#earthcursed

[comfy-whumpee]

1: Young and Old

Whumptober 2022 #1. @bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @avian-american

None of this was supposed to happen. They were nineteen. Nineteen. They were still earning their degree. They were on placement. They beat the other applicants to a prestigious internship. They observed cutting-edge research. They…

“You found out she was alive.”

The words cut off their rant, and Spencer nods, smiling without humour. “I mean, she is a plant. But. More alive.”

“A dryad is not a plant,” the elder witch admonishes her, amused. Her one eye glints in the sunlight, dark and somehow russet brown. “But I understand the distinction. While plants have voices, they are not sentient as we are. They feel no pain or sadness.”

“Well, that’s good to know, ‘cause I’m pretty sure my Venus flytrap is dead.”

Jhazel laughs, but there is pity in her voice when she tells them, “Perhaps less dead than you think, given your abilities. But carry on. Tell me how you came to know her.”

Spencer sits back in the wicker armchair, listening to it creak. The witch’s cottage was full of old furniture like this, but everything was covered in handmade blankets dyed deep, rich colours, softened by countless hands. The plants arrayed along the windowsill in tiny, mismatched pots gave the air a fresh scent, carried in by the gentle breeze that ruffled the tall trees outside. Jhazel was leaning against the counter of the open kitchen, a mug between her hands, in which was tea that she wasn’t drinking.

“She talked. Picked up words, argued with how they were treating her. I was on the night shift a lot of the time, alone, bored, so I talked back. They said she was just mimicking, like a parrot, but… She used words in different ways to how she’d heard them, and she made her own sentences.”

“You heard her voice.”

“I saw her, she’d say. Many looking, but only me seeing.”

Jhazel inclines her head, accepting the distinction.

“They noticed that she talked to me, so I got… It was kind of a promotion. But not really. A lot of pressure to stay on-site and not go home, obviously it all had to be secret, the research, and then…”

They break off. They pull their glasses off to rub their eyes, dislodging strands of dark hair that fell in dull straggles over their brow, overlong and dry from weeks of nothing but astringent chemical soap. Jhazel has a cream for that, and she makes a mental note to send Spencer home with some.

“Then they decided I was too important…” they force out, dry voice cracking with the effort.

The witch inhales a breath that tastes of her forest. The child sits on her armchair, wrapped in one of her homespun blankets and pale with the effort of not crying, and still doesn’t understand.

“I believe they recognised that you had magic,” she eases the words into the air. “I’m not sure how. But what they did to you was to try and access it, just as they did with Silver Birch. When I came for you, it was because I sensed it too. The earth magic I wield is natural-born, but the dryads strengthen me. You have your own too, and Silver Birch woke it.”

Spencer’s face is a knot of conflict. Disbelief battles wonder. So young and so embittered already.

“You may never have noticed if not for your proximity to her. But there is a reason she chose you.”

“Wish she hadn’t,” Spencer grumbles. “I got…” They cut off without finishing and shake their head roughly. “It’s fine. I fucking deserved it.”

Jhazel doesn’t see the point of arguing with them. She is often called a wise woman, but no counsellor. “Then consider your penance paid. Ask yourself which path you will follow next.”

Sensing the meaning behind the platitude, Spencer turns hunched shoulders to look out of the window, where ancient trees as tall as houses stand around the cottage like sentries, and some of them, not trees at all. Amongst them, Jhazel feels the eddies and gusts of dryadic power, spinning through branches, rustling leaves, and some, clustering at the window to feel out the presence of their new guest.

“Well,” she declares, rising to her feet and handing Spencer the mug of tea. “Drink that. You need strength. And I,” she smiles, eyes flashing bright, “need a protegee.”

[synticfaye]

a npc character for my roleplaying group. It’s good that I am not a player haha I can put all my crazy concepts into the npcs.

She is one of the golden elfs - known for their heavy magic. A’kshia is able to control a group of bears. Mostly that is. Thankfully she is not one for fighting anymore. Very few of these elves ever change their spirit path - but she did and lives now somewhat besides the society with her animals - wandering the seemingly endless forests. The bear in the picture is named bosco (because I got the Idea for her while rewatching the last airbender :D )

[natblidatm-blog]

“i know this hurts, but you have to stay awake.” from anya !

I N B O X M E M E     ( accepting )

THE PAIN WAS NAUSEATING, so much so that it was one of few reasons Lexa was able to keep her eyes from closing entirely. Half lidded and growing increasingly heavier, it was becoming harder to keep herself awake. She had lost so much blood, a consequence of a childish mistake. If this was punishment for her behaviour, then she was ready and willing to accept whatever fate was to befall her. Her limbs were weak, becoming much harder to move as each second passed. It felt as if her blood was thickening inside her — leaving a weirdly satisfying numbing sensation. Her body was fighting against the wounds that had been inflicted upon her, fighting to keep Lexa in this fight. 

❝ I can’t—-  ❞     she blurted out, bloodied teeth gritting and grinding together. Hands desperately clutched at her gut, the last of her energy being used to pressurise the wound in an attempt to help Anya cease the bleeding.  She was an idiot for thinking she’d be given a fair fight, and as a result from her nativity, Lexa had been ambushed and overwhelmed. She fought hard, and won, but the battle was far from over. She didn’t want to die, not yet. There were so many things she had yet to do, so many things left to experience and learn. She’d be damned if she just gave up here and now, especially in front of her mentor. 

If anything, Lexa was angry. With the enemy, but more so herself. Getting herself into such a bad situation by complete impulse showed up her stupidity. Her anger was causing her to become tense, and with each contraction of her abdominals, she couldn’t avoid letting out a pained roar. Even throughout the discomfort and incredible pain, Lexa was berating herself internally and promising that she’d never get herself into this situation again. Never again would she be so weak and allow herself to falter. 

[rainkilled]

for a minute i thought @earthcurse/ @wanlaeda was a stalker because i didnt know who this rando was following me from three different blogs all at once. 

I am pleased to announce that it is not a stalker situation, and in fact the love of my life has returned from war. 

which i probably would have figured out sooner if i had taken like ten seconds to investigate the blogs instead of assuming there was a psycho after me. 

[raigash]

I hope you don't mind that I'm going to keep your ask in my inbox forever <3 <3 I also saw that you found the masterpost, I'm glad! Also, to answer your question on the Birthday drabble, Siobhan is Irish and that's an Irish name. Ellis is half Irish but was primarily raised in the UK. Thank you for liveblogging my fics!

Whatever the opposite of minding something is, I am that times a thousand. I’m so glad I found Ellis’s tag on something last night. I kid you not when I say you absolutely made my night. Your writing is phenomenal!

And someone sent it to me! By the time i got it though, i was about 3/4ths of the way through ellis’s tag because I just went to the very beginning and went from there. I wanted to know everything. I more just wanted it to make sure i hadn’t missed any pieces that didn’t have “Ellis” as a tag on it! I have three more pieces to finish from the masterlist (and I’ll probably scroll back through all of the character tags later) before I move on to another one of your stories! The same person recommended earthcursed and silver birch to me, and I am WILDLY INTERESTED!!! I haven’t looked for them yet, but if you happen to have them handy, I would like to have their master posts to go off of as well

That being said,

you know

Prepare for some more liveblogging

Also, that’s super interesting! I have to look into its meaning and essence more, because it’s such a beautiful name ❤️ Thank you for the answer! And for writing this amazing story! And for being amazing in general!

