Chapter Text
You wake up entangled in bones and with dirt shoved up your nose.
With a confused snort, you push yourself up and sit back on your haunches, staring at the bones beneath you.
It’s a… skeleton.
An entire skeleton, fully intact. And somehow, none of the bones have scattered apart, despite your fumbling around.
Why were you sleeping face-down on a bunch of bones, anyway? Lying belly-down is what your brother did, not you. How he could do that without permanently warping his spine is still a mystery.
With a quick glance around, your confusion only grows. Nestled in the roots of a great tree stump, a startling blue sky stretches over you, a seemingly endless expanse interrupted only by a distant tree line. Similarly, a grassy plain surrounds you, clumps of rocks littering the landscape.
It’s… peaceful.
(Something within you fractures at the thought of such delusion.)
Turning your attention back to the ground, you startle as the skeleton moves. Pinpricks of white light stare back at you from its eye sockets. As the skull tilts back to face you fully, a flash of silver catches in the sunlight.
Somehow, something trembling within your ribcage pulses, reaching out into the air and towards the watching skeleton.
An invisible presence brushes up against your something, meeting you halfway.
Pulses of warmth wash over you upon contact, thrumming through your bones like shots of liquid sunlight.
You know this skeleton.
You’d recognize his face anywhere.
Because he wears your face and would also recognize you anywhere, even now that you’re all bones too.
His elated smile is an exact mirror of your own as you tackle him down into the dirt, whooping as he wheezes.
“Ack– brother! Brother!”
Your brother’s yelp is a soothing balm on the trembling something within your ribs as you hug him tighter, laughing.
“We’re here! We’re here! By the gods, we’re actually here!”
“I– I can’t believe it– we’re– guh– brother, let go! You’re squeezing too damn hard!”
“I know! I don’t care! We’re here!”
This world could go to hell this very instant, and you couldn’t care less if you burn in the process.
Because all that matters now is that you and your brother are here.
It takes a few moments for you two to calm down, but you manage. With a smile still on your face, you finally have mercy and get off your wheezing brother.
“So, um, who are we?”
Turns out, you don’t remember anything. Neither does your brother either. The brains you think you should have must’ve jumped out the metaphorical window, because your memories are just gone.
Oh, and the tree stump talks.
To be exact, the sapling of the self-named wishing tree sprouting from the side of its stump talks.
Yep.
It’s barely half the height of you.
“Dream?”
You wave away the sapling’s explanations of its creations of your beings and roles and whatever to focus on the name it just gave you. It rustles its leafy twigs at you, then at your brother: Dream. Nightmare.
You say the unfamiliar word aloud.
Dream.
The new name feels ashy against your sternum, flecked with a bitter dampness. “I… don’t really feel dreamy.” You turn to your brother, bewildered. “But, that’s my name now, right? I’m… a dreamer… right?"
Your brother’s face wrinkles as he also mouths his new name, staring hard at the roots. “Nightmare. Nightmare. I’m… Nightmare.” His eyelights flick back up to you. They are blown wide, dim and wavering like fog. “I don’t feel like one at all,” he whispers. “Am I… am I supposed to be a nightmare, brother?”
The name you were given curdles in your throat. The ashiness turns slimy, stinging rancid against the insides of your nasal cavity. You spit out the rotting name.
“What! No! You’re not a nightmare at all!” You whirl onto the sapling, enraged. Your bony hands ache to wrap around that thin stem and snap it right off that stump, and only your brother’s sudden presence in front of you stays your hands. “Why’s my brother gotta have a name like that, huh? If that’s gotta be our names, then give that one to me instead of him!”
The sapling cowers under your withering glare, the leaves drooping in apology. Wished one sprout for guardian. Twins sprouted.
You gape down at the bent form of the sapling. Is… is this thing serious? “You… wanted to make one of us, and created two of us instead.” The leaves rustle meekly.
Wow.
You, or your brother– you don’t know who came first, really– are literally just a surprise addition from the wishing tree’s acts of creation. What was its naming process when that happened? Did this stump have only one name ready, and then floundered for another when it got more than it expected? Maybe it decided on an opposite name to match, as if that would balance it out?
“Oh, fine, whatever." You tsk and cross your arms. "As long as me and my brother are here together, I don’t really care what I’m called.” The echo of rot behind your teeth begs to differ. “But I don’t think we wanna be called ‘dream’ and ‘bad dream’, yeah?” Upon the sapling’s hasty agreement, you turn back to your brother. “Hmph. Well, we can try picking our own names. So, got any ideas?”
Your brother blinks rapidly, his eyelights relaxing, then drifting slightly up from your gaze. “...How about Sun?” he says. “For you, I mean. Like your circlet.”
“Huh, me? Wait, what– I have a circlet?”
Reaching up, you feel a band of metal encircling your skull. Apparently, you do. You take it off and look at it. The construction is straightforward, consisting of a simple band and then a plain disc for an emblem, the entire thing in silver– wait, no. A glint of gold catches your eyelight, temporarily dazzling you. Tilting the circlet around, you see it: a tinge of gold colors the disc, with a tiny silver disc inset within the left side of the emblem. The gold is barely there, as fleeting as iridescence on dragonfly wings.
You try out the name your brother offered.
Sun.
The name is dry but light, a dull spark chasing away the rancid bitterness.
Sun.
“That’s better,” you say. “I like it.” You peer up at your brother, spying a near-identical circlet on his skull. Instead of a disc, his emblem is a silver ring forming a crescent moon, the end points pincering a tiny gold-tinted disc within the right side of the emblem. “If I’m Sun, do you wanna be Moon?”
Your brother takes off his own circlet to look at it. “Moon, eh?” He ducks his head, his eyelights flickering like candlefire. “If it’s from you, then I don’t mind it. I like the sound of Night better, though. Just, not… Nightmare…”
Both of you know the names you had offered to each other feel too dry, the edges too sharp to wear just yet. But the names are clean, untainted, just good enough to start with.
Despite the rotten start with the sapling, it is quite courteous and forthcoming as it explains everything to both of you. You like how to-the-point it is. It is a tree, after all. A magic sapling tree.
You and your brother were created from its magic to be the wishing tree’s guardians. Also, you are the positivity guardian, and your brother the negativity guardian, whatever the hell that means. Your souls are housed in skeleton vessels the tree had nearby, which explains the bones. It also explains the something within your ribcage, which the tree had identified as your magic and intent issuing forth from your soul.
Your guardian duties? One: protect the tree as it regrows until it reaches maturity to produce its fruit. Two: plant the fruits to seed new magic into the world.
It sounds… rather domestic. Simple, too. Right?
Your brother spots the issues right away. Being a guardian's going to take a while, and it comes with complications. As you can clearly tell from its massive stump, the wishing tree had been felled, and recently too, judging by the pitiful height of the regrowing sapling.
Probably three-months recently.
What in the nine hells happened for a magic tree to be reduced to this?
You share a glance with your brother, who leads you by the hand to investigate the surrounding grassland.
Whatever the reason, your primary objective is to protect the tree.
No matter what.
The clumps of rocks in the grass aren’t rocks at all.
They’re skeletons.
All of them are in considerably worse shape than you and your brother, their bones either discolored, broken, or straight-up missing.
No matter how much you call out to them or shake whatever bones they still have, none of them stir at all.
Kind of a shame, really. If you could get one of them to wake up, they could make for good company while you survey the area.
But for the time being, all these sleeping bones have one thing you don’t have.
Clothes.
“Finally!” Your brother expertly strips the boots and pants off some hapless skeleton. “I am tired of being barebones! The wind goes straight through me! And don’t get me started about the grass! I've had about enough of it getting stuck between my toes!”
“You’re just ticklish.” You shake your head in amusement at your brother’s denials as you pick your way amongst the bones, when you spot a length of wood lying nearby.
Strike that.
These bones have two things you don’t have.
Clothes.
And–
“Spear!” You snatch it right off the ground and hoist it up, giving it a quick twirl before resting the shaft on your shoulder. Immediately, the spear head and the attached tassel falls right off the end. Your brother snorts at the display. “Come on, Night, let’s see if there’s another one for you!”
“Way ahead of you, Sun.” Your soul jolts at the sound of your new name. A smug grin overtakes your brother's face as he lifts a length of curved wood, the string dangling from one end. “Think we can still use a bow even if we have no muscles for it?”
“We’re magic,” you say, chuckling. “I’m sure we can do anything.”
Your words spark off a race to loot as many bones as you can, laughing all the while, as your shadows slowly sharpen between grasses in the afternoon light.
Along the way, you discover how to open your inventory.
Oh boy.
The sky.
The grassland around you is muted in shadow.
The sky.
Deep indigo stretches overhead as it chases after the sun, as it dies behind the tree line.
The sky.
Molten gold lines the clouds, streaking wisps of pink across the purpling expanse.
The sky.
The sky is ablaze.
Your soul roils within the too-small confines of your ribcage, your bones quivering as you stare into the burning sight.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Your brother joins you at your side, knocking a clothed shoulder against your bare arm.
“It’s the sunset.”
Sunset.
Sunset.
You want that.
You want to be like that sunset, burning alive in a soul-shattering display before fissuring into darkness.
“You want that.”
Your brother’s voice is barely there.
“Then… you can be the sundown that heralds the death of day.”
Sundown.
You turn your head to look at your brother in awe.
Sundown.
Behind him, the cloak of dusk deepens as it chases down the last scraps of color in the sky.
Sundown.
The fracture within you shifts back into place, your name finally settling within your soul.
Sundown.
“Then… you can be the nightfall as it extinguishes the waking world.”
“Nightfall, huh…” Your brother gives out a breathy laugh, his eyelights dilating in delight. “That’s us. Come sundown brings nightfall, as it trails in an endless banner of stars.”
“You’re quite the poet, aren’t you, Nightfall?”
“Hey! You were waxing words just now too, Sundown!” A pile of clothes are flung at your head as you cackle. “And here! Put on some clothes! Have some decency!”
You can’t stop laughing as the sky finally burns out, the glimmer of stars coming out to play in the approaching night.
Notes:
The concept of here: you perceive the world, and the world perceives you.
Because you are here and nowhere else.
Chapter 2: Embrace
Chapter Text
The wishing tree’s situation is truly unfortunate.
You sit amidst the roots, your back pressed against the stump. Your brother Nightfall leans heavily in your side, his skull nestled within the crook of your neck, eye sockets closed to the world. In his lap is a bundle of papers, lines scrawled haphazardly on the pages. When you had pointed out to him earlier about getting a crick in his neck sleeping like that, his only response was a swat to your face and a mumble to shut up.
He always did tire easily.
The blackness of the long night envelops you two like a comforting blanket, with only a scattering of stars above keeping you company. A collection of scavenged arrows are laid out before you, awaiting inspection. Your eyelights cast an eerie silver glow over the arrows as you pick one up, your other arm tightening around Nightfall as he continues to sleep.
Arrow shaft bent at a slight angle. In need of a heat source for re-straightening.
You pick up another arrow.
Having scouted out most of the grassland before returning to the wishing tree, you and Nightfall had identified multiple areas in need of immediate attention.
The grassland is bordered by forest in every direction. There are tree stumps hidden in the grass, made known only when walking directly over the hard planes of old wood cut flush to the ground.
This area is not a naturally-formed grassland.
It is a goddamned clearing.
A massive clearing, too– with the wishing tree situated directly in its center. Stranded out in the open, this distinct lack of cover sets your teeth on edge, your spine prickling with an anticipation that would not dissipate despite the peaceful quiet scenery. Judging by the fullness of the tall grass and how they sway in the idle breeze like wheat, you are approaching the height of the dry-summer season.
Fletching missing. Replacement feathers needed.
You pick up another arrow.
There is no water source in plain sight. A search through the woods is needed to locate a stream or a spring. With the wishing tree in an incredibly vulnerable position and the woods so far away, the sapling’s growth would be severely stunted in the long hours of sunlight and high heat.
Arrowhead loose on shaft. Need string to re-secure the point.
You pick up another arrow.
Out of everything you’ve gathered from the looting spree earlier, there is hardly anything that could transport large quantities of water. Lots of stained and torn clothes, broken weaponry, and random personal effects like matches and lacquer boxes– Nightfall had emptied all the bags and containers he could get his hands on, claiming all the paper for himself– but nothing that could reliably hold water.
Shaft split in two lengthwise. Unusable.
Huh. Nightfall must be more tired than you realized, if he had placed this arrow here and not in the scrap pile for dismantling.
A streak of grey stains the edge of the black sky, signaling the stars to fade. In the weak light of the incoming dawn, your brother stirs. His eyelights ignite as you move to pick up another arrow.
