her head. “You have a very strong Ilisme accent.”
Jason frowns. “Thank you?”
The faerie blinks at him. “Are you—oh,” she mutters, and follows that up with a string of expletives in Ilisme, clearly for the benefit of the younger faerie.
“What?” Gray says flatly, and Jason wonders at the amount of sharpness squashed into that one word. Then he remembers being twelve and flinching at every harsh word every second of the day and yeah, this is probably a better alternative.
“We’re back in Interlopa.” The faerie rolls her eyes. “People here don’t know to stay away from the Woods because they don’t know what happens if you come in.”
Jason does not like this at all. One, she capitalized the Woods, so he’s probably right about the spell and also she capitalized the Woods, what the absolute fuck is up with that? And two—the question tumbles out of him without permission. “What?”
“Easy, boy,” the older faerie says and Jason feels like he should be a little offended, for the sake of posturing, but underestimation is his greatest weapon. “What did you want when you stepped in here?”
He racks his brain. “I think I wanted to explore to my—my heart’s content.”
The faerie looks relieved, and he can guess why. He definitely looks like he’s had his fill of exploring. “That’s all, then? You poor thing. Are you a very long way from home?”
Jason opens his mouth to inform her that no, he only lives a few days away, then shuts it because the forest could have moved in time he’s been here.
“I don’t like him,” Gray declares, acerbic.
The faerie narrows her eyes. “Gray, don’t be rude.”
"I don’t mind,” Jason says quietly and they both turn to him with identical “what the hell” expressions.
“I have two younger sisters back home and a neighbour’s kid, all around twelve, they’re your age,” he offers. Hopefully he’s guessed Gray’s age correctly. “They say a lot of things people find rude. I’m used to it. I don’t mind,” he repeats.
The older faerie blinks at him, and smiles. Her teeth are sharp and as white as the now-blooming begonias along the side of her head. “Well, would you like to wait here with us? The Woods won’t be moving around for a few months in the light of our current shift. We can get a message to your guardian.”
They’re going to help him. And Gray isn’t glaring at him, so he’s guessed her age correctly.
Gray seems to hesitate, then says, “I like your hair.”
Jason’s hand automatically goes up to his half-up hairstyle before he remembers he dyed a few locks purple last week. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and smiles.
The faerie looks approving of the first positive interaction between her new guest and who Jason is guessing is her younger sister, blood or no. “You may call me Lucy,” she says. Above her, the canopy of vines begins to sprout small pink and orange flowers. “I’m afraid we haven’t had visitors in a while, so it’ll take a little time for the place to fix itself up.”
“I go by Jason,” he says, still mostly hiding behind the tree.
“Sar—Sar seya, Jason,” Gray says, clearly struggling with the Ilisme greeting. “You may call me Gratia.”
Jason steps out from behind the tree and finally allows his hand to drift down to the messenger bag at his side. “Sar seya, Gratia.”
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they will return they will return they will return