[comfy-whumpee]

4: Push and Pull

Whumptober #4 a day late because yesterday’s post was today’s and tomorrow’s prompt. Can you see why I got mixed up.

While Jhazel and Spencer visit Silver Birch, Kazesh Adastra puts her wedding ring on the windowsill and plunges her hands into a large sink of hot, soapy water. She sets about scrubbing the breadmaking utensils she has dirtied for today’s breakfast and lunch, sponge sliding around the dough hook’s curve and into each cranny of the loaf tin. The freckles that dust her arms and face glow faintly with an unnatural, yet completely natural light, as if those small dots of gold on her dark skin are constantly reflecting a light that doesn’t touch the rest of her. Kazesh is a star witch, covered in constellations of her own design, holding charges of her power.

Embedded in the land around them are marks of a different kind. A hundred small stones, each one holding a hint of energy. Meteoric iron, easily infused with star magic, is buried glinting in the earth. Amina set each one in place, evenly laid in a ring around their land. Some of the field edges are outside the circle, but the shape is easiest for Kazesh to hold.

The power keeps the wards. The world turns against her own little pocket, making it hard for things to enter without her allowing them in. It Is a constant orbiting pulse of magic, repelling intruders from all sides.

Kazesh feels it even in her sleep. She has been holding the wards since Spencer told them the resources Pike had. He’d hired new staff, new facilities, and security that could still come after their wayward experiment and their imprisoned intern.

She spends every night out underneath the stars, trying to channel enough power to last the barrier for its next day. As she sets the last fork on the drying rack, the thought of doing so again tonight fills her with exhausted dread.

Leaving the kitchenware to dry, she sits down at the table, resting her hands on its familiar wood. Amina made this table for them when they moved in together, ready to take pride of place in their kitchen, at their hearth. She reaches for the bread still sitting out on the board, slathering a slice with raspberry jam still preserved from last summer. It’ll be a month or two before the canes ripen again.

She breathes. The house is momentarily peaceful. The wards hold against everything but the small creatures she allows, and the breeze.

The sound of footsteps prompts her to push her glasses up her nose and straighten, shaking navy-dyed braids from her face. Jhazel opens the door, Spencer trailing behind her with their shoulders hunched as usual, jumper sleeves pulled down over their hands.

“Hey, sweetie,” she greets them, forcing up a smile. “How was Silver Birch?”

“Fine. She’s… Uh, she’s talking again.”

“Oh, that’s great!” She glances quickly at Jhazel, who doesn’t indicate that it isn’t. “I know you got worried when she stopped coming out.”

Spencer shrugs, not making eye contact. “Amina said she was growing more. I just worried.”

“I get it.” Kazesh pats the space on the bench next to her, and Spencer comes over to sit with a faint sigh. The poor child is still recovering, and these trips make her easily tired. They’re all tired, really. “I’d be worried too. But she’s got the best people looking out for her.”

“I guess,” Spencer mumbles. They reach for the bread.

Kazesh gets up to give them space, feeling her bones aching in protest. She goes over to Jhazel. “You okay?”

Jhazel smiles tiredly. “Yes, I’m fine. Silver Birch is growing well and Spencer was able to connect to their magic.”

“Amazing. You look exhausted, if you don’t mind me saying.”

At the hint of concern in her voice, Jhazel glances away for a moment. “I’m alright. I just delivered more magic from the forest.”

“And from yourself, too?” Kazesh tilts her head slightly, ignoring the pain that spreads across her shoulder as she does so. “Your light’s gone dim, ‘Zel. You gave too much again.”

Jhazel looks back at her knowingly. “And yours?”

What about hers? Her feet are tingling and numb. Her hands ache. Her joints are tender. Magical exhaustion is different from witch to witch, but Kazesh is keeping them all safe. She has been for weeks.

“The wards will hold,” she says, and it’s answer enough. After a pause, she adds quietly, “I’ll stop before the bleeding.”

She doesn’t mention that the bleeding has already started. That the larger freckles on her body, underneath her shirt, have opened and closed as they try to hold and release the power of the clear night sky.

[comfy-whumpee]

Northlight: Masterlist

A time traveller who can’t control when and where they land does their best to make friends and share stories. Things wouldn’t be so bad, except for the cult hunting them for their immortalising blood.

Contains: lots of angst, lots of blood, environmental whump, cult/lab whump, and possibly vampires. Read if you like plucky, sarcastic, miserable and autistic whumpees.

The most up-to-date masterlist will always be here.

-

Introduction: House Guest | The Drip | Storyteller

Travels (angst/whump): Damp | Free Lunch | Public Nuisance | Outstayed Welcome

Travels (comfort): Corpsed | Village Vagrant

Friends & Lovers: Rishi | Harley | Melanie | Marisa | Clare | Rory | Angels

Cult 1645 (Complete Arc)

1645

The Pin

The Demon

The First Drink

Several Small Steps

Pledge

Patience Penrose

Bloodletting

Judgement

Investigation

The Vow

Open Wound

The Fire

Through Untold Times

Cult 1946-1971 (Partial Arc)

Catch | Temple Pillars | Summer

Cult 2020 (Arc in Progress)

The Doctor | The Reminder

Pity the Body

Transfer

Blood and Body | Price and Payment | Hurt and Healing

Standalones

Just Desperate – the perils of making friends

The Hunt – crossover piece with Earthcursed 

Bleeding – a narrow escape

Lali – behind the scenes in cult recruitment

[comfy-whumpee]

Lali

CN: discussion of death, terminal cancer, cult recruitment.

@bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @paingineering, @whumpywhumper

-

They serve little cardboard cups of milky tea, and Lali dumps two sugars in hers, because she’s given up on cutting down now that everything’s gone to shit. The cook has made lemon cake again, and she plucks a square of it from the tray to add an extra burst of sweetness, because she fucking deserves it.

Then she sits down on one of the foldable plastic chairs and crosses her arms over her chest and exhales slowly, feeling the hardness of her ribs under her shirt.

The patients are supposed to socialise together in this room, but on good days, Lali just sits on her chair and stares at the television. She tried, at first, but almost everyone here is older than her, and most of them have family that come visit. Plus, a lot of them die. This being a hospice.

Nurse Daniel is playing bridge with two of the old guys. She doesn’t know how he stands it. Mrs Galloway is asleep on the sofa, and Nurse Brigit is trying to get her up and to her bed. Nobody bothers with Lali. She still has enough good days that she doesn’t need constant vigilance. She’s allowed to just come out and sit, and as long as she doesn’t try to do anything taxing, she’s part of the furniture.

Today, though, someone does sit down opposite her. It’s Nurse Fatima, one of the good ones. She’s one of the sweetest people Lali has ever met, she always goes the extra mile, and she’s great to vent to. Lali has spent so much time at the hospice with her, it makes her feel better just to be near.

There are rumours about Nurse Fatima as well. One or two patients swear that her favourites get better care. That once, there was a miraculous recovery that nobody could explain.

People spend a lot of time trying to win over Nurse Fatima. The dying believe all kinds of bullshit. But Fatima seems interested in Lali and nobody else, and it makes Lali feel pretty damn special after it all.

“How are you feeling today, Lali?”

Lali realises she’s been staring at Nurse Fatima this whole time, and looks down at her teacup instead. “Fine. Everything hurts but nothing more than usual.”

Fatima nods. She has round glasses and her caring frown appears just above their bridge. “Have you eaten much today?”

“What’s the point?” Lali shrugs. “I ate what they gave me. And I’ve got cake.”