“...Daybreak already?”
“We can rest a little longer.” You reach over and open up his inventory, storing the arrows away, the split arrow going in a separate pile from the rest.
Nightfall shakes his head slowly, his eyelights foggy as he gathers up the papers and stashes them away. “No time.” He points out to the direction where the dusk begins to recede like a tide from the brightening sky. “I will be okay. Let’s go.” You shift around so that his arm is slung over your shoulder, your own arm still around him as you help him up.
Lack of shelter, water, resources, and time. A lack of everything, really.
The only silver lining here is a blessed lack of enemies.
You can work with that.
You’ve handled far worse before.
“Did you tell the tree where we were heading?” Yawning, Nightfall retrieves two spears from his inventory and hands one over to you. Behind him, the sun cracks behind the tree line in the far horizon, light like a punctured egg yolk slowly seeping through the grassland.
You hum as you heft the spear up, admiring his impeccable repair work. No risk of the spear head falling off this time. “No point, not when we’re just gonna come back at the end of the day.”
He sighs and shakes his head at you, shifting his hold on his own spear to rest on his shoulder as you both trudge through the tall grass. “Is that so. I worry that the tree will think that we might desert it.”
You snort at that. And go where? To just mutiny and leave the creator that made you– even you aren’t that cruel, unless it wronged you first. “Then that’s its own fault,” you say. “Our new overlord didn’t define any rules for us to follow, only what our roles are. If it’s got a problem with us not being around when it wakes up, it can deal with it later when we’re back.”
Nightfall only sighs again. “Still, best not antagonize the tree lord too much, Sun.”
“Always. Such is tradition.”
The tree line looms dark over you as you enter the woods. The moment you cross the threshold, something in the air lifts, making you stumble. You can feel Nightfall’s confusion as he also missteps from the sudden shift in pressure. With a frown, you take a few steps back into the clearing as he stays by the trees. Something, a presence in the open air falls around you, settling on your shoulders like a cloak. It dissipates the moment you step forward again, leaving you strangely bereft of a weight you didn’t realize was there until now.
Somehow, this presence does not extend into the forest.
Either that, or such a thing does not exist past this point.
Trees march off in every direction that you can see, with a mix of woody foliage and old leaves blanketing the forest floor. Retrieving the papers from his inventory, Nightfall follows behind as you take point. A stray sense of nostalgia washes over you as you breathe in the air, enjoying the faint dampness that comes with the sunrise. In this section of the woods, the world is still asleep. Even the birds have not stirred just yet, not for a moment longer.
A few minutes into the trek, the sight of some odd wooden poles staked in a line like soldiers amidst the trees is enough to give you both pause. Scanning with your eyelights how far the poles seem to go through the woods, you note the faded red strips of cloth tied to the tops of every one of them.
You get the persistent feeling that if you were to track where these poles are staked, it would form a long line through the woods, following a path all the way around the clearing in a circle.
“They’re marking a perimeter.” You absently touch the red cloth. This fabric… it should be untorn and whole, flying much higher than the treetops, accompanied by an undercurrent of hasty footsteps. Not reduced to marking the tops of abandoned wooden stakes.
“A warning signal, but for what?” Nightfall shuffles through his papers, his eyelights darting from page to page, as if the incomplete maps drawn by his hand could hold the answers. “Is it for us, or for something else? And why here, near the clearing? Surrounding the tree?”
You have no answers to ease your brother’s suspicions. As you walk past the wooden markers standing guard, all you could think of is that twice-damned clearing. Ideally, the wishing tree would be hidden amongst these trees, with the forest providing natural shelter and sharing the risks of potential disasters. But the entire area around the wishing tree had long been felled and cleared. The sapling itself cannot be moved from its position, not without risking its health any further.
If the wishing tree cannot be moved to the safety of these woods, you would find a way to bring safety back to it.
You would find a way, even if you have to make the safety yourself.
The sapling sways eagerly in the afternoon light upon your return. Welcome back, guardians– why are you wet.
Nightfall stomps away from you, dripping water everywhere. “Why not ask Sun about that, hah?” He hisses as he struggles to pull his long tunic over his skull, his undershirt and pants stubbornly clinging to his bones. “My brother’s idiocy knows no bounds.”
“Hey hey, I’m not that bad!” Soaked as well, you shake yourself off, sending water droplets flying everywhere. “Reporting: we mapped out most of the woods in the west, but we were accosted by a bunch of animals, and then we– whoa!” You dodge a boot thrown at your head, only to stagger as the other boot collides squarely in your face. “Niiight! What’d I do to deserve this?!”
“What did you do, indeed.” Finally peeling the rest of his clothes off, Nightfall whirls onto the sapling, fury radiating from his eyelights. “Go on milord, ask him.”
The sapling flinches, wavering back and forth on its stem. Guardian… sprout… what happened.
You snap your fingers and open your inventory, rummaging through the contents. “Right! There were some animals being weird, ‘cause they just ran up to us. Then we found a big stream! But we had no containers. Still, we had to bring some water back–”
“You tried shoving water into your inventory–”
“--that didn’t work too well–”
“--of course not, as it is now completely flooded!”
“--well yeah, but then I figured something else out! Look!”
With a flourish, you shove a pile of sopping wet clothes out of your inventory. It splatters onto the roots with an obscene squelch. A heap of junk also floods out amidst a rush of water, clattering obnoxiously to the ground atop the clothes pile. Water steadily dribbles out from your open inventory as Nightfall and the sapling both fall silent, staring at you.
You beam back at them. “That takes care of the water problem.” You tilt your head at seeing Nightfall’s blank face. “What?”
Your brother only covers his face in shame. “I take that back,” he says, a helpless laugh escaping between his hands. “My brother’s insanity knows no bounds.”
The sapling flicks a leaf towards the mess. Well done, sprout. Though, please… do clean up.
After receiving a minor scolding from the sapling– as well as praise, weirdly enough– you begin your task of watering the wishing tree, wringing out the soaked clothes over the roots. Nightfall soon recovers from his laughing fit, taking the wrung-out clothes and laying them out to dry on the grass.
Also, you don’t escape Nightfall’s needling to strip out of your still-wet clothes. “No big deal,” you say, dancing around his attempts to grab you. “I can just sun myself off–”
He tackles you to the ground. You land a bit too close to some pile of rusty knives. “You are not a dog–”
“Bark bark, woof–”
Nightfall tugs hard at the collar of your tunic, cutting you off. “Sundown, my dearest brother, my mirror half, you who share our cursed day of birth–”
He smiles.
Your mouth snaps shut.
A manic light gleams in his wide eye sockets.
“--Strip.”
You quickly oblige.
Such a mother hen.
You also keep your inventory open upon further nagging, with Nightfall periodically checking to make sure it fully airs out. “Can’t have it grow mold in there,” he mutters, his eye sockets twitching at the corners as he also lays out the pile of wet junk on the ground. “That’d just be obnoxious.”
At least all that dirt caked into the spare clothes have been washed out now. With everything spread out to dry in the golden afternoon sun, you lie back as well, basking barebones. All around you, the air ripens to a searing glow, the shadows cutting long lines across the landscape.
The sky is cloudless this time, an expanse of cobalt blue morphing into gradients of periwinkle and pale yellow. A very different kind of sunset than yesterday, but no less breathtaking in its mellowness.
You could never tire of seeing this. If there is one thing in the world you are grateful for besides your brother, it is the ability to just stop and watch the sky burn.
Behind you, you hear the agitated voice of your brother and the equally aggressive rustling of leaves. Idly, you listen in as the sapling flatly vetoes every single one of Nightfall’s suggestions to stick a title or honorific on it; positions denoting higher superiority like ‘my lord’, ‘my liege’, ‘high-commander’, ‘master’, ‘god-tree’, and even ‘O Great Tree, Granter of Wishes’--
The sapling refuses all of them.
“And why ever not?!” Nightfall throws up his hands in frustration. “You are our creator! The very reason for us being here! My brother may poorly express his gratitude, but he is well-aware of your power over us. We are forever indebted to you, milord. Surely you wish for us to address you as such?”
The sapling swiftly loses its patience on the matter and shakes its twigs hard, so hard that some of its leaves fall loose.
Cease!
You jerk your head around, but before you can move, the sapling falls forward. The stem creaks as it bends down, the leaves splaying out on its own roots.
The sapling is… bowed over in prostration.
I am a tree. The sapling isn’t moving, yet its words lance straight into you, resonating with your soul in firm intent. Your tree, and no other. I hold no name nor title. Power is a construct I wield not.
Why is it prostrating itself?
Your ribcage suddenly feels too brittle, too fragile to contain anything.
Why is it prostrating itself to you?
Please… call me not by position of power, but by position of family.
The tree wants to be referred to… in a position of…
Family?
The gaps between your ribs are too wide, too narrow. You think your soul is going to drift right through, is going to lodge itself in between and suffocate. “You mean like…”
(...like mother?)
Yes, like grandfather tree.
Something invisible envelops you, a warm weight curling around your shoulders. You recognize it as that strange presence from earlier today. Slowly, as the presence maintains its weight around you, you realize it is reminiscent of a gesture you had frequently shared with your brother.
A hug.
It’s like you’ve been struck between your eye sockets, because a flash of heat spreads through your skull from the impact. Staggering, you press your hands to your face, trying to relieve this intense burning sensation. Distantly, you hear your brother hitch in surprise.
How strange.
You can’t seem to stop the water from leaking out of your eye sockets.
You don’t understand.
All this time, you’ve been thinking of the wishing tree as nothing more than an objective, a figurehead from which your duties had defined the battlefield. You had assumed your guardian role as easily as stepping into the path of an incoming blade, balefully awaiting orders that would never come.
Because you were at once utterly dismissive and utterly subservient to the tree that had created you, never did you think of it as its own being, a being capable and willing to lower themselves in order to communicate on an equal level with you, a being with its own set of duties– duties in devotion to you and your brother.
Because all you had ever understood was that being alive meant a continuous cycle of defiance and submission– with the world sparing no regard to you and your brother’s suffering.
You had expected more of the same under the tree’s rule.
“Y-y-you mean it?” Your brother takes in a shuddering breath, then another. “You want… us?”
The sapling droops down even more than you think is possible. The stem is going to snap if it bends any further. Always, always. So willful, so soulful; my guardians, my sprouts, twin scions of my family tree. My and yours.
You let loose a strangled gasp upon hearing the wishing tree’s words laid in protective intent, the way it securely wraps around you both in the warmest embrace.
You don’t understand.
(When was the last time you received a hug that did not come from within your brother’s arms?)
You don’t understand anymore, but the weight of such reassurance compels you to kneel down to the bowed sapling, lifting it up gently so it is standing upright again. “Heh… we’ve been... incredibly rude to you from the start, haven’t we? Just beyond insufferable.” You swipe a hand across your face, trying to dispel the burning heat from your eye sockets. “Just– just don’t mention such sappy wordplay around us ever again… because you’re stuck with us now, grand-tree.”
Nightfall stutters out a half-sob, half-groan in delayed realization. “P-please, you’re j-j-just as bad, brother.” His smile is blotchy, serene in the dying light. “You too, great grand-tree. D-don’t shed any more leaves because of us.”
Always, always, my scions.
Deep indigo falls in veils all around you, the fabric of the night sky embedded with a veritable battalion of stars. Lounging against the tree stump with Nightfall tucked in your arms, his back against your chest, you watch as silver magic wafts from the sapling’s leaves beneath the evening breeze, mesmerizing in its glow as the sapling murmurs a tale from long ago.
…And the wishing tree grew strong and tall, the branches scraping the sky with the weight of ten-thousand wishes. For the positive and negative emotions coursed through its leaves and collected in its fruit, unborn wishes ready to be sown into the world. That is the purpose of the wishing tree.
Nightfall’s voice is hushed. “Is that who we are? Wishes given life?”
Wishes intertwining. The sapling gives its leaves a quick rustle, momentarily disrupting its release of magic. The air is heady with a faint but sweet aroma, reminding you of blossoms in spring. My with yours; sprouts, together, together… here.
With the comforting weight of magic laden in the air, you want to bury yourself in this feeling of reassurance. Before, it was always just you and your brother against the world, as precarious as tethers to each other were. But now, you are here, your soul reaching towards your brother as well as the sapling, their presences reaching back to you in turn and grounding you.
“I’m glad.” Reverence quiets your brother’s voice. “Can you tell us another story, great grand-tree?”
The sapling complies and lets loose another round of magic from its leaves, the silver dissolving into the darkness again. This time, the sapling murmurs a journey of a pair of joined maple seeds as they spin on flaxen wings, taking flight in the eternal wind.
