#birch sap

[regina-del-mare]

Child drinking birch sap straight from the tree

[thoughts-of-a-heathen]

"In Bohuslän, superstitious men went out into the forest and tapped birch-sap, which they drank immediately."

- Ebbe Schön, Folktrons år

On the topic of the spring ritual "dricka märg i benen" ('drink marrow into [your] bones'). This tradition existed all over Sweden. Most people drank some kind of alcoholic beverage. An expression from Finnspång, Östergötland goes: "Modstulen blir jag i sommar, om jag inte får dricka märg uti benen." ('I will become crestfallen this summer if I don't get to drink marrow into my bones.')

[strelles-universe]

Herbs and Medicine: Birch Sap

Plant: Birch Sap

Type: Craft

A thick and very sticky liquid found on birch trees- usually a light gold color.

Location: Anywhere there ae birch trees. Which is to say, areas with a lot of sun for their leaves but the ground remains cool. They also need loose soils that drains quickly but regularly receives a lot of water.

How to Use: Apply it leaves and branches to bind them together more permanently than bindweed.

Effect: Used frequently in crafting to ensure things hold together long term but also for making more advanced casts for patients who are particularly squirmy.

[hersurvival]

i think trees would look cute sized down to the size on the typical flower.

yes, it is because I wanna eat a tree too. I actually ate tree bark a lot as a kid. The sap tasted so good. So, I think eating a tree would be the next logical step in my cravings to munch.

Welcome back! I am loving this, TREES, TOO?

I don't know where you live but it's Spruce Tip season, buddy.

Go for a little nature walk and check for Spruce trees. The ends of the branches should be growing (I live pretty far north, our growing seasons may differ vastly) and when the sticky seed pod is easily removed from the ends or has fallen off, the soft, bright yellow/green ends are edible. AND TASTY. They taste citrusy, very bright with a hint of that earthy almost mintiness you get from the scent of Spruce. But you want them when they are still fairly small.

But yes, tiny full grown trees. Like natural little bonsai everywhere? Adorable! Nature's broccoli lol

[ahhvernin]

To the hall monitor in my middle school around the early 2000s who said that I could never be a vampire. I just want to tell you that whenever I eat pancakes, waffles or French toast, I am a vampire. Because maple syrup is made of sap and sap is tree blood.

So for 30 minutes..I'm a tree vampire and my host plant is sugar maple.

Sincerely,

The student you interrupted with snarky comment about not being able to be a vampire.

PS. That's not even including the people who drink birch water.

[unityrain24]

i don't get how root beer is a usamerican invention. how tf did that happen. root beer as a concept is way too cool for that (and in practice too, if it real root beer). it's a mix of tree roots, herbs, and other spices/seasonings from plants (originally made from sassafras root + bark, but now made a mix of so many things like licorice! wintergreen! vanilla! star anise! birch sap!), carbonated! it's and epic fact tea made of only the finest plants, with some sugar for sweetness, then fermented or carbonated. that is such!! a cool!! thing!! it feels like it would have originated as a natural medicinal drink in europe, or better yet, an esteemed signature drink in some fantasy elven culture.

but instead it's an american thing. and like usamericans tend to do, they ruined it to make it cheap. it's not just carbonated water with fake colouring and artificial shitty flavourings that don't even taste like what it's supposed to. they sell it by the two liter, perhaps at a price even cheaper than water. it's paired with cheap pizza and videogames. it's no longer something that feels fancy and a real depth of flavour with multiple layers to it. there's only like 2-3 brands i can think of that sell actual root beer unless you make it yourself.

[sexhaver]

i constantly think about that one youtube comment that was like "i never understood how humans learned to do complicated stuff like farm or make bread or brew alcohol until i watched speedrunners working together to break their favorite game". humans love working together to figure out extremely precise and nonintuitive processes to acheive a goal. i saw this article recently about how Neanderthals perfected a method of synthesizing a waterproof adhesive from birch bark by burying it in a pit with embers, and the whole time i was wondering how long it took to perfect that process. Barrier Skip took, what, a decade to get it right? Neanderthals could definitely figure out how to make sticky sap even stickier in that timeframe

[fnbskincare]

Birch sap: A precious water with unsuspected virtues

Birch sap: A precious water with unsuspected virtues

Birch sap is a spring elixir with multiple effects. It is mainly known for its detoxifying action on our body. But you will see, thanks to its unique composition, that it has other powers. Let’s discover birch sap. What is birch sap? Birch sap, as its name suggests, is from the sap from birch. Birch is a large tree that thrives in the northern hemisphere and is recognizable by its white bark. It…

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

I am currently in Vilnius! Lithuania is fantastic. You really can't beat old eastern European cities for having urban sections called Old Town that are the most stunning and picturesque places you've ever seen in your life, and Vilnius combines this with apparently about fifty trillion urban trees and parks. Fucking gorgeous place.