“But if you’re not in a social mood—”

“When the fuck am I, Fatima?”

The corner of her mouth lifts in sympathetic humour. “I was going to say, if you don’t want to be around the others—”

“Sorry. Shouldn’t have complained. Nothing against the others, honestly, I just…” She sighs, and though she trailed off, Fatima doesn’t speak. Lali takes a breath, and the ache spreads through her whole body like a burn. “I’m meant to be accepting. Everyone else is. But I’m not.”

Fatima seems unsurprised and understanding. “I noticed that. I actually wanted to talk to you about it.” She leans back, and for a moment, her eyes flicker across the room. Nobody is near Lali’s usual corner. “I’m not supposed to be telling you about this. But there’s actually an experimental treatment for your condition that’s being practised in the south. I know because I’ve got a friend who works at the clinic, but… I can’t take you there as a hospice nurse. I’m not allowed.”

For a moment, all Lali can do is blink. “Wait. You mean there’s – there’s another treatment I could get?”

Again, Fatima’s eyes scan the room from behind her glasses. Her voice lowers. “You could. But you’d have to discharge yourself from here. I can take you down, get you there, but… I can’t do that for everyone. I could lose my job. I’m offering it to you because – I think you want it.”

“I want it,” Lali breaks in immediately. “I definitely want it. God, Fatima, to have hope again… I’d do anything.”

Fatima’s smile is warm and proud. “I thought you would. But, listen. It’s a private clinic, non-profit. They have rules about who they’ll treat.”

“Anything,” Lali repeats, her pulse quickening. “This is my life. I have to.”

-

Lali comes to the clinic in Fatima’s car. She doesn’t expect Fatima to have such a nice car, and it makes for a comfortable journey, even with all of Lali’s medical equipment. The building is neat and modern, and as they step inside, it greets them with the sharp, clean scent of lime and sterility.

Lali arrives without any of her worldly belongings. She arrives without telling anybody where she is going. She arrives with her eyes downcast, her hands folded, shepherded in by Nurse Fatima like a supplicant. She initially balked at not bringing anything with her, but Fatima explained: this place is exclusive, a closely guarded secret, and they have to be careful. They have been threatened, even attacked, after people broke confidentiality agreements. The founder gave everything to keep it alive after that, and still works tirelessly to keep the clinics open. Her sacrifice saves lives every day. Lali found it inspiring to hear about, especially coming from Fatima, who never spoke in such admiring tones about anyone.

Lali’s heart is heavy with gratitude. Being received as a patient is a literal fucking lifeline. When Fatima introduces her at the desk, she almost cries to see the welcoming smile from the receptionist. The person who takes her to a treatment room smiles in the same way. Everyone seems so genuinely happy that she is here, that they can help her.

“We can begin immediately,” the doctor says. His smile is so kind. “We can help you, Ms Ahmed. By joining us, you’ll always have access to the care you need.”

He presents her with forms to sign. She puts her name on them all. She would pay for any health insurance, any private fee. She has nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

The contracts are taken back. She is instructed to change. She surrenders her clothes, her jewellery, even her hair tie. “You’re really strict on security,” she observes.

The doctor accosts her with a disapproving frown. “We have to be, Ms Ahmed. Was that not already explained to you?”

She flushes. She shouldn’t be stupid now, when she’s so close. “Yes. It was, I’m sorry.”

He nods. He puts her old clothes into a plastic bin and leads her to the next room, deeper into the building. They do not pass any other patients on the way. Lali was the only one in the waiting room who wasn’t already wearing the plain cotton clothing, loose and comfortable, almost like scrubs.

Fatima is in the next room already, with Lali’s forms and a smile.

“First round, then you’ll be with others in patient accommodation. There’ll be orderlies there to make sure you’re doing well. You’ll also have the chance to learn more about what we do.” Fatima explains this while the doctor reads her medical history, and Lali sits on a padded table and shivers in her new clothes. “And this is a lifetime commitment to treatment, so you’ll always have a place to stay if you need to, even after this bit where we keep you for observation.”

Lali nods. It sounds reasonable enough. Cancer doesn’t just go away forever when you fix it.

“It will be good to meet people like you,” Fatima adds. “People who didn’t give up, who wanted more and fought for it. You’ll understand each other and support each other. Most of them will have been here longer too, so they’ll help you find your way around.”

“Okay.” It feels like so much. Lali keeps her eyes on the doctor. He’s extracting something from a vial, mixing something…

“I’m so glad you came, Lali,” Fatima tells her. “I’m so, so glad you joined. It’s the start of your new life.”

Life, Lali thinks. What she’s been missing all this time.

The doctor turns with a small plastic cup in his hand. Lali accepts it from him and looks down, but it just seems like slightly cloudy water.

“You won’t see a difference straight away,” Fatima explains. She sounds so excited for Lali’s sake. “But over time, you’ll heal. You’ll recover, Lali, we can help you recover. All you need to do is drink.”

It feels so easy. She feels so damn lucky. She raises her cup. “Here’s to life.”

To that, she drinks. It tastes of nothing, but a metal aftertaste lingers on her tongue when she puts the cup down.

“Welcome,” Fatima says, her eyes shining. Her smile borders on exultant. “You are now one of the Panacea Alliance.”

[comfy-whumpee]

Blossom

@iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @avian-american

The trees are goliaths. They tower over her, staring down with thick, dark leaves of green and greyish trunks cracked with silver like kintsugi. There are small paths between them, some worn by human feet, some by animal tracks, and others by rivulets of recent rain. Flowers sprout and ferns tangle, fed by the fertile earth. Spring is bountiful and sumptuous in the forest.

Jhazel places her hand on Spencer's shoulder with a wise smile. "You can feel it. The majesty of it."

Spencer nods, too awestruck to speak. She can feel the age of this forest in the air, see it in the huge trunks and deeply knotted roots. She can smell the life that lives here and feel the pulse of what must be the dryads who live in these trees.

"None of them are like Silver Birch," Jhazel tells her. "But you can see the resemblance."

It's like going to a school friend's house and seeing their likeness in their parents. This is what Silver Birch would look like if her tree was allowed to grow for generations, all of her bark grown in and her branchlike antlers turned into a full crown. She would be a tree herself, then. It's hard to think that some of these trees are as alive and aware as her friend.

There's a faint rustle in he leaves, something off-tempo with the breeze. Jhazel chuckles quietly. "They're welcoming you."

Looking around, Spencer finds herself drawn to one nearby tree, not as tall or heavy as its neighbours. The crags of its bark are deep, with a glimmer of the old silvery colour underneath, the one that gave Silver Birch her name. Spencer, without thinking, lays a hand on the bark and whispers, "Hello."

Another rustle that she could almost imagine was the forest returning her greeting.

When she turns, Jhazel is smiling warmly. "One of the youngest," she says, eyes tracking the trunk up to its spindly growth of leaves. "Silver Birch was the youngest of them all, but this one is only a decade old. I saw it grow from sapling to this."

Spencer will be thirty by the time Silver Birch gets that tall. "Do you plant them yourself?"

Jhazel shakes her head. "The dryads rarely need my intervention in their life cycle. The forest animals take care of it. A wolf or a fox might carry a seed to the right place. Birds and worms will feed it. No predators will eat from it. The whole forest understands the dryads, and…" her eye fixes Spencer in its gaze, "now you do too."

Spencer frowns, tugging her sleeves over her hands self-consciously. "Me? How do you know?"