Notes:
The concept of family: someone that will not abandon you; sanctuary, from the world that does not want you.
Your brother is family.
The wishing tree… is also family.
Chapter 3: Immolate
Summary:
The dry-summer season begins and ends with you.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
You’ve had enough.
The world has officially gone to shit.
With bared teeth, you barge through the southern tree line and into the darkened clearing, your bloodied spear creaking in protest in your iron grip. Out of the corner of your eye socket, Nightfall easily keeps stride beside you despite the brutal pace you’ve set. Upon hearing him hiss in pain, you slow your pace a bit, allowing you to cover his retreat as you take occasional glances back at the rapidly shrinking tree line.
Far above you, the dusty sky is smeared with red-soaked clouds. You spare a longing glance at such a gorgeous sight before focusing back on your imminent arrival to home base.
Regretfully, sunset-watching cannot take priority right now.
Your brother is priority.
Up ahead, the sapling sways upon your return, though its leaves curl back in confusion as Nightfall stumbles to a stop. He drops to his knees before the tree stump, his body slumping over it with a groan. In the growing dusk, lacerations stain dark with marrow on the back of his skull and the backs of his hands. The sapling’s leaves brush lightly over his shoulder. What happened.
Tossing your spear to the side, you stalk past the sapling, swiping a leather bag out of your inventory. The bag thumps onto the ground, leaking water through the poorly-patched cracks in the leather. You glare into your inventory, your eyelights scanning for supplies, something usable, anything.
There’s nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Your entire inventory consists of junk pilfered from bones scattered across an abandoned clearing. Why would there be any medical supplies hidden in this worthless pile of garbage?
You growl and snatch a bundle of the cleanest clothes you have from storage and plop down next to Nightfall. He lifts his head up as you tear the clothes into long strips, your foot hooking onto the strap of the leaking bag and dragging it close. Your eyelights never leave sight of his wounds.
“Hey… grand-tree.”
The sapling shudders. Your voice is flat, but the barely-veiled fury scorching your words promise nothing but impending murder.
“Why are the animals attacking my brother.”
It hadn’t seemed so bad at the start.
After the sapling had formally declared you both as family– your soul still quivers at the realization that the wishing tree truly wanted you– you and Nightfall had continued to map out the border forest over the course of the next few days.
The second day was spent investigating the northern direction, with the third day spent towards the east. Today had marked the fourth and final day, thus completing your initial sweep through the forest. But since the first day you had explored the woods, the animals had been acting weird.
Weird, like chipmunks darting out from beneath fallen logs and trailing some paces back wherever you walked, rabbits blatantly bounding up to you in plain sight, the chatter of songbirds as they settle on the lowest branches of the trees around you. Even a lone deer had trotted by once, its head swiveling to attention as the deer changed trajectory to follow you.
You had noted the animals’ apparent lack of fear as a curious but harmless phenomenon.
What a mistake.
You had forgotten how much of a pest animals were, how they encroached through territory like weeds no matter what you did. They just kept pouring out of the woodwork to approach wherever you and Nightfall were, their constant movements gnawing at the edges of your vision like swarms of maggots over an unguarded slab of meat, never taking no for an answer.
However, the moment they come close– too close– within lunging distance–
It’s like a switch flips on them, because all of them would suddenly bolt away in a panic, disappearing into the forest as if hell itself had opened up to personally greet them.
And as soon the silence begins to settle, it’s like another switch flips, and the animals come creeping right back to you, like they hadn’t been spooked just minutes earlier.
This cycle would repeat itself like infuriating clockwork: they come close, and then they flee, over and over and over and over–
Sometimes they didn’t flee right away.
Short chirps had filled the air as the surrounding trees darkened in the onset of an incoming sunset. You could almost see it, how the coppery light snaked in between the narrow gaps of the trees. How magnificently would a red sunset burn? Impatient, you had moved to peer over Nightfall’s shoulder to check on his maps–
The alarm calls of dee-dee-dee-dee-dee had been your only warning before a flock of tiny birds dive-bombed your brother.
“Damned birds just mobbed him right in front of me.” You grumble, accepting a soaked cloth strip that Nightfall hands over to you. You take off his circlet and set it aside, then begin your task of cleaning the wounds on his skull, dabbing at the drying marrow. Thank goodness, they are only shallow cuts. They will heal in a few days. Nightfall follows suit, tending to the wounds on his hands. “He didn’t even do anything to provoke them. This didn’t happen before, grand-tree. So what gives?”
I do not understand. The sapling leans to one side, much like how a bird would tilt its head. Ugh. No more birds. Animals do not approach here. Aura wards them away.
“I noticed that they never followed us into the clearing,” Nightfall mutters. “That’s a relief to hear, great grand-tree, but that doesn’t answer the question. Why did they attack?” With the wounds cleaned, he starts wrapping his hands with the dry strips of cloth.
You wince at imagining a horde of animals coming out of the forest and honing in on the wishing tree like iron shavings to a magnet. Your nerves are already strung taut like wires threaded up your spine. If they ever dare to take a step through the tree line, you are going to snap. As you secure some of the makeshift bandages over the wounds on Nightfall’s skull, the last part of the sapling’s response hits you. “Aura? What does aura have to do with the animals?”
The sapling leans to the other side, the leaves flipping over. What do you mean. Aura is magic, keeps animals away. You have aura as well.
You and Nightfall glance at each other, then back at the sapling.
“We have auras?”
You are using aura right now.
“...What?”
Apparently, when the wishing tree had explained your roles to you the first time, you had completely overlooked some critical information.
You emit a magic aura.
So does Nightfall.
So does the wishing tree.
As the wishing tree had to go over with you again, you are its guardians. Not only that, but you are a guardian of positivity, and Nightfall a guardian of negativity.
The sapling had to also explain to you how magic behaves, both within the self and outside the self. The tree’s own magic governs a spectrum of emotions, channeling the nuances of positivity, negativity, and everything in-between. But ever since it had been felled, the sapling had maintained a strong miasma of negativity that spanned the entirety of the clearing up to the tree line, warding away any wanderers– including the wildlife. So since the beginning, you have been protected within its aura. Nothing had bothered you until you had left the clearing, thus also leaving its aura behind.
Upon your creations, you and Nightfall had inherited some of the tree’s affinity of magic, splitting the spectrum between the two of you.
You emit an aura of positivity.
…Nightfall emits an aura of negativity.
Your aura is massive; the range of your magic is only just a little smaller than that of the wishing tree’s own aura.
Conversely, Nightfall’s aura of negativity is restricted to his immediate range four paces wide, basically his personal space.
Oh.
The reason why all the animals have been wreaking havoc on your nerves was because of the interplay between your goddamned combined auras. Attracted by the overwhelming reach of your positive magic, the jarring presence of Nightfall’s negativity up close had then sent every animal into fleeing or attacking the source of distress– him. If small birds were triggered to aggression from Nightfall’s aura alone, you would dread to see how badly larger animals would take against him.
And because your aura is absol-fucking-lutely huge, you had effectively trapped the animals into a cycle of lure-and-flee-or-fight without even realizing it.
…Oh.
You don’t need to look at your brother to know he’s mirroring your extremely unamused expression.
That’s what it means to be guardians of positivity and negativity? Wildly unbalanced magic emissions with unwanted emotional side-effects?
You hate this.
You hate this quite a lot.
“Are there any additional duties for being positive and negative guardians?” you ask.
No. Your role remains the same as before. Positivity and negativity is to differentiate between you only. My affinity for magic is you and yours; there are no obligations for embodying my magic.
Your brother blinks in surprise. “Huh. That’s… kind of nice, actually.”
“Wait,” you say, “grand-tree, if I understand this correctly, our role is still to protect you as your guardians, and the reason why we are positive and negative guardians is because we have your magic to help you tell us apart. No other duties.”
Correct.
You drop your head into your hands and let out a long sigh.
You… you can’t exactly hate the sapling for being literal.
It is a tree, after all.
Settling in your usual spot against the tree stump, you peer up at the sky. Night has already fallen around you, the stars blinking awake. The vivid red clouds have long since faded to darkness, the last remnants of light having snuffed out below the horizon. The faintest sliver of a crescent moon hangs low over the silhouettes of the tree line in an enigmatic smile.
You quietly mourn the loss of a sunset left unwatched.
Closing your eye sockets, you hear Nightfall drop down next to you; you automatically lift your arm to accommodate him as he tucks into your side.
Above you, the sapling quietly rustles, its magic curling faintly around you. Magic flows within you in cycles. Guided by the sapling’s intent, you focus inward. You register the lengths and curvatures of bones that make up the structure of your body, the threadbare boundaries of clothes covering your form, the measure of each breath passing between your teeth as it suffuses within you. Magic circulates through you much like blood does through veins. How it pulses just beneath the surface of your bones in time with your soul, a cycle of cycles keeping you alive and beating without your notice–
-–how it bleeds out of you profusely like an unattended mass of wounds, seeping past the barrier of your clothes and out into the air.
Following this unusual flow of magic back to its origin point, you locate the source of the breach.
Your ribcage.
There are cracks in your ribs. The cracks are clustered close to where the ribs attach to the sternum and spine. Like your ribcage were slots to pass things through, but the objects kept scraping the surrounding bone, leaving behind sizable abrasions.
These cracks must have occurred from when the wishing tree had created you. It is there where your magic deviates from its usual circulation, flowing out of you unregulated. Farmers would weep over just how much of it floods out into the open fields like a burst dam.
Tuning in instead on the outward flow of your magic, you follow how it sweeps over the dry-crackle of the plains, the countless tiny legs skittering between individual stalks of grass, the wind twisting and dipping beneath bowing branches in the canopies, the twitching of whiskers as mice dart beneath sprawling roots, a lone rabbit huddling in a burrow as their eyelashes flutter closed–
The overload of your aura washing over everything forces your eye sockets open, your free hand flying up to clamp over your clenched teeth. A white-hot pressure thuds inside the front of your skull, your jaw and nasal cavity stinging acrid from the sensory blowback.
You barely register the sapling’s magic as it pulses with your soul in reassurance: here, still here.
…Nauseating.
So utterly nauseating.
Is this what the wishing tree sees all the time with its own aura? An awareness of everything around you, the ability to see far into the distance without having to move out of position? This kind of vision would be incredibly useful– no, invaluable, to have. If you could control your magic so it doesn’t leak all the time and ignore how much sensing through your aura makes you want to heave, it would make living so much easier.
You wouldn’t have to deal with animals trying to ambush your brother like bandits anymore.
A foreign sluggishness crawls up your back. Just then, the squeezing of arms around your waist pulls you back to the present, grounding you along with the sapling’s continued reassurance. Looking down, you blink at the sight of your brother. Somehow, Nightfall had shifted from your side to the front of your body while you were distracted; he is practically curled up sideways in your lap. You let out a quiet huff seeing his face buried in the juncture of your hip.
He always did prefer sleeping in the strangest of positions.
He is the same as ever. Even now, you don’t sense anything despite being directly within his aura’s small range. You don’t feel any repulsion or fear or sadness or any other moods coming from him. You have to wonder if he is similarly unaffected by you, because despite how widespread your aura is, you don’t feel positive at all. It could be that you are just numb to the effects of emotional magic in general.
You just hope your brother doesn’t have the same issues with his aura like you do yours.
A stiff wind picks up over the next few days, accompanied by an excessive amount of cotton fluff drifting across the grassland. In the distance, the cacophony of rustling trees fills the air, their leaves glittering like fish scales under the intense sun.
Also accompanying the wind comes an onslaught of complaints from the wishing tree.
It is too hot! The sapling rustles heavily, its thin frame buffeted by the wind. I burn; it is too hot!
You look over your shoulder as you empty a leaking bag of water onto the roots. “Is it really that hot, grand-tree? I know we didn’t water you yesterday, but… it is rather bright today.” You step up and take a cursory look over the sapling. Brushing away some of the cotton fluff clinging to it, you frown as you take hold of a leaf hanging limply on its stem. The majority of the leaves on the topside have taken on an alarming brown color, the leaf tissue turning dry and brittle like paper. “Shit, you’re scorched!”
Nightfall comes over, observing the extensive discoloration on the affected leaves. His eyelights dart up to the sky. It is a beautiful and unforgiving blue, with not a speck of cloud to be seen. “I did not realize… how long have you been burning, great grand-tree?”
The scorched leaves quiver under your touch. Two days prior, high noon.
“Tsk. Then it has been hot for a while.” Nightfall pulls out some clothes and a bundle of wooden spear shafts from his inventory; the spear tangs of the blades have been removed. “Here, we will set up something to shade you. We will also get more water for you later this evening–” He turns to you, eyeing the leather bag in your hands. “That reminds me, how well did the water bag work?”