Eastern Europe is also incredible for food. Today we had a Lithuanian delicacy where they take rye bread and cut it into sticks and toast/fry it and then you have it with a sort of cheesy garlicky sauce and it is fucking incredible holy shit. Also a dish of finely grated potato over a layer of pork leg and topped with bacon bits and sour cream, sort of like a Lithuanian lasagne. Exquisite. Divine. Ambrosia of the gods.

Anyway my excellent Lithuanian friend Gabs has insisted on buying us a shit ton of Lithuanian snacks to try over the next few days, and I have promised him I shall keep a spreadsheet of my reactions to each. So! I'm recording them here:

Surelis: sweet curds covered in a chocolate layer, flavoured. So far we have tried the raspberry. It tasted like a bar of Petit Filou yoghurt and it was fucking gorgeous. 12/10.

Sula: a soft drink made from birch sap. We have tried one that is fruit flavoured, but Gabs didn't know the English word for said fruit. Super clear and refreshing tasting. 8/10

Grybukai: a mushroom shaped biscuit/cake flavoured with ginger and... something sharp. Citrus maybe? Super fun, super tasty. 10/10

Sakotis: cake made on a spit in a pleasing tree shape. A bit like a firmer dry pancake. Gabs recommended them with tea, I tried it with some chocolate butter. Very nice tea time treat, not too sweet, delicate flavour. 7/10

Having a whale of a time, Lithuania is gr8

[astrolovecosmos]

The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

[regina-del-mare]

Заготовка берёзового сока

[redwinterroses]

There’s a cherry tree in the middle of the redwood forest.

False isn’t sure what to make of that. She shifts her grip on the staff in her hand, its pale glow reflecting faintly off the fresh snow. She’s come out here for resources—the vault altar is demanding logs, and these giant trees are an easy source—but the incongruous sight of an enormous, blossoming cherry tree sending pink petals wafting on the frozen wind…

She wonders if this is what fish feel like, when they see a lure.

“Hello?” she calls, her voice echoing off the trees. The world stands in permanent semi-twilight here, and the deeper shadows hide the mobs that will venture out come nightfall. A sneak of creepers is bedded down in a sweetberry bramble just on the other side of the clearing, and False tenses when the lead boar lifts his head, but he apparently doesn’t deem her worth stalking so early in the day. 

There is no other reaction to her call.

False is of half a mind just to head back home and farm her own dang trees. It’s not like the vaultar is picky about the kinds of logs—she could just as easily grow up a bunch of birch and throw those in there. But that will take so much longer… not to mention she’s not sure if there are even enough saplings in her storage.

She unhooks her enchantment-glittered axe from her belt and pauses to mentally poke at her mana reserves. Plenty high. Whatever’s lingering near this tree, it can hardly be worse than what she deals with on the daily in the vaults. Overworld dangers are barely a challenge anymore.

The logic of that doesn’t change the uneasy feeling that buzzes over her skin though. 

Venturing further into the clearing. False’s gaze traces up the trunk of the cherry tree, following its branches to where they terminate in lush bursts of pink and white blooms. A sweet smell drifts on the wind. She wrinkles her nose, reminded of compost piles and fermented spiders’ eyes. 

The tree’s branches stretch long and low—a canopy of their own, heavy with flowers and dark, glossy leaves. The space underneath is filled with falling flowers and a fog of pollen, the air moisture-thick like a lush cave.

Lifting one hand, False catches a falling petal on her fingertip.

It sizzles as it touches her skin, stinging and buzzing like live redstone.

She hisses through her teeth, shaking her hand and letting the petal fall to the forest floor. “What the heck?”

Another petal tumbles past her face, and she watches it with narrowed eyes—right until it fizzles out of existence a few pixels above the forest floor.

“Glitch,” she mutters. “That’s… not good.”

Iskall needs to know about this—it could be a bug from one of the new updates, or it could be something deeper in the code, but either way: this glitched tree is a problem. She’s probably lucky it just stung her.

She reaches for her communicator, raising it to take a pic of the cherry tree.

“Oh, hi there, False!”

False yelps, spinning around with her axe ready to swing.

Gem is standing behind her, a wreath of cherry blossoms tangled in her hair and antlers, leaning casually on a tall staff of blooming cherry wood. Her smile is wide, and sap flows over her fingers, pale golden, dripping down her arms to leave dark spots on the faded denim of her overalls.

“Gem!” False lowers her axe. “Oh my gosh, you scared me. I didn’t know you were doing Vault Hunters.”

“Hm?” Gem raises one eyebrow, and for a moment her eyes flicker to red and then purple before settling back on green. “Oh—I’m not doing Vault Hunters, False.” Her voice is amused, almost chiding.

“Oh.” False feels unexpectedly small—which is impressive, considering she’s nearly half a block taller than Gem. 

More of the glitched petals fall, resting on Gem’s hair and slowly melting into it like snowflakes. The brief moment of relief when False had seen Gem’s familiar grin is fading into something like the sensation of freefall. 

“What’cha up to?” Gem asks, and her face blinks from one expression to the next like a bad video message. Her clothes are blue—no, green—no, bloodstained and grey—no, blue. They’ve always been blue.