"Hold out your hand."

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Spencer supposes. She holds out one hand, fingers splayed. She feels terribly like she's about to be taught a magic spell.

Instead, a creamy-white butterfly lands on one outstretched finger, just for a moment, and then flies away. A moment later, while Spencer is still gaping in shock, Jhazel steps forwards and hugs her firmly. "The forest knows you, Spencer," she says, with a strange lightness in her normally heavy voice, some kind of joy uplifting it. "It knows your magic."

"I don't--"

"You do. Inside you is a seed of power. You spent so long with Silver Birch that it took root in you, and found you fertile soil to grow. You have a natural inclination to the earth."

"I…" Spencer looks down at her hand, speechless. It feels like it has to be a dream, but it definitely happened. A butterfly on her fingertip. "I'm magic now?"

"We all have a little magic. Yours is developing. You are still young, and your aptitude has been…pollinated, I suppose. It takes soil and a seed. I was the same at your age."

Spencer looks up at the earth witch, who seems older than time, and look yet younger than Spencer's parents. "I'm going to be one of you?"

"If you want to be." There is hope, bright in Jhazel's dark eyes. "I would be your teacher. The forest would be your home."

Spencer's eyes widen. "She said that once. That I belonged in the forest."

"Silver Birch knows many things without understanding them. She calls you her human, and I can see why." Jhazel's smile is a brilliant beam of sunlight. "The forest chose you. Silver Birch saw only a small part of it, but her view is just as important as the rest of the dryads. If you would like, Spencer Drew… You could be the next custodian."

"Bullshit," Spencer mutters instinctively.

Jhazel only keeps on smiling. And above them, the trees rustle without breeze, in the sound of gentle laughter.

[comfy-whumpee]

Sapling

Whumptober Day Four: “Do you trust me?”

@iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @avian-american

The creature is a fledgling, feather-tufted wings and the first few jumps from the tree. The creature is a young buck, exploring their limits. The creature has a terrible body, hairless and weak, top-heavy and slow to move. The creature’s name is Spencer.

The knowledge of the dryad of the forest underneath lies deep within the sapling and the soil and the seed. Sometimes things leak free.

She has a mouth like Spencer’s and a face set in her tree. She can speak and Spencer answers, and she can think, and she can see.

The creature comes to her every day. The dryad expands the body-tree into a thick, sturdy young trunk, with a healthy foliage of green leaves, a hint of grey in their shine against the light. She has magic, reserves to draw on in the distant echoes of the forest that the other creatures bring her. But while there is the sense of home in these creatures and the power they bury in her soil, in Spencer, the dryad feels something different. Something familiar and forgotten, like an early morning spring chill that matches the feel of autumn exactly.

These sensations pass through the dryad without pause for thought, like a great wind shaking her leaves. The only thing that changes the eddies and swirls of the sensation are the noises the creature makes.

Spencer communicates with the dryad, using patterns of noises that the dryad’s ancient knowledge can split and parcel into meanings.

The dryad learns the creature’s name, this way. Spencer. The dryad learns her name, too. Silver Birch.

She learns that the home-feeling creatures are Jhazel and Amina, and they are witches of the earth, and custodians present and past, of the forest to which she must return. She learns there is another witch, a witch of the stars, and her name is Kazesh. It is Kazesh who protects the sapling Silver Birch from harm. It is Kazesh, too, who supports Spencer, on the days when their terribly-designed body fails them and they shiver in the air, leaning heavily against her.

The dryad gains language, and clarity in her thoughts, as the ideas brought by Spencer take shape into images and sensations learned from centuries of communion with other living creatures. From thought comes imagination, and Silver Birch wonders where Spencer came from, and how they came to feel so much like kin. They are human, like the witches, but not a witch. Or not yet, perhaps.

-

“Do you trust me?”

The knowledge comes with each word, the gaps filling before Silver Birch has even recognise them. Trust shines out, the most important of the words. The others move and tangle around it, and Silver Birch speaks them in the order that matches her mind. “Trust you.” She adds the extra information needed to shape the thought into a solid invective. “Trust you, Spencer.”

The answer seems to bring Spencer pain. They shove their hands deeper into their manmade pelt. Their shoulders hunch. “You don’t remember what happened before.”

Before. Silver Birch replies, “Don’t remember before.”

“Yeah.” Spencer looks away, as though checking for predators in the clearing around them. Perhaps they feel exposed without any coverage. Perhaps that’s why they bury so deeply into their pelt. “I sucked, before. I watched people do a lot of bad stuff to you.”

Bad. The words shuffle and swirl and Silver Birch threads them together. “Spencer bad to me?”

Their facial features shift. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“Kind of Spencer? Kind of bad?”

“Uh… Kind of me. Kind of other people. Mostly.”

Silver Birch felt a real breeze brush over her and let her leaves rustle loudly, the closesy she could make of Kazesh’s laugh. “Other people sucked.”

Spencer laughs too, shoulders jumping without sound. “Other people still suck, Sil’birch.”

The word was still. Silver Birch let that concept-word sit for a moment, thinking on it. It was a word for long befores. “Don’t suck still, Spencer.”

“I’ll try not to.”

-

The dryad is called Silver Birch. Sometimes Sil’birch. Sometimes Silb. Spencer, the human who felt like herself, has given her this name. She accepts it as a gift for a being whose individuality is… Too complex to manage with her limited development.

Silver Birch develops longer hair, straighter shoulders, and slowly, she learns to trust not only Spencer, but the other creatures too. The witches are all different, and all supported Spencer in their own ways.

As the avatar of the dryad develops into its own form, there is only one witch available with an achievable appearance to model herself from. It feels a little odd, to know she was no longer silver, but it is always safer to have the shell of bark around her. Her whole self has grown from the seed, everything else is designed for its protection. A human guise will support that, catch the empathy of the other creatures, and the star witch has the body easier to emulate.

“You look different,” Spencer tells her one day, unhealthy pallor giving way to sun-warmed skin. “You always looked creepy, before. Like uh, like the guy who kidnapped you. Pike.”

“Always different,” she answers, with acceptance.

“Every time you come back?”

“Always.”

“Huh.”

There’s a silence, which passes like a breeze, completely natural. Spencer shifts from foot to foot. “You look like Kazesh.”

“Kind of Kazesh. Kind of Sil’birch.”

Spencer hesitated, their mouth open to object. But then they smiled, huffed a faint sigh, and sat down next to her tree. “Kind of a whole fucking weirdo, Silv.”

Silver Birch looked down at her human and moved her mouth to echo the smile. “Yeah.”

[comfy-whumpee]

Flare

It’s an OC Debut!

@iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @avian-american

Sun witch. It was obvious the moment he walked through the door. Warm-toned brown skin, eyes with a golden tint, and a kind of intensity to his walk, as though the way he was moving was the way he had moved since the beginning of life.

It had been a year or more since she’d met one. Annalise smiled brightly, straightening in her chair, raising a hand to hail the teenager over. He looked to be about nineteen. A late bloomer, for a sun witch. Not as late as a star or moon… But still late enough that it had probably come as a surprise. A second adolescence, with new and complex powers.

“Miss Geier?” the boy asked, hesitating at her table.

“That’s me,” Annalise agreed with a smile, offering her hand to shake. The boy leaned over and shook, before taking the seat opposite her. He glanced at the lunch menu on the table before turning his gaze back to her, eyes roaming over her face.