You toss the deflated bag at the foot of the tree stump. “Not very well.” Taking a wooden shaft from him, you scan the ground around the tree stump, looking for a gap between the roots. “Since the leather was already cracked, it couldn’t hold water any longer than half an hour. Your repair work’s still impressive though, given what little we have.” You find a suitable spot and stand just before a patch of exposed dirt. Grasping with both hands and taking aim, you drive the shaft hard into the ground, burying the end deep. One down. “We will have to go back and just use my inventory to haul the water.”
“Pleeease, no.” Nightfall drops his head into the clothes he’s holding. “Not this again, I can’t– I cannot be a party to you actively growing mold in your inventory!”
You pat his shoulder in consolation as you take another shaft from him. “We’ve no other options, though– hah!-- except for rain.” Two down. You take another shaft and steady your aim. “Think we can do a dance and summon some rain?”
Even just some clouds would be nice to have right about now. Though your sense of touch is in fine working order, apparently neither you nor your brother can feel the ambient temperature. It’s evident to you now that it’s probably sweltering hot out here, what with the sun shining relentlessly down on you. You think you should also be sweating your nonexistent ass off… if you had any skin to sweat from, and an ass. You will have to rely on the sapling to tell you how hot it is, if the visual cues like the steady wind and full sun weren’t enough to clue you in on the state of the grassland.
Nightfall snorts as he sifts through the pile of clothes. “We have no training in the art of dance.” He tugs free a wide sheet of rumpled dark brown cloth from the pile, the fabric billowing stiffly in the wind. Judging from the heavy weave of the cloth, you think it might be burlap. “Oh, what the hell, Sun, go for it. Dance for me while I finish setting this up.”
“Sure thing.” Taking a deep breath, you turn to the cloudless sky and cup your hands around your mouth. “Oi! To the eternal wind and skies above, send us some rain!!”
Nightfall whacks you upside the head. “By the gods, what are you doing?!” He grabs your shoulders and shakes you hard. Your whole body trembles with suppressed mirth at his mortification. “I thought you were going to make a fool out of yourself and dance, not shout prayers!”
“Heh– I’ll dance, if– heh– if rain actually comes–”
“Please, brother, at least pretend to have some semblance of decency!”
As Nightfall rambles on, you finally pull yourself together enough to continue your task of staking the next two shafts around the tree stump, snickering all the while. Your brother only shakes his head at you and gets to securing the ends with rope while you hold up the last remaining shafts like an overhead beam, making a bridge between the staked posts.
The resulting wooden structure arching over the sapling in a crooked box formation is ugly but serviceable, especially after your brother lashes the burlap cloth to the overhead frame with some more rope, finally shielding the sapling from the sun.
So hot. Why is the wind so hot. Up close, you can feel the waves of its magic coming off the sapling, boiling in an emotion you can actually identify for once: frustration. Dry-summer heat never bothered me before, why is it so hot.
“Probably because you’re a sapling now,” you say. “You were bigger before, right? You could probably handle the heat before, but now you can’t, because you lost like 99 percent of your own mass.”
Nightfall lets out a long-suffering sigh and searches the clothes pile for another sheet of burlap. “Best we can do now is block off the side where the wind is blowing, as well as give you water more often.” You hold the burlap in place to the frame as Nightfall tacks the edges down to the structure on the left side. The cloth billows inward from the wind like a sail, but holds firmly in place.
Ah. The sapling sags in muted relief in the shade. So hot.
The days pass by without any signs of clouds in the sky. The wind gradually eases up, and as a result, the entire grassland is carpeted in white from all the cotton fluff that had floated in.
Slowly, a routine forms.
At daybreak, noon, and the golden hour before sunset, you water the sapling to offset the debilitating effects of the heat.
In the moments between fetching water, periodically assessing the sapling’s condition, scouting the forest proper, and dodging animals with no sense of space, you commiserate with your brother as he laments at the rapidly dwindling pile of usable items in storage.
At sunset, you take the moment to stop and watch the sky burn in the most soul-wrenching colors you’ve ever seen.
As dusk falls, you report to the sapling a summary of your findings for the day.
At night, you hold your brother tight and wrestle to rein in your outflowing magic.
Whenever you and Nightfall have to leave the clearing, the sapling would send a pulse of magic to you in periodic intervals until you return. It is a simple system: you would feel a small spike of intent through your bond to the sapling, questioning your whereabouts. After some wrangling with your magic, you and your brother are able to return the pulse, confirming your location and status. This system also is a way for you to keep track of time whenever your view of the sun’s position in the sky is obscured.
You get into the habit of sending a second pulse to Nightfall right after sending off a pulse to the sapling. Because your brother would often be right next to you, he would roll his eyelights and return your pulse, which you would send right back to him. This has devolved into rapid-fire pinging between you two so often that the sapling would ping you to please stop, I can sense you all the way from over here.
When you had pinged the sapling in apology, you only received a ping back that conveyed the equivalent of a sigh.
The border forest runs deep in every direction you take. Having completed your initial and second sweep through the woods, you have a good layout of the topography, courtesy of your brother’s drawing efforts with his maps.
Those wooden markers in the forest really do go all the way around the clearing in a circle.
To the west, the land is relatively flat. This characteristic extends into the northern section of the woods, allowing easy exploration into the forest proper. The forest stream you had found on the first day in is an ideal spot to refill for water, for it is located close to the clearing. The water there flows fast, cold, and clear. Animals also frequently visit this stream to drink, meaning they pester you every time you come here. To Nightfall’s continued distress, you had resorted back to just using your inventory itself to haul the water. Soaking the clothes as a way to hold water can only go so far when you only have so much fabric to spare for the task.
You also have a good idea what places to avoid.
To the south, the land becomes hilly, sometimes outright treacherous to traverse. Oftentimes, the paths you take fall away in a sharp drop, revealing giant chasms where the forest life continues below unhindered. What was once a leisurely walk through the woods turns into a full-blown hike as you navigate around drop-offs and walls of trees growing high on slopes in ridiculous elevations. The sound of rushing water echoes throughout further in, indicative of a river somewhere out of sight. But until you have a better grasp of the topography here, you are not confident enough to risk deeper exploration just yet.
To the northeast, the land remains flat, though when going deeper into the forest, the paths become much more… worn. The trees grow sparsely here, revealing much of the forest floor. The ground itself is rather beaten, lacking the low-growing foliage present in every other direction of the border forest. Judging by how no animals reveal themselves to pester you, it is also lacking the typical wildlife activity.
There is another stream further in, twice as large as the stream in the west. The water itself is rather wide for a stream. It flows quickly, lukewarm, the color of pine resin.
It also carries with it a strange scent.
An offensively sweet tang, greasy with a pungent char coating the air. It had clung to your bones like smoke, the texture of the air feeling… pulpy.
You had gagged.
The stench lingers unpleasantly, waiting. As if the air itself is awash in static, primed to ignite at the slightest spark.
There is nothing else in the water.
You and Nightfall had quickly retreated from the area.
An unusual sight marks today’s sunrise.
Clouds.
Crimson lines the heavy shadows of clouds looming over the eastern horizon. The sky itself is stained a searing orange against the dusk. A waning crescent moon drifts high above you, slowly retreating with the last shreds of night.
You pause in your morning task of watering the sapling to stare up at the sight, ignoring your brother’s ranting.
This sunrise is almost as beautiful as the sunsets.
Almost.
Tuning back in, you catch the last threads of Nightfall’s rant as he takes from your idle hands a small bowl, a surprisingly intact piece of porcelain. “I still can’t believe that we can just… designate a slot of inventory to hold water, and then only that allotted space will get wet!” Dipping the bowl into your inventory, he draws out some water and flicks it to the ground around the tree stump. “The water– it just goes there! And it stays there!” Each draw of water is measured and thrown as easily as scattering seeds. “There’s no barriers or partitions or anything set up in there! But nothing else in storage gets wet!”
Ah, right.
You had finally figured out how to contain water in your inventory without it actually flooding the items in storage: just assign a space for the water to only go there. Upon this discovery, Nightfall had obsessively checked every tangible corner of your inventory for signs of leakage, his mutters of exasperation growing to your amusement when he had found none.
On the plus side, it means that you can actually store and conserve your water usage without having to dump out your entire inventory every time you need to water the tree. It also means that Nightfall can also carry water now, without any worry of ruining his own inventory. Along with his papers, the few intact items you had scavenged were stored safely with him.
Nightfall pours out one more bowlful of water. “Should be enough. How are you feeling, great grand-tree? Do you still need more water?” The sapling wiggles its stem in contentment. It is recovering nicely, despite the litany of complaints it has to offer about the heat. More leaves have grown to full size on its twigs to compensate for the burned ones on top that it still has. “Alright, then. Let us know when you feel dry again.”
There’s a shift in the wind.
It slows to a crawl, bringing along with it a slow march of incoming clouds. The contrast between the palest blue sky against the solid wall of grey drifting low over the eastern tree line cannot be any clearer to you.
Rain is approaching.
However, with the stagnating wind comes another aspect of weather that you had hoped to never feel ever again.
“Aaagh, so hot!”
Turns out, you can feel the ambient temperature just fine; you are long accustomed to the overbearing heat of dry-summer.
But heat in combination with humidity?
Oh gods no, that’s an entirely different story.
“Why does it have to be so muggy today?!” Fanning your hand to your face, you tug at your collar, groaning as the fabric reluctantly unsticks from your neck. “I thought it’s supposed to be dry-summer season, not high-humidity season! Isn’t it too early for monsoon weather?”
Beneath the makeshift shade cover, Nightfall slumps back against the tree stump, his head tilted back to rest on the flat surface. He lies there in only his sleeveless undershirt and rolled-up pants, his long tunic and circlet already tossed aside. “Hah… I thought… since we are made of only bones and magic… we could just… not feel the humidity…”
You give up and shuck off your tunic and take off your circlet, grimacing at the stickiness on your bones. Moving under the shade cover, you kick off your boots, the dry grass threshing against your exposed feet, the stems stiff and hollow as straw.
The entire grassland is wilted yellow from the consecutive days of full sun, the air swimming with waves of heat. The border forest has been faring better, but even you can spy the widespread scorch amidst the browning foliage.
You can only hope that rain comes faster than the snail’s pace the clouds are currently going at.
Squatting down next to your brother, you swipe your hand at the moisture condensing on your arms like sweat. Ugh. “Grand-tree, how’re you holding up right now?”
The sapling’s leaves only flick up limply in response.
"Ah, same as us."
With both of you unwilling to go anywhere in this humidity, you take a rare day off and just stay put around the tree stump. It’s kind of nice to not be constantly on the move for once. It is almost... idyllic, dare you say, if you ignore how sticky everything is. Just loitering around, making idle talk, and watching the wall of clouds creep after the sun in the slowest pursuit ever.
There’s only so much you can take doing nothing at all.
Nightfall seems to agree, as you can already hear him shuffling through his inventory behind you. While he’s doing that, you look ahead towards the southern direction of the plains, sighing. Your fingers itch as you sense the abundance of movement in the periphery of your aura.
You do not hate the wishing tree for giving you the positive spectrum of its magic.
You hate the effects your positivity has on your surroundings.
You hate it so much.
To your dismay, your aura has grown so large that it has extended past the wishing tree’s own aura, to the point where the tree can no longer conceal your magic within its own. Your ambient magic spills unbridled into the border forest, alerting everything in its vicinity with its positivity.
And anything that unwittingly catches wind of your positivity tries to seek it out, only to get rebuffed by either Nightfall’s aura– or the wishing tree’s aura, whenever you’re in the clearing. From ground animals to flying insects, the ever-present awareness of them prodding at the periphery of your senses just outside of the range of negativity from sunup to sundown is enough to drive you mad. The only reprieve you get from the constant awareness is during night, when darkness silences the majority of the world to sleep, a temporary relief on your fraying nerves.
Though nighttime is not much better, with you having spent countless hours trying to rein in your emissions with limited success. With your internal flow constantly leaking from your ribcage, your magic refuses to behave to your intent, preferring instead to run wild and bleed everywhere like a dying chicken. Throughout it all, the sapling had encouraged you to keep trying, its murmurs resonating in grounding intent. Though it is in combination with Nightfall’s presence that had kept you sane, pulled you back before you teetered over the edge and declared war on the local wildlife. Your brother is truly a godsend, discussing with you any alternative methods to help bring your magic to heel.
Because while the sapling’s explanations on magic control are very welcome, it is also very literal. You are still not exactly sure how to interpret its statement to “draw from your roots up your magic, and channel through the trunk and branches and leaves in cycles”.