False takes a step back.

“Uh, not much…” she glances up at the redwoods. “Just doing some… resource gathering. You know.”

“Cool!” Gem giggles, and stands up straight. False tenses, but Gem only spins around her staff and waves a hand at the glitched tree. “I didn’t realize this was an occupied server—are there many people here?”

There’s a buzzing in False’s skull, and she blinks rapidly. A muscle twitches under her eye. 

“Um…”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Gem lifts one hand and grabs one of the lowest branches of the cherry tree. She really should not have been able to reach that.

Swinging herself up with the lithe, effortless strength of a cat, she perches on the limb and stares down at False. The grin is gone from her face now, and she looks down at False with bright eyes.

“Etho’s not here, is he?”

False opens her mouth to answer, the words yes, of course he is, I can take you to him heavy on her lips… And with effort, she swallows them back. 

They taste of sweet rot.

“Why... why doesn’t what matter?” she asks instead.

Gem stares at her for a long moment, expressionless. The flowers woven through her antlers are growing of their own accord, twining up to caress their brethren in the branches overhead. 

Then she smiles broadly, flashing teeth that nearly glow white in the dappled shadows. “Oh!” she exclaims. “No reason! I’m only passing through, is all.”

“You’re not… you’re not sticking around?” False tries—and mostly fails—to sound disappointed.

“Naaaaah…” Gem stands and walks along the branch, as secure and balanced as if it were a stone floor. The flowers in her hair flow along behind her, sliding from the branches and falling like a cape down her back. “Worldhopping is easy. Staying in one spot is way harder.” 

False watches the flowers move and swirl, their smooth, strange motion ensnaring her attention. The buzzing is back, too. Like bees, drunk on honey and sleepy in their hive.

“World hopping…?” she manages. “With admin commands?”

Gem’s laugh is as brilliant as a knife and as sharp as a spark. “False!” she crows. “You say the funniest things.”

False laughs. It seems appropriate. She isn’t sure why.

“Anyway,” Gem continues, fading into one patch of blossoms and reappearing on the other side of it. Her eyes are sprays of cherry flowers now. Her antlers are branches. “Anyway, cherry trees are all the same. They make it easy to get around.”

“That…” doesn’t make sense, False wants to say. But her lips are heavy, and coated in sticky sap. Maybe it doesn’t really matter.

“Oops! Behind you, False!” 

Gem’s chirped warning is flaked in glee, and False turns around, as slow as if her feet are buried in soul sand.

The creepers she had seen—the entire sneak—are standing behind her, pink flowers blooming from their eyes. 

“Oh no.”

The boar’s blinded head snaps toward her voice, hissing. He starts to aggro, bioluminescent streaks flashing from his snout to flanks in increasingly-swift pulses of light.

“See ya in season ten, False!” Gem cries out cheerfully.

The axe drops from False’s nerveless fingers, trailing strings of sap. She smells the inescapable stench of burning gunpowder, overlaid with rot.

“...Dangit.”

[FalseSymmetry was blown up by a creeper]

~*~

Jerking upright in her own bed, False swipes wildly at her face, trying to smear away tree sap that isn’t there. 

“What the heck, Gem?” she exclaims at her empty base. Her voice falls flat, swallowed up by the sky that surrounds her builds. The clock above her head ticks impatiently, and she huffs in frustration, pushing up out of her bed. All her tools, gone—her levels, gone... and after all that she still needs those logs for the vault. 

Grumbling, she starts pulling backup gear from various chests, trying to cobble together something that can get her back to the redwood grove before her items despawn—assuming they hadn’t all been obliterated by a second or third creeper explosion. She glances at the vaulter, and freezes.

It’s been completed. The crystal floats gently atop the stone pedestal, gleaming with an inner light. 

And, tumbled at the base of the vaulter—abandoned, more than was needed to fill the crystal’s requirements:

Half a stack of cherry logs.

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no. 

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

[probablyasocialecologist]