She waited patiently, smiling. She knew she was a sight. One eye was pale, milky blue-grey, the other a stronger cerulean. Her hair was black and tied back with a silver clip at the nape of her neck, but at certain angles, there appeared to be red strands in it. Light brown skin had a pale white patch around her lighter eye, with some barely-healed scarring around its edges. Her freckles were too pale for her skin tone. She looked bizarre.

And she knew that. So she waited, while the sun witch looked between her different parts.

When his gaze returned to her eyes, flicking between them as though he wasn’t sure which to use, she spoke, in a slightly husky, pleasant voice. “I did some research after we spoke on the phone. Can you tell me when you first noticed the changes?”

He blinked, clearing his throat. “Two…two weeks ago.” He shuddered. “It was, was bad. I was in a car accident. It was like a surge of heat… I got trapped in, i-in a small space, and when I pushed against the – the car door, it warped, like it was molten… My hands burned. I felt like I had a fever but – but the worst thing was the way I could feel my own pulse. Not like normal, like after exercise, but… It hurt, how hard my heart was beating, like, like my blood was boiling.”

Annalise listened to the story with a serious expression, nodding at each detail.

“I got out,” he finished, looking down at the table with his shoulders hunched. “And since, since then, I’ve been… I’m always warm. And the daylight feels – feels different. I can tell if it’s sunny before I even open the curtains. I never squint anymore in the light. And sometimes, I, I heat things up just by holding them.”

Annalise nodded more sharply, and he fell quiet. “The first thing I want to tell you is that all of this is normal,” she said soothingly, releasing some of the tension that had wound into his back. “Magic often reveals itself when you’re in danger or under stress. It is often difficult to control, at first. It can change or enhance your senses, give you feelings that you’ve never felt before, help you know things you wouldn’t have been able to know before… All of this is normal.”

He took a shaky breath and tried to smile. “Thank you. That, that means a lot to hear.”

She smiled back. “Of course. It’s a scary time. I think you’ve had a particularly difficult time because… Well, it sounds like you’re unusually strong. To melt metal like that…”

He blinked. He looked down at his hands. “Am… Am I?”

Annalise shifted forwards in her chair, using her arms to support her. “Yes. For beginner magic, that amount of power is a hindrance. It has its own will. Have you noticed unusual sensations while you’re tired or distracted? Have you had trouble sleeping, nightmares perhaps?”

He took an uneven breath and nodded, running a hand over his hair. Poor boy.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry. There is a straightforward solution. You can store your magic, put some into an object, infuse it. When you’re ready, you can draw the rest of your power out again. Controlled.” She tipped her head to the side, voice low, warm as a hearth. “Make sense?”

Amber eyes. It had been so long. His magic would be warm. He nodded again, taken along by her confident explanation. “Yes, that… That sounds good.”

Annalise reached into the bag on her lap, drawing out some objects. A smooth oval of yellow topaz, a tissue-wrapped piece of charcoal, a vial of helium, and the pressed head of a sunflower in an envelope of brown parchment. She laid them on the table.

“Which of these appeals to you? It varies, person to person. One of these will feel like the easiest, the most familiar. Push your magic into that object. You may need more than one.”

He hesitated. “It… It won’t hurt?”

“No,” she reassured him. “It may feel tiring, but that’s just because you’re actually using your magic at will. Touch them. Try.”

He reached out. Annalise picked up her iced coffee and took a sip, watching with sharp eyes as his fingers brushed the vial, then the sunflower, and settled on the piece of charcoal.

She heard his breath catch slightly. “I can feel it.”

“Take the warmth you can feel. Imagine it flowing out, into the charcoal. Magic is very intuitive. Too intuitive, sometimes.”

He frowned in concentration, brows lowering over those bright sunshine eyes. A soft oh left his mouth absently as she felt the wellspring of magic begin to flow in him. His eyes seemed to become brighter, burning, as it moved through his body into the infusion.

Annalise licked her lips. Her long nails slid down the arm of her chair, holding herself back.

It was a minute before the flow started to slow. The boy blinked, some of his light dulling, skin paling. He looked at Annalise, eyes a little wide, a little nervous. “Is… Is that it? Or should I keep going?”

“Keep going,” she told him, urged him when he hesitated, “until you can’t give out any more. It’s the best way.”

“It – it feels cold.”

“That’s normal,” she replied, voice layered with something coarse and alluring. “It’s alright, David. Keep going.”

He shivered, but he pushed harder, until his eyes were fluttering. It felt awful, of course. Ice climbing up your spine, frost lining your lungs, all of those terrible effects of magic drain.

Young witches could be so naïve.

By the time the flow sputtered to a stop, the boy was pallid, dizzy with exhaustion, and his eyes were a faded hazel.

Annalise reached out, and took the warm piece of charcoal from under his limp hand.

“Your magic will be manageable now,” she told him, tucking away her possessions. She sipped the last of her coffee, the straw rattling against melted chips of ice.

Hazy eyes rose to look at her, lost. “My… You’re taking it?”

“Yes, I am.” She wheeled back from the table. “But don’t worry.” The layers returned to her voice, powered by the earth magic she had stolen two months ago, lending its charismatic weight to her words. “Don’t worry. You’ll be happier like this, with your normal life back.”

“And…you?”

Annalise gave him a condescending look. She brushed her hair back from her cheek, fingers tracing the star-like freckles that had once belonged to a young woman like him. She decided not to answer, instead nudging the joystick on the arm of her chair to take her out of the café.

Her left eye would be green, by tomorrow.

[comfy-whumpee]

The Hunt

@lonesome--hunter, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @ishouldblogmore, @lektricwhump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @whumpywhumper, @avian-american

TW: minor character death.

Happy birthday to @wildfaewhump, whose support, writing and tags continue to nourish me and many others every day.

They can only pray that the forest is big enough to hide them.

 It looks old, the kind of forest they didn’t think existed anymore, one that has been where it is for long enough that Northlight can taste its age in the air. It is deep and dark and thick with trees, and they pelt headlong into its depths with pounding bare feet, moving only with a single thought.

 Can’t let them catch me.

 It’s sometime around the new millennium, judging by the faint sound of cars on their approach and the street lamps across the road. The people chasing them, though, are on horseback, dressed to the nines like they’re going to model. They’re wearing cream and ivory and black helmets and carrying sticks to beat their horses onwards, and there are dogs, too.

 A hunting pack. And Northlight is the prize.

 The tree roots are thick enough to trip on, but Northlight is sure-footed, used to losing their balance and ending up in different places. Today, though, is a rare day, when they can’t quite pull away from the time they’re in. They run and run and the skin of time around them stretches out, but they can’t burst through it with force like this. And they can’t make themself stop long enough to tip through it instead. They’ll be caught, and these people are definitely from the cult.

 Nobody else would start charging for Northlight the moment they appeared.

 Northlight doesn’t know how they found out about this moment, but can spare it the odd thought while they jump and skip over tree roots and splash through water-logged leaves in a lake of mud. Have they told the cult about this day, in an earlier time? Did they somehow let it slip that they would be there, here, even though right now they have no idea where they are? Does someone else get a story from them later, earlier, that makes its way back to the cult? It’s the risk of a storyteller’s life, that they have to give things away, and enough people will remember their face to know later, when asked, that this is the person Constance Irene is looking for.

 The dogs bark and bay. The men on their horses shout to each other. They’re spreading out, not competing but cooperating for the capture. Their movements are slowed by the forest’s density, the lack of light making it hard for them to find their way, but they won’t lose their prey as long as the dogs can still hear or smell them.