Nightfall seemed to have no issues with his own magic, other than the fact that his aura does not extend beyond four paces. He did admit to some troubling observations, though. “Seems my magic encounters a pinch in the internal flow.” He had pointed to his left collarbone, his finger brushing up the juncture of his neck. “It’s like a bottleneck; circulation slows to a trickle around here, then speeds back up to normal once past it. My magic isn’t as unstable as yours, but it responds to me rather slowly.”
You shake your head and tune into your magic, your eyelights fixed on the southern tree line. If the internal flow of your body is like a coil of rope, then the many loops of rope unspooling out of formation would be your wayward magic. It sweeps across the dry plains, brushing over the contours of the forest floor, feeling its way between tree trunks and animals alike. Phantom impressions of footfalls register to your extended senses as many bodies reroute their course and make for the tree line, drawn by your positivity. Your eye sockets water from the sensory overload as you halt your aura to slowly fall back, your magic bucking against your will as you rein it in, forcefully winding the ropes back in formation.
Goddamnit, it’s like saddling a wild stallion.
You’re panting as your aura reluctantly withdraws into you, rivulets of moisture running down your face in mimicry of sweat, but you've done it. You’ve actually done it. You’ve managed to pull back your magic and make it rejoin the internal flow without it snapping midway and spiraling out of your control this time.
A weight landing on your shoulder startles you from your reverie, but you relax as your brother squats down next to you. “My, looks like you’re doing much better,” he says. His eyelights flicker to the distant tree line. “What did you see?”
“Same as usual.” You take in deep breaths to regulate your agitated magic as it courses within you, trying to maintain it to only circulate. “A whole lotta animals had felt my aura, so now they’re just hiding beyond the tree line.” You pause at the considering light in your brother’s eye sockets. “You got an idea or something?”
“Yeah.” Nightfall stands up and retrieves a wooden bow from his inventory. Your eyelights lock onto him in curiosity as he strings his bow. Out of everything you had pilfered from the fields, that bow is the last of its kind that is usable. All the other bows you had come across were too damaged to risk any usage. “I want to try something, see if I can make them go away. Can you give me vision on them?”
“Hm? What are you gonna do?” Hopping to your feet, you feel a ping of magic from your brother. But this time, the ping does not dissipate– instead it’s sustained, opening a channel between you and him.
For a moment, your vision warps between the profile view of your brother and the view of your right hand– his right hand– sliding to the center of the bowstring. There’s no arrow notched on the string, but you feel the thrum of magic around your– his– curled fingers.
A burble of delight wells up in your soul– his soul– your souls–
“Can you shoot that far, Night?”
The flash of your brother’s wicked smile tells you everything.
With a manic grin, you let loose, your magic breaking free from your tight grasp as it surges forward, crashing through the tree line like a rabid bull. You– he– you both see it, skunks hidden beneath sun-dappled bushes, a pair of sparrows weaving through the canopy past a pursuing hawk, a herd of deer settling on the ground right before the border…
Nightfall draws back his bow, taking aim at the tree line. A line of silver magic forms solid from bowgrip to taut string, glowing brightly as he fires the arrow.
Blazing across the entirety of the plains in a flash, the silver arrow flies true as it meets its target into the eye of a resting deer.
Whooping, you grab Nightfall’s arm and sprint your way over to the downed deer, not caring if you’re stumbling from the double-vision you’ve still got going active. Your brother hastily ends the sustained channel between you– thank goodness– as he drags you back up on your feet, his laughter contagious as you trip and collide onto him. “By the gods, Night, that was amazing! Your magic– you made arrows out of magic! This opens up so many possibilities– we gotta celebrate!”
“I just didn’t want to waste what few arrows we have on stray animals.” Your brother chuckles as he finally manages to pull you back on your feet, steadying you. “Celebrate, eh? What’s on the menu then, chef?” His chuckles grow into full-blown laughter as you impatiently stagger forward, your steps resembling more of a drunken gallop. “Slow down! Where are we gonna get the salt? Or the garlic?”
“Who cares!” Loping through the tree line, you locate the dead deer lying on the ground– a large buck, its antlers still covered in fuzz. All the other animals you had sensed earlier have already fled from the arrow shot. You quickly retrieve a knife from storage and begin gutting the deer, your blade cutting through hide and slipping between bones, muscles, and organs with exhilarating ease. “We’ve got matches at least, so we can start a firepit for a roast!”
“Ooh, roasted deer? Sounds great– but we need seasoning at least! Some black pepper and ginger root would go well with– what are you doing? Wait, hold up, you cannot put that in there! Your inventory is not an icebox!”
“Hey, if I can strategically shove water in there without consequences, I can definitely shove in a deer carcass! Strategically, of course.”
“Sundown, no!”
“Sundown, yes!”
The firepit may have refused to light multiple times, your magic still runs wild, the air is boiling hot, you have no salt, and the clouds are completely blocking out your well-deserved view of the sunset, but all you and your brother can savor from the fire-roasted venison hours later is the taste of victory.
The mugginess of the air persists throughout the night and into the next day.
It is around midday, you think. You can’t tell, not with the clouds completely blotting out the sky in a thick sheet of dark grey. The unusual absence of the sun casts a strange filmy light over the clearing. There’s a stillness that hangs in the air as well. Nothing is moving. Not the wind, not the trees, not even the animals within the border forest. It is as if the world has taken cover, waiting quietly with bated breath for something to happen.
Booming thunder echoes throughout the clearing, accompanied by flashes of lightning running through the dense clouds above.
A drop of water lands on your head.
Nightfall’s head snaps up in time for the rain to come pouring down with the force of a stampede. Yelping, he hastily shoves the papers spread out on the tree stump into his inventory, barely rescuing them from the sudden downpour. Above you, the burlap of the shade cover does absolutely nothing to shield you from the thundering rain, the water going straight through it as you are immediately drenched.
Startled, raucous laughter spills out of you as you grab Nightfall’s arm and drag him out into the open, ignoring both his and the sapling’s complaints of getting wet. “It’s raining! Night, grand-tree, it’s finally raining!”
I know, I am drenched! The sapling attempts to shake the water off itself, a futile effort. It is too much water!
“I know!" Nightfall quickly puts his hand up to shield his eye sockets. "And I just realized we have nothing to cover us from situations like this!”
“Yeah, but you know what?”
“What?” Nightfall squints at you through the downpour as you extend a hand out to him, your other arm folding behind your back. Lighting arcs high above you as you bend forward at the waist in a mockery of a bow.
“Dance with me, Night?”
Stunned, your brother barks out a laugh as he mirrors your bow with an equally butchered curtsy. “I told you, we don’t know how to dance!”
“Yeah, but did that ever stop us before?”
Nightfall’s grin grows wide as he launches himself at you, your combined footsteps in time with each other as you twist and sidestep his every move with reckless abandon. Laughing, you spread your arms out in the rainstorm, spinning out of reach of Nightfall’s lunges as your impromptu dance devolves into a merry chase of cat-and-mouse.
Thunder rumbles in tune to your delighted laughter as he tackles you to the ground, the water squelching into mud on your back. Wheezing from the impact, you wrap your arms around him just as he attempts to push himself up, pinning his arms to his sides. He lifts his head up to glare at you, though the effect is ruined by his gleaming eyelights and shaking shoulders as he laughs at the sight of you splashed in mud.
“Look at you! You've got mud everywhere!”
“Heh, you caught me!”
Your brother’s squawk of offense as you roll him into the mud is pure joy to your soul.
Notes:
The concept of duty: integrity and devotion to your role; whatever it takes to see the task through.
Not to be confused with priority.
Your duty is to protect the wishing tree.
Your brother is priority.
Chapter 4: Obfuscate
Summary:
The year begins and ends with you.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A black smudge hovers inquisitively over your head.
Standing on top of the tree stump, you pause in your task of rolling back the burlap of the shade cover to stare up at it.
Backdropped by the patchwork of white clouds across a faded blue sky, the smudge is about as long as your pinky finger. You track its blurry movements as it zips past you and lands on the sapling, steadying itself on one of the leaves as it gently bobs in the breeze. You still have trouble making out the dark shape of its form, until the smudge shifts, the sunlight glinting off its long wings and highlighting the transparent veins in silver.
It’s a dragonfly.
No wonder, the black spots staining the base of its wings had thrown you off on seeing the actual shape of the insect.
More importantly…
“Grand-tree, why is there a dragonfly here?” You keep an eyelight on it as you quickly check your internal flow. Your aura is circulating tumultuously within you, but it is indeed contained right now, so it’s not you that brought the dragonfly here, not this time. “I thought your aura is supposed to ward away everything, right?”
Not everything. The sapling does a little sweep of its slender branches towards the grassland. At the sudden movement, the dragonfly takes off, startled, before landing back down on another leaf. Those that do not heed intent will not listen, I cannot ward away. Nor do I wish to ward away new life growing.
New life, huh.
Since that first rainstorm, the grassland had revived itself to some semblance of greenery, as the shriveled grasses had greedily drunk up its fill of the much-needed water. To your surprise, countless sprouts had also sprung up anew from those tree stumps that you had thought were long dead. In the near distance, you can see Nightfall examining the little tree shoots peppered amidst the long grasses, the new growth made distinctive by their tender green leaves.
You send a quick pulse out to your brother. His attention remains fixed to the ground as he dismissively waves his hand, his pulse promptly returning to you: almost done, will return soon.
Everything sounds good on his end.
Aura has adjusted in balance to accommodate new life, otherwise they will wither. The forest is regrowing, a joyous occasion. The sapling shakes its branches harder, causing the resting dragonfly to take off into the air again. You watch as it flies up to join the flight path of another dragonfly overhead as they both zip away in silver-black smudges across the clearing. Change in aura means very small animals may not heed my intent. Worry not, their approach is not allowed here.
The regrowth of the felled trees is promising, but the change in aura concerns you. It sets a foreboding precedence that can only linger as the tree sprouts continue to grow. Now it is just insects passing by, but it does not mean the rest of the wildlife will not follow later as the wishing tree’s aura continues to give way for the sake of the sprouts.
You finish rolling back the burlap, securing it into place. Hopping off the tree stump, you perk up as you see Nightfall trudging his way back to you. “Hey, welcome back!”
Nightfall rolls his eyelights at your greeting. “I’m back.” He turns to the sapling. “Great grand-tree, about the sprouts in the field… would you like us to look after them?”
Yes! The sapling’s leaves flutter in delight. Since when they were felled, I have missed them.
The wishing tree, having company with other trees? The image of the sapling surrounded by a bunch of sprouts like small children bubbles up in your mind. “Grand-tree, are you a gossip or something?”
The sapling leans to one side. Gos… sip…? No, I am a tree. I and they were once part of the very forest around us. To hear from them again and reconnect, I wish for it.
“By the gods, you totally are,” you mutter.
Nightfall lets out a huff at your sass. “Well, it is good news that they are recovering. We don’t mind taking care of them as they grow.” His eyelights glint as he surveys the clearing. “It fits in with our plans quite nicely. It’ll take some time, but I imagine we’ll have some natural cover after a few years.”
It is good news, indeed.
You had combed through many ideas on how to deal with the vulnerability of open terrain, since the clearing left you very few options to work with in terms of time and labor. Cutting down the border forest and expanding the clearing was detrimental and served no purpose but to further isolate the wishing tree. You wanted cover, not exposure. Digging up young trees and transplanting them into the clearing was beyond laborious work, and your efforts to move the trees would probably kill them in the process anyway. You had even considered harvesting a bunch of seeds and planting them, thus growing the forest from scratch– until Nightfall had pointed out the slow and questionable viability of tree seeds. Also, without any identifying markers to keep track of where they were planted, you might as well water the entire clearing for months until something sprouted.
The fact that those tree stumps were not dead this whole time– especially after that bout of dry-summer– is nothing short of a miracle.
You add ‘monitoring tree sprout growth’ to the list of your tasks, musing at how domestic your duties are. With such an emphasis on looking after the health of trees, you’re really less a guardian and more a gardener.
“Hey hey, grand-tree, tell me more about the forest you used to live in!” You sling your arm around Nightfall and plop down before the sapling, ignoring your brother’s yelp as you drag him down with you. “You must have a lot of stories from back then. What kind of trees were your favorite? Were there any you didn’t like sharing space with? How annoying were the animals? C’mon, c’mon, you can tell me!”