Modern farmers and landowners, however, are prejudiced against scrub because it is considered unproductive. As a result it has been almost entirely eradicated from Britain. Scrubland is almost ubiquitously described as wasteland. It was not always so. In medieval times, scrub species were highly valued, and scrub was anything but a dirty name. The iron-rod stems of blackthorn were used for walking sticks and its fruit – sloes – for medicines and flavouring wine and gin. Brambles, like elder, produce edible berries that were also useful for dyes. Hawthorn makes good walking sticks, as well as tool handles, and was used for stock-proofing, and produces hawberries for preserves and sauces. Hazel was for hurdles, thatching spars, basketry, furniture and charcoal; willow for charcoal-making and basketry, cricket bats and medicine. Charcoal from alder and dogwood made gunpowder. Broom, of course, made excellent brooms. Juniper was for smoking meats and making pencils, its berries for distilling oil, and flavouring game and gin. Spindle was for skewers, toothpicks and baskets. Wych elm made bows, furniture and threshing floors. Birch provided cotton reels and bobbins, firewood, brooms and roofing thatch; its bark was for waterproofing and tanning. Birch wine, fermented from sap, was used as medicine and young birch leaves were a diuretic. From the dog rose came rosehips – which we now know are exceptionally high in vitamin C – for syrups, sauces and jellies. Gorse – known as ‘furze’ in Sussex – was fodder for animals and fuel for kilns and ovens. A buffer of thorny scrub was often encouraged around woodland to prevent the ingress of grazing animals. Place names like Thorndon, Thornden, Thornbury, Haslemere, Hazeldon, Spindleton, Hathern (hawthorn), Hatherdene, Brambleton, Barnham Broom, Broomhill, Broompark, pepper the map of Britain. Our own field names at Knepp recall the days when scrub was an asset – Benton’s Gorse, Broomers Corner, Broom Field, High Reeds, Cooper Reeds, Faggot Stack Plat, Bramble Field, Rushett’s, Rushall Field, Little Thornhill, Great Thornhill, Stub Mead, Barcover Furzefield, Swallows Furzefield, Coates’ Furzefield, Greenstreet Furzefield, Constable’s Furze, Pollardshill Furze, Old Furze Field, Furzefield Plat, Great Furzefield and lots of Little Furzefields.

Isabella Tree, Wilding: The Return of Nature to a British Farm

[bignostalgias]

Hello!! Listen i have GOT TO KNOW what the White Winter Hymnal AU is about???

like??

It looks amazing?? The art is GORGEOUS and i am foaming at the mouth for more information about the story behind it!! And i LOVE the song by the Fleet Foxes!

But yeah pretty much im obsessed and i'd like to know more about what im obsessed about. Hope you're having a wonderful timezone and take care! <3<3<3

Thank you so much for the ask and interest in Hymnal!! ☺️❤️ it’s a slow burn of an au that’s mostly based on vibes and drawing/writing them has been so cozy for me. Have a wonderful day/night as well!!

Gonna take the lazy route and post of screenshot of me summarizing it from a little earlier this week:

Aaaaand here’s a little snippet of how the forest Hymnal is set in feels:

The forest bordering the sturdy little hamlet of Berk was rich with wonder. This was known. The dark, twisting vines and roots of the wild ended shy of the ring of protective runestones, and if a vein was cut open, it seeped glittering green sap. When venturing past Berk’s protections — which should never be done alone — the sun-dappled ground of the forest was laden with moss and lichen, ethereally soft to the touch. On fortunate endeavors, gatherers returned with newborn lambs bundled in their arms, harvested like fruit from the branches of trees. However, as beautiful as it was, the wild threat the forest posed was ever present in the minds of Berk’s people. At night, lights twinkled from the depths, will o’ the wisps casting their lures. Bobcat yowls startled children from their slumber, mistaken for a human scream. The blinking eyes of wolves, reflecting torchlight, lurking between tree trunks. The forest was hungry and wanting and demanded to be satiated.

Every so often, it was.

Hiccup knew he worried his father, his friends, the farther he strayed from home, the longer he dared to be absent past sunset. How was he to tell them the once unnerving black eyes of birch trees were keeping careful vigil over him, that the bracken and tangled foliage gently parted for him instead of barred his path?

It was well known that to avoid losing ones way, a warrior must wear his tunic inside out, watch where he stepped for stray sods, and never trust trails of weathered cairns.

Hiccup had trouble recalling the last time he’d been lost.

Eventually when Hiccup is out exploring with Toothless he meets Jack, and the plot gets ✨homosexual✨

Something something something, Jack gets his head popped off and this short comic is the result

But wahoo everything turns out fine in the end!

And here’s Kai’s extremely lovely post-canon drawing of them recovered and happy 🥹

❄️ the entire hymnal tag ❄️

[thetravelerwrites]

Yew (Part 1)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences  Relationship: Male Centaur/Male Centaur  Additional Tags: Exophilia, Centaurs, MLM Content Warnings: Amputee, Amputated Leg, Prosthetics Series: Part 12 of Monster Lovers: Shelter Forest  Words:  4,101

Yew finally gets his own fic! Yew makes his very first rescue: a surly centaur dumped on the side of the road. Please reblog and leave feedback!

Ethari was losing his vision rapidly. He hadn’t eaten in days, the fever was taking over his entire body, and the blood loss had rendered him extremely frail. The ranch hands had dropped him on the side of the road somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where. He kept trying to stand, but in his delirium, he forgot that his left foreleg up to the knee was now missing and unable to take any weight, so he continuously stumbled and fell into the mud of the roadside.

He fell for a final time, completely sapped of strength, and as he was losing consciousness, he heard a voice call out.

“I knew it! I saw someone! Mama, hurry!” 

In his dimming perception, he saw a dark face with green-blue eyes and a fluff of white hair haloed around their head. 

“You’re gonna be alright,” They said softly. “Everything’s going to be alright.” 

And Ethari passed out.