 Northlight’s heart is pounding and their legs aching from the constant jumps and hops, but they don’t stop. They need to find running water, to lose the scent and get a moment’s pause to recover. They daren’t teleport like this, in the artificial dusk with so many obstacles, and trying to timeslip in a rush could leave so many things behind.

 But when they pause to take a breath, the sound of a scuffling dog chases them onwards, as if teeth were already nipping at their heels.

 The men on their horses do not stop, only hesitate and fumble. Branches snag them and disturbed birds fly across their path. Horses are easily spooked, even those trained for the chase.

 But the dogs don’t stop. They run and run, eager with the scent of Northlight’s blood in their noses. If the dogs get them, they’ll be on the ground and mauled before the humans can even catch up.

 How long have they been training for this day?

 Northlight bolts through an opening in the foliage to find themself facing a gigantic tree. They know that if they stretched out their arms, they would not be able to hug this monolith more than a quarter of the way around. And it is a wild one, grown almost like a field tree, with low branches all around it, although it is no longer in a clearing. There’s just enough variation in height for Northlight to start climbing. The leaves are thick enough to hide them. It’s only if the dogs give it away…

 The bark is firm under their fingers and toes, just rough enough to hold their grip with ease. Not a single one snaps under their weight, even as they climb riskily, sacrificing safety for speed. Eventually, they are high in the branches, fully concealed with only a small parting in the leaves to let them see the hunters’ approach.

 The dogs arrive first, barking and dancing around the tree, scrabbling and even attempting to climb it, but getting nowhere. Northlight hugs the trunk and half-hides behind it, watching with heaving breaths growing thin in fear.

 The humans appear. They circle the tree, searching its branches, but Northlight seems to be fully concealed. Nevertheless, they seem to know their prize is hanging there. One of them reaches for a branch to test his weight, and it snaps.

 The next one does too.

 Somewhere distantly overhead, a hawk cries out in a sharp screech.

 “What business do you have in Argenwood?”

 Northlight freezes at the volume of the voice, deep and sonorous and commanding with heavy magic. They look towards the source, and the leaves part to show them a figure, tall and strong with a confidently raised chin and a gardener’s shovel in her hand.

 “Hunting wolves,” the closest man replies, the lie dropping easily from his mouth.

 The threes rustle. The newcomer, a woman, frowns. “These are not hunting grounds. The wolves here are the last wolves of England, and are protected. Leave.”

 “Who are you?” someone else asks rudely.

 “I am the custodian of this forest. It is my legal right to eject trespassers. Especially those who wish to harm any creature within it.”

 Someone else begins to speak, and is silenced by a sharp kick from his companion.

 “We will not leave until we have completed our hunt,” the first man says, clearly thinking himself to sound very grand. “We advise you to stand away, madam.”

 There’s a pause, in which Northlight imagines the custodian to roll her eyes.

 Then, all hell breaks loose.

 She takes off running, just as a dozen large birds descend from the trees, screaming as if hunting themselves and thoroughly unnerving the horses. Hooves rear in the air, whinnies screech into something close to screaming, and humans hit the ground one after the other as their mounts bolt. Northlight cowers close to the tree as the woman strides forwards and swings with the shovel towards the first man’s head, smacking against his helmet hard enough to knock him aside.

 Northlight flinches, turning into the thick bark of their tree, and the breeze that blows softly ruffles the leaves into a screen.

 The sounds that follow are percussive bangs, followed by thumps and groans. The horses are long gone and the dogs, too, seem to have fled from their masters. The witch is soon the only one still moving, her heavy footsteps circling the unconscious hunters.

 As Northlight shivers in the tree, waiting for her to notice them, she begins to dig what appears to be a grave.

 An earth witch. They’ve never met one before. Famously stubborn, powerful and wise, with fierce tempers more often than not, they’re a terrifying breed. This one must be part of the forest, her power as ancient as what grows here. Northlight knows that if they head her voice up close, it would feel like nourishing earth and scratching bark.

 As it is, though, she is preoccupied with the bodies she has created. Unknowingly, she has saved them. As she drags the first person into the hole she has created, though, Northight wishes that she hadn’t.

 Half a dozen dead.

 They hug the tree one last time, whispering thanks in the old English. Then, they sway on their branch.

 Ah, it males sense now. Old, rooted magic holds them closer to this time.

 They swing back, then forwards, and break through the leaves of time into a new era. The witch will never know who was there.

 Blood seeps into the soil of Argenwood.

[comfy-whumpee]

Sap

@whumptober2020 Day 23: Exhaustion. Requested by @lektricwhump.

Taglist: @lonesome--hunter, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @avian-american

“You’re putting too much of yourself into her, Jhazel.”

Jhazel’s head turns sharply. Amina has approached on her blind side, where the eye patch sits over the source of the scar across her brow and cheek. The older woman is leaning against a tree stump as big as a car, arms folded.

“Save some for yourself.”

Jhazel looks down. Where she kneels in the soil, a tiny bud of plant pokes out. It’s a stem of silvery bark and two faded green leaves. It’s the dryad’s tree, her life, cultivated by the two witches and the wife. Jhazel takes her fingers from the earth around the stem, and feels her connection loosen.

There is a circle of silver thread and daisies around the stem, woven by Kazesh to keep predators away from an easy meal. The soil is fed richly with nutrients by Amina every day, now that Spencer is well enough to have a break from facing her lost friend. Well enough to be separated. That child...

Jhazel had known the morning after the dryad had been taken. The trees had told her, the birds had shouted, even the wolves had been howling. The whole forest had grieved, and Jhazel had searched... And she hadn’t found her until a bird came, months later, a bird sent by the dryad herself to summon the woman who was supposed to protect the ancient ones.

Kazesh had made the circle. Amina fed the soil. Jhazel’s role is to pour her magic into the little tree and encourage it to grow.

“Zel,” Amina says sharply, seeing hands push back down into the soil. “You need that magic.”

“The magic came from the forest,” Jhazel says tightly. “I’m just giving it back where it is needed. I’ll recharge when I go home.”

“That’s not how it works.” Amina moves forwards, hands landing over Jhazel’s shoulders. “I’ve held that magic too. I know what happens when it runs dry. Come on.” She tugs Jhazel back, and then up. “We can’t have two of you wrecking yourselves over guilt.”

She knows. She knows it’s a bad idea. But she’s already gone too far. She can feel it, moving under her skin, trying to flow out as its brethren has. The magic inside her was never hers to begin with. It’s a gift, borrowed, for as long as she protects the forest. When she fails, or retires, it will be passed on. Just as Amina passed it onto her.

She’s already failed, though. She doesn’t deserve the magic anymore.

“Stand, Zel. At least show me you can still do that.”

Jhazel tries. Her whole body dissolves. Amina catches her.

“Get a grip, Jhazel!” Her limp body is hoisted over one large shoulder, and Amina starts to walk. “You couldn’t find her, I couldn’t find her, none of the people we spoke to could find her. She was vanished. It was planned and deliberate and there was nothing you could do.”

A tear slips, stinging, out of Jhazel’s eye.

“Right now, you can act. You can help the dryad, of course you can, but there’s a human here who needs you too. They need healing, they need care, and they need someone who actually knows what it’s like to watch someone you love get taken apart at someone else’s whim.”

Denny. Jhazel feels young again, small again, an orphan teenager being shown how to diagnose a flower by the witch of the forest. Amina has always carried her.