The sapling straightens up, the branches wiggling in surprise as it beckons you closer. Scooting up to the base of the tree stump, you can feel the waves of joy radiating off it, as equally warm as the glow of the maturing afternoon as the sapling begins to recount its glory days to you: maples as beautiful as the red dawn, gives the best shade; honeylocusts intolerable, too guarded with their large thorns; the worst, animals always eating, eating, eating fruit–
Nightfall shrugs off your arm and rights himself up, primly folding his legs underneath him to sit next to you. “You’re just as much of a gossip, Sun.”
You only beam back at him, too busy being impressed by the sapling’s rare display of enthusiasm. If trees had tongues, you’d bet they’d be wagging all day.
Who knew the wishing tree had preferences?
Rain becomes a common occurrence as the weather transitions into monsoon season, heralding the end of dry-summer. Long days of sun now mix with days of cloudy skies and periods of rain, breaking up the pattern and bringing relief to the clearing.
Though the days remain hot and humid, the weather has become… curiously mild in its intensity, and infinitely less destructive than what you remember of monsoon season. The worst you had witnessed so far was a rainstorm that had started in the middle of the night, lasting all the way until after daybreak. But there were no weeks-long slogs of heavy rain, no flash flooding, no trees toppling over from high winds...
The untold amounts of misery that you were expecting of monsoon season just… didn’t happen.
The lack of destruction is very uncharacteristic, but you would gladly take this mild weather over the madness monsoon weather would bring.
Also, because of the rain, you don’t need to haul water anymore, since water now comes to you. The sapling and the tree sprouts in the clearing are both content with the level of rainfall they receive. The time normally spent fetching and delivering water has been freed up to pursue other tasks, mainly more forest exploration.
…Apparently to your brother, it is too much water.
Nightfall’s complaints about being wet had only grown since the arrival of rain. You didn’t mind being soaked, but his misery at losing a whole day’s worth of productivity to rain had sent you scouring your inventory for something useful, a continued exercise in futility.
This has led you to modify the shade cover to support a simple slanted roof frame overhead, decimating your remaining supply of usable wood and rope. Securing the biggest sheets of burlap and various fabrics onto the roof frame was an arduous task in of itself, because the stability of the entire structure was suspect in the first place.
Your load-bearing posts are bundled-together spear shafts, goddamnit, and your roof cover is layers and layers of burlap and shredded clothes.
Even so, this is a small price to pay in order to preserve Nightfall’s need for decency.
Your brother is priority.
But the resulting shelter structure over the area of the tree stump is still serviceable. Sure, it constantly leaks whenever it rains, but at least the water soaks and then follows the slope of the roof to drip off the edges, instead of dripping immediately onto your head.
You even keep your inventory open above you to catch the leaks, adding to your water reserves with minimal effort. It doesn’t hurt to have some more water.
A mixture of gold and grey muddles the air as beams of sunlight slant through cracks in the crumbling cloud cover overhead. Rain drizzles down on the roof of the shelter, the droplets fragmenting into the sunlight in dizzying arrays of prismatic light.
Over the western horizon, a rainbow arcs above the darkened tree line, serene in the yellowing chaos of the sky.
The sky can’t seem to decide if it wants to clear up in time for the sunset or to keep raining.
You hope it clears up for your brother’s sake.
Under the cover of the shelter, Nightfall grumbles all the same, scooting closer to you atop the tree stump. “It’d be too soon.” Silver slowly sifts between his fingers as he braids the plumes together into a long thread. A torn heavy coat lies in his lap, awaiting further mending. You can spy some silver threaded along the exposed edges of the shoulder seam. "Tsk. How much longer is it going to rain?”
You and Nightfall had been stuck here for most of today, after the morning sky had opened up to an unexpected downpour. It is annoying how easily rain can force you back under the cover of shelter, disrupting whatever tasks you were in the middle of doing.
Which means you have a lot of downtime on your hands right now.
Like magic.
Turning a blob of floating silver around in your hands, you admire how it shines and shimmers in the fragmenting light. By drawing out a bit of your magic and condensing it so it becomes visible to the eyelight, you can see the individual particles of magic join and separate from each other, the iridescent substance fluid and yielding as you roll the blob into a ball between your palms.
Pretty.
It’s like a pearl.
You pop it in your mouth.
Why are you eating you and yours. Confusion wafts over to you from the sapling as it shakes its branches in disapproval, flicking away some rainwater that had dripped from the roof. Magic is not for eating.
Nightfall’s head snaps up to the sound of you chewing. Disgust and fascination flickers across his face as he flounders to string his words together. “Sun– huh? We can eat magic? Wait, is this considered self-cannibalization?” He leans in closer to you, the half-mended coat in his lap all but forgotten. “What’s it taste like?”
To your surprise, the texture of your magic is firm, desolate in its mellow bitterness. Judging from the silvery appearance, you had expected it to taste cold and sharp like metal, or maybe nothing at all.
“Mmm. A little bitter, but it’s not bad.” You hold your hand out to him. “Gimme yours next?”
Nightfall stares down at your hand, then back up to meet your expectant gaze, thoroughly unimpressed. “Give me yours first, and I’ll give you mine.”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Rolling another bit of your magic into a ball, you and Nightfall swap pieces with each other, ignoring the sapling’s confused outbursts. You snicker at the disinterested face he’s putting up, the glimmer in his eyelights belying his curiosity. “You don’t seem too worried about the cannibalization part.”
Nightfall turns away from you, waving you off. “Shush, this could be useful, like for cooking. Can we use magic for cooking? I hope so. Really, your ingenuity amazes me as much as your indecency.”
Chuckling, you examine the piece of magic he had exchanged with you. Silver gleams in your palm in a small loop of braided thread, the thread twining around your fingers as you gather it up in a loose ball and eat it.
Your brother’s magic is spongy, its mild sweetness full of sorrow. The emotion floods into your soul, mixing with the empty space within your ribs.
You… recognize this flavor.
(Large prickly leaves growing on ever-climbing vines, shading the smaller lobed leaves twining alongside as they both reach up towards dappled sunlight.)
“It tastes like silk gourd–”
“It tastes like bitter squash–”
You blink.
You both had spoken at the same time.
Nightfall stares down at his hands, his eyelights wobbling. Silver ignites from his palm as he quickly scarfs down a handful of his own magic, then another, and another. There’s a fuzziness to his gaze, distant almost, as his chewing slows to a stop. “Heh… hah… how funny.” His voice is barely there. “We taste like the garden.”
You drape your arm around your brother, pulling him close to you. “Hey, grand-tree.” You lean across the tree stump, holding out your free hand to it. “Gimme your magic, I want to know if you taste like us too.”
You are like the animals that eat my fruit, hungry all the time. Despite the complaint, the sapling nonetheless wafts over a mist of silver onto your waiting hand, coating your palm with a thin sheen.
Rolling your eyelights, you turn back to your brother. “Night." His gaze is still distant as you squeeze your arm around him. "Nightfall. Here, you’re right here.” You scrape some of the sapling’s magic off with your thumb. “Give it a try, it’s from grand-tree.” After you hand over his portion, you then go ahead and lick your palm.
An explosion of flavor nearly bowls you over, flooding your mouth with a distinct watery crispness. It is overwhelmingly sweet– a deep-rooted grief blending together with the most fleeting longing. If this is what the sapling’s magic alone tastes like, you can only imagine how flavorful the fruit of the wishing tree would be. It’s no wonder it had complained so much about the animals– they would eat all the fruit if they had the option.
Nightfall steadies himself against your side, equally blown away by the flavor. His eye sockets widen in recognition. “This is– um– it’s– I know this–” He snaps his fingers together. “Pear!”
Not pear! The sapling’s leaves quiver in great offense. I am an apple tree!
"Oh?” Nightfall shakes off his bewilderment and focuses on the sapling, his eye sockets narrowing in false contemplation. “I know my fruits. You taste very distinctly like pear.”
I cannot taste like pear! I grow apple fruit!
“Well then, your apples apparently taste like pear–”
They do not!!
Magic sure is magical.
Especially at night, where the glow of condensed magic illuminates the grassland around you like ghostlight. The chorus of crickets accompanies the gentle rustling from the border forest. High above you, the moon shines in full radiance as veils of clouds pass in front of its silver face.
Out in the field, magic crackles at your fingertips, eagerly forming plumes and tendrils in the cool breeze as you swipe your hands across the air. A few paces away, Nightfall lingers by the shelter, one hand gripping a post. A dim glow slowly seeps from his hand and into the wood, the magic running up the grain and into the rest of the structure.
Ever since Nightfall’s bullseye with that arrow, you and your brother have been obsessed with exploring the possibilities and limitations of magic. Countless nights have been spent with you fervently testing out what magic can and cannot do, with Nightfall forgoing sleep most of the time to join you in your experimentation.
If intent is the force that drives magic to work how you want it to work, then you have willpower in spades. You’ve broken down the extent of what magic is capable of thus far: aura, spectrum, ping, reinforcement, and creation.
In its invisible aura state, magic enables you to extend your senses beyond the boundaries of your body.
With considerable focus, you can control the range and intensity of your emissions, as well as identify and disrupt the emotions of a given target.
The ability to communicate and share information over long distances is possible by focusing your intent to a recipient via the deliberate pulse of your soul.
In its condensed state, magic can be manipulated to infuse and reinforce the integrity of existing objects.
It can also be molded into shapes, essentially creating objects out of the fabric of magic itself.
You had thought that Nightfall’s magic arrow was the stuff of old legends– but being able to replicate it yourself was beyond wild.
Magic coalesces and lengthens into a silver spear in your hands as you swipe it across the air, the spear blurring through the darkness as you shift through the movements of some basic stances. You marvel at the solidity and flexibility of the magic construct, how it behaves just like an actual spear as you twist and jab at the air in front of you. The shape and balance is so familiar that there is no need for you to adjust how you handle it.
Forming basic weaponry and ammunition is as easy as breathing, shockingly so. Knives, short swords, staffs, spears, arrows–
However, despite the casual and blatant disregard for logic, physics, and common sense, magic ironically seems to have its own set of rules limiting its versatility.
Condensed and unmanipulated, your magic prefers to form long strands with offshoots, much like how a plant would grow a main stem with roots, branches, tendrils, and deeply lobed leaves. It makes forming long and thin objects incredibly easy– and forming large flat planes or rounded objects with any sort of volume capacity incredibly hard.
It is possible, but the amount of focus needed to bend the magic into a shape it resists makes it too exhausting to maintain. The magic just crumbles from the strain despite the copious amounts of intent poured into it.
That particular discovery had crushed your brother’s hopes to magic some household objects into existence, like clothing, shoes, blankets, a table, a kettle, cooking pots–
It’s funny. Your magic can eagerly mold itself into an entire armory’s worth of weaponry out of basically thin air, but it won’t listen to you half the time whenever you try to withdraw your aura. It can’t even make the most basic items like spoons and cups.
Magic sure is magical.
(What’s the point of having all this power, if it can’t help you make what your brother wants?)
The steady hush of footsteps against the rustling grasses alerts you to Nightfall’s approach.
Ah… already?
Dismissing the spear in your hold, the condensed magic dissolves into a fine mist as you walk back towards the shelter, meeting your brother halfway. Taking one look at the ghostlight fading in your wake, Nightfall only sighs as he grabs your hand, leading you back to the tree stump. It is routine as you settle into your usual spot, your arms opening up to receive him as he settles in your lap sideways. He huddles in as close as he can to you, making himself comfortable as you wrap your arms tight around him.
He always did sleep better when in direct contact with you.
You watch the moonlight pierce through the sheer clouds above, the landscape slowly ebbing in and out in pale contrasts against the night. The brush of the cool breeze is soothing, as is the slow pulse of your brother’s soul.
Early morning light filters through the fog cloaking the clearing. The air is cool but damp, accompanied by an unusually chilly breeze.
Something’s wrong with the border forest.
“Grand-tree, the forest– why is it dying?”
It makes no sense– this monsoon season has been downright pleasant, with the area receiving the ideal blend of sun, shade, and rain. Even the heat has let up, much to your surprise. Nights have been growing increasingly cool, while the days have been nearly unnoticeable in how mildly warm they are.
The border forest should be thriving.
Yet through the lifting veil of the fog, the prominence of yellow wilt in every direction of the tree line is unmistakable. A wilt this widespread can only be an indicator of a serious disease, or an equally devastating infestation.
From what you can see, the tree sprouts are still green. This wilt hasn’t spread into the clearing… yet.
The sapling flinches at your question, then stills. Another damp breeze picks up as you note the pulse the sapling’s giving off, probably to sense the state of the border forest. Not dying, not dying. Only autumn, forest preparing for leaf drop.
…Huh?
