We cautiously navigate the oppressive darkness of the thickly wooded forest, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves suffocating our senses, each step amplifying the tension in the air. Shafts of pale sunlight filter through the dense canopy, casting shifting shadows that dance and flicker in the corners of my vision, making me jump with nervous energy, sticks cracking beneath my feet every time I do so. The stillness of the forest enveloped us, the trees standing tall in solemn silence. No chirping birds or buzzing insects can be heard, as if mother nature holds her breath.

Uncertainty gnaws at me as the man remains unusually silent. Is it his reticence or the possible lurking presence of hungry animals that shrouds him in quiet? His friendly attitude of before had now retreated into the shadows, leaving an air of mystery and caution in its wake. Though I’m not exactly brimming with chatter either, I admit to myself, so I do my best to push away the thoughts racing through my mind like a freight train without brakes. Everything is fine, I tell myself. It will all be perfectly fine.

As we step into the small clearing, a transformative shift envelops us. The musty dampness gives way to the refreshing fragrance of wildflowers, carried by a cool crisp breeze that washes over me in a calming wave. With the change in atmosphere, Hen's playful demeanor reemerges, his shoulder loosening, his step slowing, lines I hadn’t noticed before easing in his face.

“Sorry for the quiet.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Didn’t want any more of ‘em monsters huntin’ you down again.”

I do my best to smile back. “I appreciate that.”

He nods, smile easing, and leads the way, saying, “Well then, welcome to my humble home.”

Hen’s home is little more than a log shack. From the outside, I guess that the two floors, using the word loosely, both amount to about half the space of an average studio apartment, and the whole place is built like something out of a Dr. Sues book, wide at the top and bottom and narrow in the middle with an overly-steep wood-shingled roof, weathered by years of rainfall. The whole structure leans slightly to the left, altogether giving it the look of a construction contractor's nightmare.

He opens the door for me with a slight, flourishing bow that I can't help but smile at because it seems so dorky. The inside is about as expected, one wall dominated by an ancient iron range, one with a narrow slit of a window, minus the glass, and a small bench that must also serve as a chest.

The third and final wall is lined with thick shelves bowing under the weight of everything from books to bottled beetles and pickle jars. The second floor, which is what he calls the shelf pretending to be a loft above the door, is all but consumed by a collection of old, worn, and yellowing pillows and sheets – Hen's bed, I assume, accessible by a retractable ladder hanging from the wall.

The room is dimly lit, with soft rays of sunlight filtering through the dusty air, casting muted golden hues on the worn wooden floor. The scent of wood smoke lingers in the air, giving the space a cozy and almost rustic ambiance that sets my heart somewhat at ease.

Nestling onto the worn bench, I watch as he ignites the fire in the range, casting a warm glow that dances across the room through the furnace’s slotted grate accompanied by the soft crackle of flame and a soothing warmth. With purposeful, practiced movements, he retrieves a battered pot, filling it with water and leaves as he places it atop the stove.

“Lavender or peppermint?” He asks.

“Peppermint,” I say instantly, suddenly remembering my slight headache and uncertain when it’d started.

“Peppermint it is, then.” He drops a few more leaves into the pot, sets it atop the stove, and covers it with a lid. Leaning against the wall, back to the range, he folds his arms across his chest and ask’s, “So, Jen, what’s one of your kind doing so far north? I thought all godlings had given up on the human realms.”

I blink at the man in confusion. “... I'm not sure what exactly a godling is, but last time I checked, I was just a regular old human like you. Well, not quite regular, but you know what I mean.”

"I'm afraid I don't." His smile slips into a frown, and a slight line appears between his brow. “From where do you come, if not the godling realms? I've never seen a human-built such as you are. As I understand, that sort of thing is, at the least, near impossible.”

Oh gods, I think to myself, my headache worsening. This world doesn’t have trans people. Or, at least, they don’t have trans people like modern-day Earth does with hormones, surgeries, and whatnot. Suddenly I wonder what the hell I’m going to do about my hormones in this place. Maybe plants? I know some people do that, but I have no idea where to even start with that shit. Fuck. Shit.

“Jen?” Hen asks, pulling me from my thoughts as tears sprout in my eyes and a regular thudding tempo begins pounding in my skull.

“Oh fuck.” I wipe wet from my eyes, rub my temples, and sigh heavily. “I'm so sorry. Please, don’t mind me. I just got lost in thought for a minute. It’s nothing, really. Just stupid shit and this damned headache.”

Hen nods slowly, his frown deepening into a disapproving grimace that speaks volumes as to what he thinks about my language. “You’ve quite the way with words, it seems.”

A flush fills my cheeks just as the kettle whistles like a screaming banshee, aggravating my worsening headache and jolting me from all thoughts other than embarrassment as I jump, a slight squeak escaping my lips, then bow forward, clutching my head between my head and groaning in pain.

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Hen lifts an eyebrow, then turns away, pulling the pot from the stove and pouring out a cup of tea, infusion really, but who cares. Wordlessly, He hands the drink to me, and I take it, the ceramic mug nearly as hot as the red mortification stealing into my face.

I take a sip to try and calm my nerves and hopefully soothe my head, the pain in my head still ringing like a church bell in time with my heartbeat. The hot steam laps against my face with the sharp, calming scent of peppermint, but the bitter brew scalds the tip of my tongue. I can’t help but grimace.

“That’s hot,” Hen says, leaning back against the wall as I grimace. I have to bite back a sharp retort, probably something like ‘No shit Sherlock,’ since I'm the most uninspired person ever.