When he awoke again, he was inside a stall lying on rough burlap cushions instead of hay or straw and was covered with several blankets to guard against the winter cold. Panicking, he began kicking the walls with his back legs. He had been conditioned not to scream or yell, so kicking was the only means of rebellion or dissent he was capable of. So he kicked hard over and over, making a lot of noise in the process.

“Oi, oi!” A voice called. Ethari saw the face of a handsome man look into the open upper half of the stall door. He had blue eyes, tanned skin, and dark hair. “Could you keep it down? My wife is resting.” 

“Who are you?” Ethari asked aggressively, his voice raspy and harsh to his own ear. “What’s going on, where am I?” 

“Ugh, I hate dealing with pissy, angry males. Yew! Would you come and deal with this, please? I need to look after Hazel.” 

The handsome face disappeared momentarily, and the full door swung open, revealing that the handsome face was attached to a brown centaur body with black socks and a black tail, which flicked back and forth in agitation. He wore a bright red winter coat on his upper body and a matching riding blanket on his back. 

Seeing one of his own kind, Ethari relaxed slightly without realizing it.

“I thought she was feeling better,” Said another voice, almost chirpy sounding, and a beautiful, slender, black-and-white piebald centaur entered Ethari’s vision. Ethari recognized him as the person he’d seen when he was blacking out on the roadside. The skin of his upper torso was so dark that it was nearly black, contrasting starkly with his pale eyes, curly mop of white hair, and long, feathery lashes. He wore a black winter coat and riding blanket, both with intricate white stitching.

“She still needs rest,” The other centaur said, annoyed. There was a knock that came from somewhere in the building, and Birch’s head swiveled sharply to look in that direction. “Keep this guy quiet, would you? If she takes a bad turn, I’m taking it out on him, I don’t care how hurt he is.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yew said, waving him away.

The brown centaur dashed off, disappearing from view, and the black and white centaur came into the stall, which was spacious enough to allow him inside with Ethari comfortably. 

“Sorry about him,” He said, and it was then that Ethari realized he was carrying a tray with fruit and vegetables on it on one arm and a simple brown wool coat in the other. “He’s really touchy when it comes to Hazel. You shouldn’t move around so much, you know, since you were a proper mess to clean up. You've lost a lot of blood; it took my mother ages to stop the bleeding. There were bone fragments in the stump that had to be removed, too, and you’ve got a nasty infection. You’re gonna feel like pounded garbage for quite a while, so try not to reopen the wound and make it worse.” 

“Where am I?” Ethari repeated. “Who are you?” 

“I’m Yew,” The centaur said, setting the tray on a low table nearby. It was one of several items of furniture that seemed designed with four-legged folks in mind. “You’re in a guest stall at my parents’ farm, the barn specifically. You’ve been out for a couple of days. Mama was worried you’d starve. Here, put this on. It’s cold.” 

He held out the coat for Ethari to take, which he did, snatching it out of his hands roughly. Once he had shrugged it on, Yew reached out to touch Ethari, and Ethari flinched, slapping his hand away. 

“Relax, I’m just checking your temperature,” Yew said, knocking Ethari’s hand aside and placing his palm on his forehead. “You’re still feverish, but you’re not boiling like you were two days ago.” 

Ethari swiped at him, his anxiety spiking. “Get off me! What are you people going to do to me?” He asked indignantly, trying to back away from Yew but not getting far. 

“Nothing?” Yew replied, tilting his head. “Other than overfeed you, maybe. My papa is always encouraging people to eat more. Speaking of which, you must be hungry, right? Eat.” Yew motioned at the tray. “Don’t try to stand up yet. We’ve contacted my brother, Cetzu; he’s really good at carving. He may be able to fix you up.” 

“What are you talking about?” Ethari said distrustfully. “What do you mean? What do you people want from me?” 

“Like I said, nothing,” Yew said, moving toward the door. “Eat your food before you pass out again. Keep the noise down, though. Birch’s threats aren’t empty. If you disturb Hazel at all, he’ll knock you on your tail.” 

“I’m already on my tail,” Ethari said sarcastically. 

Yew laughed good naturedly. 

“I suppose that’s true. Eat.” And with that, Yew closed his door.

As soon as there was no one in sight, Ethari began wolfing down the food that was offered. He knew he would make himself sick doing that, but he couldn’t control himself; he was literally starving. Thankfully there wasn’t too much on the tray, perhaps because they knew he would have gorged himself if there was, so he wasn’t grossly over-full. There was a jug of water on the table and he drank deeply from it, not even bothering to use a cup.

After he finished, he made an attempt to stand, only to stumble and fall immediately. Groaning in frustration, he thumped his hands against the floor. Unable to move and suddenly exhausted, despite his anxiety and fear, Ethari passed out once more.

When he woke up again, it was dark. His stall door was open and there was a candle burning on the frame of the door. Yew was kneeling on his belly just outside of his stall door, knotting cord by candlelight. 

“What do you want?” Ethari snapped. 

Yew looked up. “Ah, you’re awake.” He set the cord aside and got to his feet, bringing in another tray of food and taking the empty one. 