“Wait, what do you mean, autumn?” Nightfall scans the tree line with critical eyelights, his gaze assessing the foggy sky, then the mix of yellow and green of the grassland. “Do you mean autumn harvest? That makes no sense, it is monsoon season right now.”
Mon… soon…? The sapling shakes some dewdrops off itself. What is monsoon season. We are in the midst of autumn season, trees will drop leaves in time before frost sets in for winter.
You stiffen up as Nightfall inhales sharply besides you.
You hastily review your knowledge of the seasons: it should be spring, growing season, summer harvest, dry-summer, monsoon, second growing season, autumn harvest, dry-winter, spring.
Summers are long and hot, taking up more than half of the year. You know this. Right now, it should still be firmly in the middle of the long summer, with another four months of good weather before autumn harvest would arrive, and even then, the trees should not be all turning yellow as if they were dying.
Something is deeply wrong right now.
Because if it’s not monsoon season right now–
–then what the fuck is the actual time of year right now?
Nightfall’s eyelights are flickering wildly like a flame from a match, his gaze darting back and forth between the tree line and the sapling. “Great grand-tree.” He takes a deep breath, his exhale coming out in a strained hiss. “If we are in autumn harvest right now, please tell me how much time we have until dry-winter.”
Dry… winter…? The sapling shakes its branches in disagreement, the yellow tint of the leaves catching your eyelight. How did you not notice that earlier? Winter is not dry, winter has snow.
Nightfall looks faint. “...Snow?”
There’s a dull throb crowding inside your skull. “Like… like from the poems?” Distantly, you hear laughter. Dizzy, you look at Nightfall. Your brother stares back at you. He isn’t laughing. “‘Frail and white– like the petals of plum blossoms, carried gently forth by– by the frigid northern breeze’, that kind of snow?”
If it’s not your brother who is laughing, then who–?
Yes, that is… correct… The sapling’s leaves flare out in alarm as you slump forward past Nightfall.
You’re not laughing, you can’t be, you’re breathing too fast, it's too choppy–
You’re not laughing.
Scion, your aura–
Nightfall locks his arms around your waist just as you lunge at the wishing tree.
You end up exhausting yourself after thrashing and failing to escape Nightfall’s restraints trying to get to the sapling. You’re left gasping as he carefully lowers you to the ground, a hollow ache yawning open in the space where the manic rage had overtaken you in a flash fire.
After you’re securely laid down, your brother then takes that moment to appropriately lose it in your stead, as he alternates between stalking around the tree stump and extorting information out of the sapling with the most empty smile.
The sapling itself is completely lost on why you two are freaking out in the first place– scion and scion, at ease, calm! It is only autumn and winter seasons, no danger, calm!– its aura pulsing overtime between defusing Nightfall’s interrogation and grounding you from spiraling into a catatonic state.
That reality check of the world forces you to recalculate for the four months of summer that suddenly no longer exist; the significant loss of time that you never had completely obliterating your plans and routines to pieces.
Neither of you know anything about the wishing tree’s version of autumn– let alone winter.
Because there is a fundamental disconnect between reality and your internal understanding of the seasons in relation to the agricultural calendar–
–because time isn’t where it should be–
–if what you know is not reliable at all–
–because it just doesn’t make any sense, it makes no sense, it makes no sense, it makes no sense–
–this is fine.
Shelter. You have shelter. Is it enough?
This is just fine.
Water. You have water. You have enough.
You can… you can still work with this.
Resources. You are low on supplies. It’s not enough.
It… it’s not… it’s not the worst thing you’ve been through.
Time. You have no time. You're not enough.
(Something within you fractures at the delusion.)
The sapling would later wave away you and your brother’s profuse apologies, insisting that you both rise from your full-body prostrations, that there’s no need to apologize in the first place. You honestly don’t get how it can forgive you so easily, especially after you both had gone off the deep end over seasonal patterns, of all things. Any self-serving officer would have gladly retaliated against you for such deplorable behavior.
Seasonal stress. The sapling states it so simply that you don’t have the will to argue. Worry not. Scion and scion are very young; sprouts’ first year of life is most wondrous and most difficult to go through.
Still, you and your brother remain in prostration bows some more for being terrible, horrible guardians.
You have never seen so many leaves falling at once before.
The border forest is ablaze in swathes of yellow and brown and red foliage. The familiarity of the green foliage that you had taken for granted is gone, the entire forest transformed into the embodiment of the sunset in full daylight.
Dazed, you turn around in place, leaves crunching under your boots as you crane your head every which way, trying to take in the sheer vibrancy of the dying forest. You nearly collide with Nightfall as you’re turning around, his hands pressing against your shoulders to steady you as you lean against him. Fluttering leaves catch your attention everywhere you look, all gold and rust and crimson as they slowly fall to the ground like freshly plucked feathers.
Is this what the afterlife looks like?
If so, you wouldn’t mind the eternal wind taking you and your brother's souls to rest here one day, surrounded by sunset on earth.
Behind you, Nightfall catches a leaf as it passes by, examining the brilliant red color before letting it slip from his fingers.
The border forest continues to rival the sunsets in the most fiery displays over the course of the next few days, the leaves falling all around you like embers.
Deep within the southern section of the forest, you grasp the wooden marker with both hands and pull hard, uprooting it out of the ground. “Finally! That’s the last one.” You toss the wooden marker into your inventory, dusting your hands off at a task finally completed. If these markers are just going to stand there and do nothing, you may as well commandeer them for your own use. The red strips of cloth from the markers can stay, though– you just remove the cloths and tie them to the closest branch or tree trunk, thus maintaining the warning perimeter. “Night, I’m done! You find anything?”
Some paces away, Nightfall is crouching before a drop-off, observing the forest below. “Yes, I think so. Can you get some vision down here? I think the river is below us– I can hear the water.”
The echo of rushing water grows loud as you approach the edge of the drop-off with careful steps. You tune into your aura as it spills down between half-naked branches, brushing past squirrels scuttling up tree trunks, following the slow descent of falling leaves as they’re suddenly swept away in the fast-moving currents of a river. “You’re right, the river’s down here.” You ignore the movements of deer pacing around and pawing at the base of the drop-off, focusing instead on the rippling surface of the river as fish leap out with a splash. Grinning, you tug your aura to pull back. The fish are fat and the scales are tawny and grey, but you’d recognize the shape of that fish anywhere. “Hey, there’s carp jumping down there! You think we can go catch one sometime?”
Nightfall hums in consideration as he stands up, hefting up a big rock with him. “I’d like that. As soon as I figure out how to make a cooking pot, we can come back here and steam some fish.” He tucks the rock into his inventory, then moves away to a cluster of trees to pull at a dangling branch.
In the task of recovering all the wooden markers, you’ve also been foraging in the general area to shore up your depleted supplies. Anything useful or interesting you come across, you shove into your inventory: rocks, branches, leaves, tree bark, bones, whole plants, everything smaller than a full-sized tree goes right into storage for later inspection.
You’ll take anything you can get.
“Eh, we don’t have to wait.” You huff in irritation as your aura instead traces around the drop-off, your senses prickling as it feels out a safe path down to the river. The incessant scrabbling of the deer down below makes you yank harder at your aura. To your relief, your aura obeys and begins to withdraw back to you, the deer soon stopping with their noise. “You think I can just catch some now, and then keep them alive in my inventory? I have a lake’s worth of water– surely I can manage a fish pond in there.” You snicker as Nightfall stares at you, his mouth already open to retort as you make your way over to him.
A large shadow scuttles down a tree you had just passed by, landing directly behind you.
Freezing in place at the heavy crunch of leaves, your aura erratically brushes against the huge bulky shape and pitch-black fur as a bear casually lumbers right up behind you, its head butting into the stiff column of your spine. Just a short distance ahead of you, Nightfall pales, his face taking on a chalky hue– a fascinating thing to think about, because neither of you should have complexions, and there’s a goddamned bear shoving its nose against your back, Night, help, what do I do?!
Your brother pings you… something. All you can understand from his ping is a mess of trembling panic and I don’t know, are you hurt, don’t attack it!
Don’t attack it? What else are you supposed to do, play dead?! The bear’s right here, I am already dead! You and Nightfall furiously ping each other as the bear continues to snuffle at your back, its nose poking uncomfortably between your ribs. Your hands ache as you grip at the agitated magic pooling in your palms. Walk away? Kill it? Kill it?
Nightfall slowly reaches into his inventory and pulls out his bow. He’s not close enough to use his aura to repel the bear. Not hostile, not hostile? Only here because of positivity, right? I can shoot a negativity arrow, make it leave–
His eyelights gutter out.
Your breathing stutters to a halt as you feel teeth clamp onto your spine.
Enough.
You’ve had enough.
You can handle rodents chittering at your heels wherever you walk.
You can endure the herds of deer sidling up to you.
You can refrain from stabbing the multitudes of birds that decided landing on your head and shoulders is a great idea.
You cannot tolerate bears trying to eat you like a snack.
If the bear wants positivity so badly, then it can have it.
The wild currents of your aura whip around you in a frenzy as you force the entire flow of your magic to flood into the bear, overloading it with so much positivity that you can feel its jaw fall slack, releasing your spine, the excessive positivity sending the bear into a blissful stupor.
In your hands, magic sharpens into a long knife as you swing around and plunge the blade deep into the immobilized bear’s face–
You fucking kill the bear.
With a heave, you yank out the knife as the entire weight of the dead bear comes crashing to the ground at your feet. A spray of leaves fly up only to flutter back down on its black fur. “We’re having bear stew for dinner.” You absently consider the hot blood coating your hands, lurid red dripping from the silver of your conjured blade. You suppose even magic can be stained with blood. “And we’re taking the fur.”
Nightfall rushes to your side to check you over, his fingers catching on the new puncture holes in the back of your tunic. “I’ll get some herbs to go along with the stew.”
He wisely does not point out the lack of cooking pot.
You’ll figure something out, magic limitations be damned.
After multiple failed rounds of attempting to create a cooking pot, you finally make one out of sheer spite.
All you had to do was twine your magic together with Nightfall’s and make both magics reinforce the other to prevent it from imploding on itself.
You still have no salt, but all you and your brother can taste from the bear stew later that day is vindictive satisfaction.
“I told you, grand-tree, I’m not moving the shelter–”
Scion, you do not listen–
“--I listen just fine! I’m not risking it just because you–”
–I am capable of enduring the cold uncovered, as I have for hundreds of years–
“--yet you couldn’t even handle the dry-summer heat! What makes you think you’ll survive the cold right now–”
You’ve been arguing with the sapling for a while now, for good reason. After dumping out the last bunch of dry leaves from your inventory, you walk around the tree stump, scanning the leaves laid out on the ground. Any areas where the roots can be seen, you spread the leaves over to cover them, pushing them around with your boot.
With that done, you glare back up at the sapling– which is completely bare. Without its own leaves filling the spaces between its branches, the sapling looks strangely small and so, so fragile.
It shouldn’t look like that.
The border forest has similarly been reduced to a latticework of bare branches jutting against the sky, where puffy white clouds emerge out of the blue expanse, imperious in their size as they block out the midday sun.
The grassland has dulled to an ashy brown husk of itself, looking rather like a barren wasteland. Mounds of dried leaves are strewn everywhere around the tree sprouts, the leaves all transported from the border forest. You would have done more to cover the tree sprouts themselves than lining their stumps and roots with leaves, if not for the fact that you have completely run out of burlap, and that the weather has been turning cold far more quickly than you liked.
You’ve noticed the slow skewing of daylight that is typical of the seasonal shift towards dry-winter, how the sun is later to rise and sooner to set with every passing day. Nighttime is cold, with the sun barely warming the waking world back to more bearable temperatures.
It hasn’t been warm for a while.
Worry not, worry not. The sapling shoos at you with a whiplike branch, its pulse reaching out to you in reassurance. Unlike heat, I eagerly await cold weather. I and the forest are hardy trees. It is custom to embrace the end of the year’s cycle with dormancy of magic, beginning with first snowfall. Shelter will hinder my growth from this point on; please move it elsewhere if you are still needing it.
You’re not reassured in the slightest. “No.” Turning away from the tree stump, you rummage through your storage and pull out a wooden marker, grumbling all the while at the sapling’s persistent pings for your attention.
You should’ve dragged Nightfall away from his leaf-hauling and had him talk instead.
The wooden marker is sturdy and heavy, about as long as you are tall. You had wanted to construct some walls for the shelter with all those markers you had retrieved, thus giving the wishing tree some additional protection against the incoming cold weather. You’ve heard of the effects of frost before, how the sudden bite of cold could wipe out an entire harvest’s worth of crops in an instant.
But apparently, the sapling wanted to be exposed instead of covered in time for winter.