“I noticed.” I roll my eyes, unable to hold back a bit of snarky attitude, then go for another sip as I feel my headache notably ease. The drink isn’t quite as hot as before, but it's still uncomfortable. At least I can’t taste the bitterness, I tell myself.

“Where I come from, how I am the way I am, that's all, well, It's all a long, long story.” after a few more sips of my tea, I slip into a long contemplative silence, but eventually, Hen’s expectant stare wears me down. “Where I come from, people like me aren’t common, but we aren’t exactly rare either. Sorry, it's hard to explain without going into more detail, and then… well, we’d be here all night.”

“It is my home,” Hen shrugs. “We have all the time we need.”

I pause halfway to taking another sip, the headache from before finally starting to ease. “Alright,” I say and start explaining everything, my headache replaced with an oddly soothing sense of serenity.

***

I explain to Hen how I was born in a faraway place called southern Utah, a land of farms, mountains, scrubland, and dust. Lots and lots of dust.

I explain how I was raised by a religious relatively small group of hyper-religious people who took issue with the existence of people like myself.

I explain a long history of pain that does not bare recounting here, fingers idly tracing the line of scars running up one arm, a handful of marks that make up the story of my life. The weight of memory presses at my heart, but something, maybe the tea or my exhaustion and desperation, urges me to continue.

The day I was isekaid was the day I came out. Nearly two years after starting hormone therapy, at my grandfather’s funeral. I didn’t mean to come out that day. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way, but they all saw me, my extended family, and they all began to ask, “What pronouns do you use?” And I hate lying, so I told the truth. She and her.

Those were the words that got me killed in the end.

It didn’t take long for my father to catch on. He marched up to me, a wild fury about him like a winter thunderstorm, full of cold, crazed hatred for the thing I’d proclaimed myself to be. He got up in my face, yelling and screaming, spittle flying from his too-small mouth and red puffed-up cheeks.

For the first time in my life, I yelled back. I stood my ground and shouted back. That's when he stopped talking with his swollen lips and started with his fist.

***

Sometime later, I'm not exactly sure how long, and I let out a deep breath, sagging against the wall beside me, the hardwood groaning beneath my weight as Hen stares at me with a look I cannot read. “And that’s everything,” I say, lifting my cup for Hen to pour the last of the tea into. “My whole gods damned life and this gods damned situation I find myself in summarized in the length of time it takes to drink a pot of tea.” I let out a self-deprecating snort and down the peppermint infusion in one gulp, slumping further down on the cushioned bench.

“That was certainly an… interesting tale, to say the least,” Hen comments, slowly whipping the inside of the kettle with a gray rag. “I admit, you’ve given me much to think on.”

I laughed, the sound unfiltered, more a chortle than a laugh. “I fucking bet.” I sit up for a moment, only to fall back down atop the bench beneath me and sigh, glancing at the window to find a starlit sky outside. “Gods, I’m so fucking tired.”

“Then let us rest now.” Before I know it, Hen’s draped here's a thin blanket over me. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

Another sigh parts my lips, and I snuggle into the blanket’s inadequate warmth. “Okay,” I yawn. “Goodnight.” And with that, sleep overtook me in a wave of black, not unlike wholey the death I’d experienced not more than two days ago.

Dreams assault me at every turn as I drift endlessly in the murk of sleep, rabid wolves and skunks, trees bending at unnatural angles, and my father’s screaming voice, all wrapped in a sea of dark nothingness. Then, a hand on my shoulder draws me from the nightmares to a blindly bright blue sky peering down on me from a narrow slit of a window.

I sit up with a groan, my eyes struggling to focus as I stare blearily about, my whole body aching and stiff as if from the worst hangover of my life, minus the headache. “

What the fuck,” I said more than asked as Hen’s home came into focus. “What was in that fucking tea?”

“Peppermint,” Hen said from where he stood over the range, mixing something with a wooden spoon. “And a mix of herbs you would likely not recognize.”

“And the headache?”

“Would you believe magic?” He asks as if it's the most ridiculous thing he could say

“Fair enough,” I reply unphased, sliding my legs off the bench and staring dumbly at the floor for a few minutes. “I should have expected as much, but I have to ask. Why?” The man shifts uneasily, and I can tell I don’t need to specify.

Hen takes his time responding, simply stirring whatever is in his pot for a long moment. “There are few left in this world who look upon me kindly. Many would see my head mounted on their walls than suffer my presence, even among the godlings. Call what I did a safety measure. One that worked in both our favor.”

“Can’t say I see what I gained out of that,” I mutter grumpily.

“An ally,” he says simply, not looking up from his pot.

“An ally?” Skepticism drips from my every word as I continue. “Why in the hell would I consider the man who roofied me for information an ally?”

“Because I know your secrets, I know how to get you these ‘hormones’ you so covet, and I’m willing to teach you all you need to know to survive in this world.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, sure, that sounds very nice and all, but at what cost?”

Hen finally turns his head to meet my eye and smiles. “All I ask in return is friendship. It gets quite lonely out here, you know. It would be nice to have someone else around for a change.”

I frown at the man as he turns back to his cooking, somehow convinced that he’s telling the complete truth.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, then continue in a louder voice. “Fine. It's not like I'm spoiled for options right now. Just know I’m not doing any sexual favors or shit like that. That's just not my sort of thing.”

Hen splutters and I realize it's the first I’ve seen him unbalanced, giving me a strange sense of self-satisfaction.

“So,” I begin as Hen finishes cooking and lifts the pot from the stove. “What's the plan for today, then, Hen?”

“First, we eat,” he says, ladling what looks like grits into a bowl, then handing it to me with a wooden spoon. “That should help with the aftereffects from last night. After food, we begin your first lesson in surviving this world.”