“We’re taking care of you too. You’re staying here. I’ll go to Argenwood and keep things ticking over. Alright?”

“You’re meant t-to be retired,” Jhazel protests, her voice crackling with tears.

“Mothers never retire,” Amina says flatly, as they arrive at the farmhouse. “If you need me, I’m there. Understand?”

Jhazel sighs as she’s set down on the bench in the kitchen. She rubs her eye. “I love you too,” she mumbles.

Amina pats her on the shoulder. “You always forget you have a family here,” she says, her stare heavy brows and bright, fond eyes. “I’ll make tea. Cry.”

She doesn’t want to. But heavens, she needs to.

Amina pulls a knitted blanket around her shoulders, and gives her a quick hug in strong arms. “That’s it. You’re alright. Everyone’s safe, child.” She strokes Jhazel’s hair, braids weaving and unravelling as her fingers pass through, a touch of her old magic. “Everyone’s safe.”

[comfy-whumpee]

The Custodian

Who’s ready for a long-deserved scoop? @avian-american you are my whole tag list and I love and appreciate you.

When the door to her cell opened in the middle of the night, Spencer stirred from their daze, unsurprised that they were being disturbed. It was impossible to sleep in this room anyway. Ever since their outburst over the root operation, the fluorescent strip lights on the ceiling were left on twenty-four seven. The tiny bed had no pillows or blankets to cover their face with, and while they were provided with two alternating sets of laundered clothes each week, they didn’t have anything to cover their eyes that wasn’t busy covering something else. They were damned if one of the scientists was going to see them naked.

 So Spencer was awake, if not alert, when the door opened. They reached for their glasses.

 Standing in the doorway looking at her was a tall, wiry woman with long dark hair and a patch over her right eye. Her other eye was dark and sharp, her mouth painted deep red, and her clothing looked halfway between wild woman and vintage store. Spencer had never seen her before, and she was definitely not a scientist.

 “Spencer Drew,” she said, unsmiling. “Come with me.”

Spencer dragged their body to its feet, head swimming with the effort. The technically-sufficient protein bars they were given to eat had never quite been enough, and that was undoubtedly deliberate, measured out as stringently as everything else in this fucking lab. But they got upright, and then followed as the woman turned back out into the main lab.

 It was silent. Spencer looked for the night guard, and didn’t see him. Weird.

 They stepped out after her into the spotlighted courtyard, shivering in the chill of the night. The dryad was already waiting, liquid eye fixed on the door. She was fully peeled away from her tree, now, two peg-leg feet standing on the earth independently.

 “Spencer Drew,” Silver Birch said, and shit, that was what the woman said too, wasn’t it? Not Subject Two. “To forest, now. No experiment.”

 Spencer swallowed. “The forest? Is that who – she is?”

 “Yes,” the woman replied for herself. She turned, and extended a hand, that Spencer took. “My name is Jhazel Hollowdine. I’m the custodian of Argenwood – the human representative of the dryads.”

Her hand was cool and her grip was gentle as Spencer shook. They knew about the custodian, the ranger paid to maintain the forest, but didn’t think she’d ever actually catch up to them. Pike had seemed assured that the issue was taken care of through bribes and overlong paper trails and shell companies and whatever else. But she was here, severe, and clearly ready to mess things up.

 They turned back to Silver Birch. “You’re getting out, I’m... I’m glad.”

 “No. You...” the dryad paused, seeming annoyed.

 The custodian was now focused on the earth, which had started rumbling quietly, like a purring engine. But without lifting her head, she said, “Good, bad, yes, no, why, what, where, when, how.”

 Silver Birch smiled. She’d grown jagged teeth a while ago, and most of them were still there. “You are good,” she said, giving Spencer that look that seemed to pierce them. “Here is bad. You and forest. Not you and here.”

 Spencer closed their eyes with a sigh. “Thank you, but – I can’t.”

 “Why?”

 “I just – I don’t belong in a forest, Silver Birch.”

 “Humans can belong in a forest. Good humans. Intelligent.” Silver Birch looked to the custodian, who smiled without looking up. The earth was moving now in the dark, although Silver Birch seemed unperturbed, her gaze unwavering.

 “Where, if no? Where Spencer, if not forest?”

 Fuck. The goddamn tree had a point. They were trapped in the lab now, and if they were freed, they would go home – the address to which was on their CV. They could hide out with their parents or at a motel, but Pike had stolen an entire tree from protected land. He’d be able to find them.

 Maybe they should see this through, just until they know the threat of the lab was gone. They could probably be chased, or sued, or...recaptured.

 “If I did, where would I go?”

 “Forest,” Silver Birch repeated, as if it were obvious.

 “What would I do for money?”

 “Money,” repeated Silver Birch derisively. “Forest has no money.”

 “I need food.”

 “Forest has food.”

 “I – my whole life is here, Silb.”

 “What life? I’m experiment. You, experiment too.” Silver Birch’s eyes lowered, in an imitation of sadness, and then rose again to fix them with her stare. “Forest has no experiment.”

 “And I can help with the pragmatics,” the custodian offered. “You’ll be the first human to be sheltered in the forest, but by no means the first creature.”

 Pike wouldn’t let them leave. Even if – especially if he lost his precious dryad. Without a Subject One, all his experiments would be left to them, and fuck – they couldn’t lose limbs like she could.

 “Alright,” they sighed, the breath catching the edge of a sob. “I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?”

 “Forest is choice,” Silver Birch retorted. “You make good choice, Spencer Drew.”

 No, I really fucking don’t.

 “There,” the custodian said suddenly, her deep voice thrumming with something powerful. Spencer looked down, and saw the dark earth rising slowly and then falling away around a spot under her hand. “See you on the other side, ancient one.”

 “Thank you,” Silver Birch replied, and all at once, wilted.

 Spencer stared in shock as the person they had come to know shrivelled up like autumn was passing a month a minute, until before they could catch their breath, Silver Birch was a collection of falling, desiccated leaves and crumbling bark. She fell away from the tree she had grown around as if she had been an invasive plant rotted from the core, and in moments, there was nothing left of her but her tree.

 She turned to the custodian. “What did you do?” they shrieked.

 The woman was on one knee, her hand cupping something carefully. Her fingers were stained with soil. She took a pouch from her pocket and put away the – something – glimmering in the light – and pulled the drawstrings tight.

 “The soul seed,” she said, getting up and gesturing for Spencer to follow her. “The essence of every dryad. The best way to remove her from the enclosed space we have here. Not taken lightly, but safe. I can’t hurt them, like this. Almost nothing can.”

 “So she’s got to regrow? How long does that take?”

 “Depends where we go,” she said. She pulled open the door to a battered red car. “I know somewhere that can get her back within the month.”

 A month. A month without Silver Birch, when Spencer’s whole life had revolved around the thing for almost half a year.

 “What do I do until then?”

 The custodian smiled. Her car smelled of cloves, and Spencer could have sworn the bird perched on its bumper was watching them.

 “Until then, I think we might be able to teach you a few things.”

[comfy-whumpee]

Things Lost

“And now...this.”

 “Yeah.”

 A white square blocked out a chunk of Jhazel’s face, secured by the wrap of bandages. Tape fringed the edges of the gauze, pale across her light brown skin. The visible eye was downcast, ringed by shadow and deepened by pain. The stain was gone. The taint, the price she had paid for abusing her magic, had run its course. A scar now ran from brow to cheek.