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” Ethari asked. “What do you get out of helping me?” 

“Why would we need to get something out of it?” Yew asked, tilting his head again as if he didn’t understand. He reminded Ethari of a puppy he once knew, ages and ages ago. “That’s not something we care about around here.” 

Ethari grunted distrustfully. Yew knelt down next to him and regarded him thoughtfully. Ethari leaned back, glaring at Yew.

“Am I allowed to leave?” Ethari asked. 

“Well, sure,” Yew said. “If you really want to leave, we won’t stop you, but I… can’t imagine you’d get far at the moment. You can’t even stand up yet.” 

Ethari couldn’t argue with that, but he wasn’t about to say it out loud.

“You’re from a ranch, too, aren’t you?” Yew said suddenly. 

Ethari blinked. “Too?” He echoed, surprised out of his wary demeanor. He didn’t need to ask what kind of ranch Yew meant.

“Yeah,” Yew pulled his curly hair aside and showed Ethari the ear with the puncture hole in it from where the cattle tag had been. “My brother, Birch, and I escaped from one years ago when I was seven, from the big continent north of here. Did you escape too?” 

“I don’t know you. I don’t have to tell you anything,” Ethari said hotly.

“No, I know that,” Yew said, but he waited expectantly, his expression open and curious.

“I didn’t escape,” Ethari said eventually, if reluctantly. “There was… an accident.” He shifted his missing leg, and then stopped and winced when the pain got worse. “I couldn’t work anymore, so they were sending me somewhere, but I don’t know where. When they realized I was dying, they dumped me on the road.” He peered at Yew. “How did you know?” 

“You don’t have a tag like Birch and I did, but I can tell. You’ve got whip marks on your flanks and I saw what seemed like shackle marks on your back legs. I’ve seen enough of those in my youth to know exactly what it means.” Yew sighed despondently. “I didn’t realize there were slave ranches here.” 

For the first time, he looked sad and disheartened. It didn’t suit him, Ethari thought. He looked better when he had that big, dopey smile on his face.

“Officially, there aren’t,” Ethari told him. “It’s operating illegally, I gather. That’s why they were sending me away. I heard that legal ranches have to report accidents to the local lord, for compensation. I can’t collect compensation as a slave, and the owners can’t report and out themselves for owning slaves illegally. So they had to get rid of me. I don’t know what their original plan was. I shudder to imagine, though.” 

“Are there others? I mean centaurs, like us?” 

Ethari shook his head. “Only me and two others. They’re still there. They were sold to the ranch from the colosseum in the big city, what’s it called? Dunmountain? Around there. They have debts to pay, so they’re indentured. My mother was also enslaved there, but she died four winters back. I think she was indentured, too, but we never talked about it. She didn’t like to bring it up. But when she died, I inherited her debts, so…”

“Are there others besides centaurs? How many?” 

“A dozen, I think? There could be more I don’t know about, I was confined to the fields and the barn, so there were places on the ranch I’d never seen or entered.”  

“Where is it? The ranch, I mean,” Yew asked, a strange glint in his eye. A hint of anger, perhaps? Another emotion that didn’t suit his face.

“I don’t know,” Ethari admitted. “I was born and raised there. This is the first time I’ve ever been off the ranch in my life.”

“It feels weird, huh?” Yew said with a sad smile. “Like you should be doing something. You’re not used to sitting still in one place, right?” 

Ethari paused and nodded, grimacing. “I feel… off. Out of place. The ranch was terrible, but… it’s familiar. I know what to expect there. All this…” He waved at the stall and gestured at Yew. “I don’t know what any of this is.” 

Yew nodded. “It’ll feel strange for a while. Don’t worry. Everything will be alright.” 

Ethari couldn’t help but allow the corner of his mouth to go up slightly.

“You sound so certain of that.” 

Yew grinned. “I am.” Yew got to his feet and made to leave. “Eat and rest. Don’t worry about a thing. Mama will be in in the morning to check on you, but don’t be rude to her; she saved your life.” He pointed a finger at Ethari in warning, but Yew looked so unserious that Ethari nearly laughed. “One thing you gotta know about me: I’m a mama’s boy through and through, so don’t you go disrespecting my mama.”

Ethari snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The next morning, Ethari was awoken by the door of his stall opening and an older human woman with greying hair entered, wearing a blouse and sensible trousers and carrying a bag.

“You’re not a centaur,” Ethari said. 

“Well-spotted,” She said with a lilt in her voice. “You’ll be hard pressed to find many of your kind on this continent. There are only a handful or so that I know of, besides my boys, and that includes you.” 

“You’re Yew’s mother?” 

“The very same,” She said, reaching out her hand for a handshake. “I’m Ryel.” 

Ethari didn’t take her hand, simply glared at it distrustfully, and she eventually dropped it. 

“I’m here to change your bandages,” Ryel said. “Are you gonna let me do that?” 

“Just don’t do anything funny,” Ethari said, leaning a bit so she could get to the stump. 