 Across from her bed was the sturdy oak chair she’d saved from a skip and fixed. Ensconced in the chair was a large woman with a short quiff of brown hair and a heavy brow over a serious expression. Dark blue eyes held Jhazel’s stare. She was peeling potatoes without looking. Her name was Amina.

 “I ruined everything.”

Amina’s head tilted, silver piercings in her ears and nose catching the light. “Don’t be stupid,” she said, her voice deep and coarse like unmilled grain. “You fucked up good, for sure, but you didn’t ruin everything. You always think in extremes.”

 Jhazel frowned, her nose scrunching a little. It was true, and she had heard it from Amina before. Once, as an apprentice, she got all but one of her hazelnuts to flower, and she deemed it a failure. Amina talked to her at length about increments before she acknowledged it as a partial success.

 “You laid a curse because of what, this thing about your brother moving out? Falling out with you, wanting space, getting involved in crime? He was a teenager, Zel, you idiot. Teenagers do that. That’s what they do. They’re dumb shits and they do dumb shit and you tried to stop him, so he just got even more dumb. It didn’t need the nuclear option. You didn’t need to break the guy’s life.”

 “He took my brother—”

 “No,” Amina cut in. A potato thumped into the bowl at her feet. “Nobody took your brother. He’s eighteen. He made his own choice. You disagreed with it, sure, but he still made it. Marius isn’t the witch in this equation.”

 Jhazel went stiff, hands tightening. “No, I didn’t change his choice, I – I didn’t do anything! I swear, I never used my magic on him, not after – never again. He made the decision himself and I let him, I tried to understand, I tried to talk to him and he – he...he didn’t have to leave.”

 The peeler glided around the potato like a journey around the world. “He didn’t have to leave or stay. He had to choose.” Amina’s voice is level and ruminative. “He chose. Your responsibility was to support him in his choices, even if you thought they were mistakes.”

 “I can’t! How can I support him going to – to be a criminal’s accountant?”

 “You support him, Zel. You look after him. You catch him when he falls.”

 “Do I catch him when he dies?”

 Amina’s next words died on her lips.

 Small on the bed, Jhazel stared at her hands fisted in her lap, and shook with repressed emotion. “He’s dead,” she stated, voice quieter but no less desperate. “Marius took him for a lookout, and there was a gunfight. Denny was, he was the – he was the only casualty.”

 Death was natural. It was part of life, the counterpart of life. Amina had taught Jhazel to accept and even treasure deaths in nature. They had watched the dead rot and return to the soil, and seen how that could nurture new growth. Jhazel had watched the wolves hunt their prey and kill it, and had nodded sombrely at the way of it. It was normal.

 Guns, shoot-outs, and the murder of an eighteen-year-old apprentice accountant were not normal.

 “I raised him f-for six years,” Jhazel said, her voice sharp. Her breathing was speeding up. “I did it alone. Six years, from when he was twelve, he needed me. Then he – I watched him go. I waited, I tried, I thought he’d realise and come back or at least reach out to me. I was patient, I swear. It was – it was almost a year of waiting before I heard, and by that point h-h-he’d been dead for months. Fucking months, because Marius didn’t want the police involved, he just didn’t t-tell me and my brother’s-s dead, he’s dead...”

 The peeler fell into the bowl with a clang as Amina moved forwards. She wrapped the younger woman in a hug. For several minutes, Jhazel only shook, like the last leaf of autumn being shaken from its branch.

 “I’m sorry,” she murmured in Jhazel’s ear, the way she’d done when her mother had died.

  Jhazel heaved one great, cracked sob in response, and began to wail.

[comfy-whumpee]

Denny

TW: guns, character death. Sorry Denny.

The moon was full, almost looking bloated in its roundness. Denny knew even before he looked up that it was shining through the clouds at its peak. He felt it, like a tension in his nerves, like the wild, free moment before the adrenaline crashed. He’d always liked the way moonlight painted everything black and silver, making it gleam like ore in rock. It made him feel so alive.

The park wasn’t big enough for him to have to move to see both entrances. The two gates stood at opposite sides, both leading out to side streets rather than the main road it lay alongside. The trees rustled a little, a breeze brushing over them gently every couple of minutes. The leaves were whispering, he imagined briefly. But trees didn’t talk.

Behind him, the canal stood wide and dark, with barely a ripple between the two lochs. He didn’t need to look at it to know it was reflecting the moonlight back towards the sky, a wavering pale shape the only indication of the water that mirrored it. It was on either side of the canal that Marius and his meet-up were talking.

Their voices were low in the night, pitched just loud enough for the other to hear. Denny wasn’t privy to their conversation. He was here to be an extra set of eyes in the dark. Or, less charitably, he was here because he’d asked to come, thrilled by the chance to join Marius on something exciting, out in the middle of the night under the moonlight.

But it was a whole lot of nothing, of standing around looking between the entrances for trouble when everyone knew any ambush would be already hiding within the ample cover of the trees.

If only the trees could talk. They could tell him.

Denny plays with the crumpled bus ticket in his hoodie pocket. He kicks his feet against the corner of the stone step that leads to the water. He looks from one gate to the other, and considers the trees.

Gunshot.

Denny turns, eyes widening. He isn’t meant to look but he can’t help it – that noise cracked the night in two like a tectonic plate shattering. For a petrifying moment he can’t see what happened – but the moonlight comes to his aid, and he sees Marius on one knee, bent forwards, and the other man gone.

Denny runs. “Hey, h-hey, Marius,” he says, grabbing the older man’s shoulders. “Hey, I – you, y-you hurt?”

Marius only grunts. “Worry about me later. We’ve gotta run, kid.”

“Run?” Denny echoes in confusion, as Marius pulls him by the wrist towards the car. “We – we gotta?”

It feels wrong. Marius doesn’t run, he’s always the one on the winning side, the predator, the one who stands and grins while others flee and hide in their bolt holes. He’s the one who has the group of friends who can back him up whenever he wants, he’s the one who can take anyone in a fight. Marius doesn’t run and Denny almost feels insulted that he’s being dragged along on a coward’s retreat.

But he can’t object with Marius bouncing him down the path at a breathless pace. He tries to keep his feet moving under him and his ears alert for pursuit. That must be why they’re running – but who would chase them? He doesn’t know. His feet slam into the ground, shoddy trainers letting through every pebble and sharp stone, but he can’t stop. His lungs burn and his vision starts to blur with the exertion, but he can see Marius, black on black in the darkness, and he gives chase like a disappearing dream.

For his part, Marius doesn’t slow. Even when he hears the telltale thinness to Denny’s loud panting, even when the kid starts to fall behind as the asthma takes hold of his airway and squeezes. The kid has to push through it like he always does. He’ll do it. He’s always done it, for Marius. Anything, for Marius.

A crack snaps the air, and a crumpled thud follows. Marius doesn’t look around until he realises he can’t hear the wheeze. Denny’s footsteps are no longer pounding alongside his. He turns his head, gasping air over his shoulder. “Kid?”

He can see Denny on the ground.

He comes to a sharp stop, turning, even as his eyes cast around for his attackers. He keeps his voice low. “Kid, wake up. Get up, c’mon.”

Denny doesn’t move.

There’s nothing he can do. If they catch up to him, it’s over. He has to keep running.

“Wake up. Wake up.” His voice doesn’t waver, insistent and low. “Get up, kid, you’re fine, get up.”

He can’t stop. It’s not worth it.

There’s nothing he can do.

Marius hears a shout from the darkness, turns, and keeps running.