“I don’t have a funny bone in my body, child,” She said with a chuckle. Ethari suddenly saw where Yew got his sense of humor. 

“So, Yew’s adopted, then?” 

“Of course,” Ryel said, pulling off the dirty bandages. “All of my children are adopted. My husband and I can’t have children, so we opened our home to the ones who need one.” 

“How many kids do you have?”

“Certainly more than most, but we like it that way. There are always more kids that need homes, and we like being that home. We’ll likely be taking them in until we die, and our kids will continue the tradition. That’s why we started this place.” 

“Hmm,” Ethari hummed, and then winced when she began cleaning the wound. “Is that big brown asshole yours, too?” 

Ryel laughed. “Oh, yes, he’s mine. Don’t take his current attitude to heart, child. He and Hazel got married recently, and Hazel’s been in delicate health lately, and he’s a little frazzled. He’s normally more level-headed.” 

“I don’t care,” Ethari said. “I’m not going to be here long enough to find out.” 

“If you say so,” Ryel said. She began rewrapping the wound. “Although, I’d wager you’ll be here for quite a while. Cetzu, another of my sons, will be here in a few days. He runs an orphanage in Coleville and he hates leaving it for too long, but he’s agreed to help fit you with a prosthetic. You’ll have to wait a few months for your stump to heal before you can even start to get used to using it, but there’s no reason not to start making it now. It can be adjusted once you’re able to wear it.” 

“And how much is that going to cost me?” Ethari asked bitterly. “What am I going to have to do to pay you back?” 

“Well, that’s not necessary, but hands are always helpful,” Ryel said. “Besides, it’s the chilly season, so there’s really nothing to do at the moment. All the canning and jarring is done, and there are only a few winter crops out in the fields right now which they don’t need much tending to and pretty much grow on their own, so there’s not really any need for you to do anything besides recover.” 

He grunted, not sure if he believed her. 

“And more to the point,” She continued as she packed up the medical bag. “You’re not in any condition to be doing any paying back, as it is.” 

“I’ll accept that,” He said begrudgingly. “I guess I don’t need to worry about it for a while, then.” 

“No reason to worry about it at all,” Ryel said with a laugh. “Listen, son, I get why you’ve got misgivings, but really, we don’t expect anything from you beyond getting better. Whatever you want to do once you’re up and about is your prerogative.”

“If you say so,” He replied. 

“You don’t have to believe me, child,” Ryel said, standing. “Rest. Yew will be in soon with your breakfast.” 

“Why him?” Ethari asked peevishly. 

“I suppose he feels responsible for you, having been the one to find you. You’re his first rescue, after all.” Ryel sighed. “You don’t have to like him, you know, but he’s just trying to help.” And she left. 

It wasn’t so much that Ethari didn’t like Yew, it’s just that Yew… was too perceptive. He saw more than Ethari wanted him to see. It made him uncomfortable. And he was too… happy. Ethari was used to being surrounded by those who were beaten down by their lives and circumstances, so he assumed most people were like that. He’d never met anyone who could brighten a room just by walking in it, the way Yew could. It almost hurt to look at Yew. He was like sunlight, but the kind that suddenly flooded a darkened room that light hadn’t touched in years, blinding and painful.

Soon enough, Yew arrived with another tray, just as Ryel said, but Ethari was squirming by the time he showed up.

“What’s up with you?” Yew asked, noticing Ethari fidget. “Did you eat something bad?” 

Ethari growled. “I… have to…” 

“Hmm? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” 

“I need the privy!” Ethari said loudly, embarrassed. 

“Oh!” Yew said, seemingly unfazed. “No problem, I’ll help. Here.” Yew held out his hands. “Stand up. You can lean on me.” 

Still distrustful but slightly desperate, Ethari took Yew’s hands and, after some struggle, managed to haul himself unsteadily to his feet. Yew swung around and used his own body to support the length of Ethari’s body. Slowly, with a lot of help from Yew, Ethari was able to limp out of the barn. Some of the other stalls also seemed to be occupied, but the doors were closed so Ethari couldn’t see inside. 

“Are there other four-legged folk here?” Ethari asked. 

“There’s Reed. He’s a deertaur, really rare. He’s smaller than centaurs, but he’s got antlers, so he needs as much room as we do. I’ve never even seen another person like him.” 

“Neither have I,” Ethari said, surprised. “I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing.” 

“There’s one more, I fibbed. Reed’s daughter is half-deertaur, but she takes after him and has four legs. She got her own stall recently, just turned thirteen. She’s at that age where she doesn’t want to share a room with her parents anymore, you know.” 

“I don’t know, actually.”

Yew laughed. “His son, River, has two legs, like his mother, but he’s got hooves, too. He’s really unique. Lymera has hooves too, but she’s a fawn, so that’s not unusual. She used to stay in the barn, as well. She liked it better than the house.”  

Ethari made a face. “Why are you telling me all this?” 

Yew laughed again. “Because you asked?” 

“I didn’t ask for the roster of your family, I just asked if there were four-legged folks besides you and your surly brother.” 

“True, but it doesn’t hurt to know. Besides, talking takes your mind off the pain. Hurts more when you’re quiet, doesn’t it? Talking distracts you.” 

It was excruciatingly slow progress, but finally they reached the latrine at the edge of the treeline. It was far enough away that the smell didn’t reach the house of the barn, but that meant getting there was an undertaking for Ethari. He was exhausted by the time he got there. He was able to enter by leaning his body against the walls of the latrine and limping inside, but once he had finished his business in there, it took all his strength not to collapse. 

“I need to rest for a moment,” Ethari said, breathing heavily. 

“Here, let’s get away from the latrine first,” Yew said, swinging around to support him again. Yew managed to get him to a patch of moss before Ethari practically fell. 

“I feel like I’m gonna hurl,” Ethari said, his upper torso bent and resting against a nearby tree. 

“Try not to, it’s not good for our kind to vomit,” Yew said, holding Ethari’s hair. “We’re too similar to horses like that.” 

“I’m fully aware of that,” Ethari snipped. “But that knowledge doesn’t help me in this situation.” 

“You want a beer?” Yew asked. “Birch always drinks when he feels sick. Counter-intuitive, I know, but it seems to help him.” 

“A beer would be amazing right now,” Ethari admitted. 

“Be right back,” Yew said, and dashed off. 

Ethari tried to breathe through the nausea, willing himself to keep his breakfast in his stomach, and heard four legs trotting up. 

“I had to fight Birch to get it,” Yew said, handing Ethari a wooden cup. “He really doesn’t like you.” 

“I don’t like him either,” You said peevishly, taking the cup and gulping swallows of the beer slowly. “Don’t you drink? I’ve never met a centaur who doesn’t drink. We were allowed beer even on the ranch.” 

Yew shrugged. “It’s just not for me. I can supplement what I need from alcohol with other things. Besides, I prefer wine, but it’s hard to store wine here. I get it every once in a while as a treat, but I don’t need it all the time.” 

“And you call yourself a centaur,” Ethari said, snickering.

“Hey, don’t tease, I already get enough of that from Birch.” 

You drained the cup and handed it back. “Is Birch the only one who drinks around here?” 

Yew nodded. “Afraid so. If you need more, you’ll have to go through him.” 

“Can’t I just go through you? Wouldn’t he give you some if you asked?” 

“Well, sure, but he knows I don’t drink. You might want to work on getting in his good graces.” 

“Ugh,” Ethari grunted. “I just can’t wait to kiss that guy’s ass.” 

Yew laughed. “All you gotta do is be nice to Hazel. That’s his softest spot. He really loves her.” 

“Hmm,” Ethari hummed, pensive. “I wonder what that feels like.” 

“Me too,” Yew said wistfully. “I’m kind of jealous of them, to be honest.” 

“You’re too young to think that way.” 

“Am I?” He said, tilting his head again. “I don’t think so. I think it’s normal to think about things like this. Being in love with someone is nearly impossible in a place like a ranch, where people are just trying to survive, so I think it’s normal to wonder about what loving someone feels like. Didn’t you just say that?” 

Ethari snorted. “I guess I did. You’re still too young. You’re not even twenty yet, right?” 

“So what?” Yew said, shrugging. “I’m old enough to get married, so I’m more than old enough to wonder.” Yew looked up toward the house. “Ah! Cetzu is here. I expected him to take longer, but he probably just wants to get back quicker. He’s another one who’s a fool for his family.” 

“The orphanage director?” Ethari asked. “And wood carver?” 

“He’s really a jack-of-all-trades type. He’ll fix you up. Do you think you can make it back to the barn?” 

Ethari sighed heavily. “I’ll try.” 

“Let me know if you can’t. I’ll get the boys to lift you like we did the day we found you.” 

Ethari grimaced at the thought. “No, on second thought, I’ll make it. If it kills me, I’ll make it on my own.” He peered up at Yew in an unfriendly way. “Well… help me up, would you?” 

Yew laughed again. “Yes, yes, come on.” 

With Yew’s help, Ethari managed to return to his stall in the barn, though he was so exhausted that he hit the ground as soon as he entered it. He was breathing hard, his heart beating out of his chest. He was in immense pain from that small amount of physical activity.

“I think I’m dying,” He wheezed. 

“No, you’re not dying,” Yew said, helping him out of his coat and covering him with blankets again. “But maybe we should see about fashioning you some sort of bedpan, so you don’t have to move again.”

“That sounds like a nightmare, but let’s do that,” Ethari said. “I don’t think I can move again for a while.” 

Yew laid his body down next to Ethari, covering him with blankets and using his own body to warm him. 

“You’ll be alright, Ethari,” Yes said softly, patting his back. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. You’ve got your whole life left to live, now that you’re out of that place.” He pulled Ethari’s sweat drenched hair away from his face. “Don’t worry,” He repeated. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Ethari lost consciousness, the last sensation he felt were Yew’s fingertips against his forehead.

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