You did not take on the role of guardian just to let your charge freeze to death.
A ping from Nightfall alerts you to his arrival back from the tree line. You ping him back, turning to greet him. “Hey, welcome back. You’re all… done…?”
Black fur tickles at Nightfall’s cheek as he approaches. A heavy blanket of bearskin trails down from his shoulders like a cloak, the hem stopping just above his ankles. The black fur faces inwards, the fur peeking out from behind the edges, while the skin side exterior is tanned a smoky grey.
Your brother looks lordly.
“I’m back.” Nightfall reverently strokes the fur. “Yeah, I just finished covering the rest of the tree stumps.” He flares out the pelt, flapping it around him like a cape. “Oh, and I’m also done with the finishing for the fur. I can see now why the nobility would wear ridiculous outfits made out of tiger skin and the like. It is so warm and heavy– I feel like I shouldn’t be wearing this at all.”
You can’t stop staring, the way he cuts a regal figure with that very same bear pelt you had both labored over in cleaning and tanning it. You almost didn’t recognize him. After you had broken in the pelt to make it soft to your satisfaction, Nightfall had then taken it aside for a while to apply the finishing touches.
You didn’t expect him to come back in style.
“Wow.” Your breath comes out in a rush. You cough, embarrassed. “Ah, it looks really good on you like that. Did you do something to the skin side to make it grey? It was tan before.”
“Yeah, I reinforced it with magic. Here, you can take a look.” Nightfall slings off the pelt and hands it over. You stagger at the weight of the fur in your arms as he takes the wooden marker from you in exchange. “Oh, this– were you just about to make the walls for the shelter?”
You’re already distracted in petting the shiny black fur, enamored by how your hands just sink right in. Turning it around, you admire the thin lines of silver embedded throughout the skin side, the silver darkening the typical tan color to a more subdued grey. Brushing your hand against the supple surface, you jolt at the thrum of both your and Nightfall’s magics beneath your fingers. The silver is not just embedded to reinforce the skin side, it is tightly threaded akin to the warp and weft of woven fabric, lining the surface in a faint shimmer.
Your brother’s craftsmanship is truly stunning.
You can’t help it, you rub your face into the fur.
Nightfall’s raised voice makes you peer up to see him picking up on the argument you had just left off with the sapling. He waves the marker around to punctuate just why the shelter should stay where it’s currently situated. “It may be tradition for you to partake in this, and I do not wish to deprive you of such a vital moment.” His indifferent tone cuts through the sapling’s rebuttal. “But you forget yourself, great grand-tree. You have created us to be your guardians, and we will thus do whatever it takes to ensure your survival. If it means discarding customs when it could feasibly threaten your life, then so be it.”
The sapling deflates at your brother’s refusal. Scion and scion are unreasonable but dutiful, truly so.
“What other use are we, if not dutiful to the end?” Nightfall settles the wooden marker on his shoulders, humming as he tilts his head to look at the roof of the shelter. “I may be cruel, but even I can see how important this is to you.” His eyelights flicker back down to the sapling, softening at the sight of its drooping branches. “I… am willing to compromise, with a few conditions.”
You bury your face into the fur again to hide your grin, knowing just how the sapling straightens up at Nightfall’s offer for concession. Please, what are the conditions.
Your brother smiles.
Simply put, the shelter over the wishing tree stays up for the duration of winter. The burlap coverings making up the roof will be tied back to allow open access to the sky in the event of snowfall. The sapling can be exposed all it wants– but if the weather ever turns suspect, you are pulling the coverings right back, on all sides of the shelter.
You will take no chances.
With that shelter exposed to the open air and with the leaves scattered beneath it, you can no longer rest there. A few paces away from the tree stump, you and Nightfall make another shelter, this one purely for your own use. Using the wooden markers and copious amounts of magic to reinforce it, you build the structure as sturdy as you can make it, complete with four walls and a two-sloped roof. Some sheets of cloth hang across a single open doorway, marking the entrance.
It’s a crooked mess of a shack, with a square cutout in each wall to serve as windows, but you don’t care if it’s ugly and has gaps in the wood in need of sealing.
To see your brother circling around it in admiration... it’s the best thing you’ve ever made, after the cooking pot.
The snow comes silently one night.
Inside the darkness of the shack, you sit back against the wall, your brother safely secured in your arms. The bear pelt wraps around you both in a heavy blanket, a blessed warmth against the chilly night.
The flicker of ghostlight outside the window catches your eyelight. Through your aura sneaking between the gaps in the walls, you register the presence of unfamiliar magic floating up into the air, as well as fine particles slowly falling at the same time. Laying Nightfall down and covering him with the blanket, you drag yourself up to the entryway and peel back the covers, shuddering as the cold greets you.
Your breath catches at the sight.
Flakes of white fall daintily through the air as they emerge forth from the shrouded night sky. Pulses of magic ring out from seemingly everywhere, the entire clearing glowing as magic rises from the shriveled grasses, the dead leaves, the tree sprouts, the tree line, the sapling, even its tree stump–
–everything is brimming with silver, as the world comes alive one last time to receive its first snowfall.
You understand now, why the wishing tree was so insistent on being uncovered for this.
It is a wish for farewell, a wish for prosperous new beginnings.
A gasp from within the shack alerts you to Nightfall’s approach as he stumbles next to you, the blanket trailing behind him as he drapes it over to cover you. You turn to him and jolt at the silver curling around him– his aura is completely visible. Looking around yourself, the torrents of your aura light up the walls outside the shack, your own magic swirling and spiraling with the languid currents of your brother’s magic as they both rise into the air to meet the falling snow.
The end of the old year’s cycle has come.
Fuck this snow, and fuck this season.
The novelty of watching the snow veil the entire landscape in white had quickly worn off once you realized the glaring flaws of having snow in the first place.
It’s everywhere.
And it isn’t going away.
And why is it so goddamn bright– especially when it’s reflecting the sun right into your face?
The poems you’ve heard clearly never talked about this, only about the beauty and transience of snow as it falls through the air.
And it is certainly beautiful. Watching the snowflakes as they land into your waiting palm, the clear crystal structures melting into a little puddle before your eyelights... such a sight invokes that quiet melancholy you’ve always heard of in the poems.
Then you shiver from the contact as more snow continues to fall on you. It is just unbelievable how the cold soaks through your clothes like water, the chill pervasive as it sinks into your bones.
How can something so beautiful be so cold?
“Night, I’m back!”
“Welcome back– gah! Hurry up and close it! You’re letting all the cold in!”
Stomping the snow off your boots the best you can, you duck through the entryway and quickly draw the covers closed behind you. “I’m in, I’m in.” You sigh in relief as you shrug off the heavy coat you’re wearing, the blessed warmth washing over you. Stepping out of your boots, your exposed feet sink into the mess of scrap clothes lining the ground, much like a nest lining a bird box. More scraps of cloth plug the gaps in the walls and cover the windows, keeping out the wind.
In the center of the shack, the soft crackle of a firepit dug low into the ground draws your attention. Steam rises from the cooking pot mounted over the fire, bringing with it the scent of smoke and fresh-cut wood. Curled up by the firepit is Nightfall, cocooned in the fur blanket as he mends a pair of pants. “I’m making some tea. It’s almost done.” He lifts the blanket up as you settle down next to him, draping the fur securely over your shoulders. “How is it outside?”
You shudder.
Outside is… not good.
You’d rather suffer through a thousand humid summers than go through this ever again.
You can’t tend to the wishing tree or talk to it, because it’s cold and the sapling has fallen silent. You had pulled and tied down all the burlap covers of the shelter to fully shield the sapling, not trusting the weather in the slightest, then pinged it if it was okay.
When you had received no answer, you had pinged it repeatedly for a response, every single day.
The sapling had finally responded just earlier today, its pulse sluggish. In no danger, only dormant. Please let me sleep.
After pinging back an apology, you reluctantly let it be.
You can’t walk around the clearing, because it’s cold and there’s so much snow in the way and nothing’s growing. You can’t check up on the tree sprouts– they are all buried beneath knee-high snow.
You don’t even want to go into the border forest, because it’s cold and it’s too far away and there’s so much snow in the way and nothing’s growing and everything’s frozen and why is it so damn cold?!
Even the sky doesn’t seem to be up for it, with the wintry lighting washing out the clearing to faded effect. Time is a concept that you’ve completely lost track of; the best you can tell is that if it’s bright, it’s daytime– and if it’s dark, it’s already nighttime. You can’t even enjoy the sunset properly anymore, as it gets dark all too quickly before you realize it.
Thank goodness for Nightfall, for he has been marking down the days as they pass. It’s not easy when the days blur between blinding sunlight, washed-out skies, dull grey clouds, long freezing nights, and relentless snowfall.
Another thing you can’t get over is the silence.
The snow doesn’t make a sound when it falls. You never thought you’d miss the sounds of leaves rustling, crickets chirping at night, the buzzing of gnats, hell, even the irritating chorus of birdsong would be welcome. Winter muffles the world to the point of suffocation. It is unnerving how silent everything is, eerie as the clearing continues to be slowly buried in white.
The only good thing about this is that no one in their right mind would want to come all the way out here in the snow. An extremely fortunate thing indeed, since you are entirely unequipped to deal with this bullshit.
Still, you are not a guardian by slacking off on your duties and being complacent. You would send out a pulse as periodically as you can, your aura squeezing its way out between the tiny cracks of the shack and into the expanse of the clearing. Your extended awareness methodically sweeps into the edges of the border forest, taking note of the stillness juxtaposed with the falling snow. Keeping watch has never been easier, since you can both watch and patrol with your aura without you having to move at all.
Sighing, you absently accept the pair of pants that Nightfall passes over to you. “I miss summer.” Checking where he left off on his mending work, you pick up the attached silver needle and matching silver thread. Your thumb traces the line of stitches Nightfall had made, the stitches neatly dotting along the edge of a patch over a rip on the pants leg. Lining up the sewing needle in front of the last stitch made, you poke it through the fabric and promptly prick your finger. “Tch– I keep doing that.”
Nightfall chuckles as he retrieves a porcelain bowl from storage. “Aim straight down with the needle when you pull it through, not at an angle. Make sure your fingers are bracing the area around where you put the needle, not directly under it.” He dips the bowl into the cooking pot of tea and blows gently at the steam wafting up. Taking small sips from the bowl, he lounges as he continues to instruct you while you sew.
It’s been a while since you worked the needle and thread, and it shows in your uneven stitches. Still, you diligently sew your way along the edge of the patch, the little crooked stitches soon meandering around to join the beginning of the line where Nightfall had started. Pulling the last stitch taut, you tie a knot on the reverse side and break the thread with a yank. “Mm. All done.”
Leaning over to examine your handiwork, Nightfall nods in approval. “I have another one that needs mending. Here, hold this. Careful, it’s hot.” Passing the bowl over to you, he takes the mended pants in exchange, then rifles through his inventory.
You carefully hold the bowl of tea, the porcelain hot against your hands. Breathing in the rising steam, you take in the distinctly woody fragrance. It smells like the border forest. “Is this... pine needle? The ones with the long and soft needles?” At Nightfall’s hum of confirmation, you take a sip, then gulp the rest of the tea down. You sigh in bliss as the scalding heat suffuses through you, burning away any lingering cold from your bones.
Nightfall huffs as he takes back the empty bowl from you, then hands you another half-mended piece of clothing, a tunic with a sleeve partway joined to the body. As he refills his bowl, you get started on where he left off, the thread glimmering in the firelight as you fall into an easy rhythm.
Back and forth the needle goes as you pull it through after every stitch.
Your brother gets busy plying his magic into more thread.
The bowl is occasionally passed between you and him as you both drink the pine-needle tea.
There’s just nothing to do in winter.
Routine? There’s just no point to a routine, when all you can do is sit tight and wait for winter to be over already.
Entirely too much time is wasted being holed up in the shack, messing around with magic and planning out the list of tasks to prepare for when spring finally comes.
At least your inventory’s all sorted out now. You’ve taken stock of your supplies, the clothes are mended, weaponry all cleaned and reinforced, and your brother has roped you into helping him cobble together a loom frame so he could start weaving fabric out of magic thread, thus bypassing the fundamental issue of being unable to magic clothes straight into existence.
You’re never going into a new season unprepared ever again.
The wishing tree finally awakens in a flourish of budding leaves.
The air is warm, tentatively so. Wisps of sunlight delicately touch down on the grassland, the early morning sky streaked in pink and white clouds. The last vestiges of snow cling to the shadows tucked beneath the husks of grasses. Peeking out from the rubble are the beginnings of spring growth, the clearing dotted with tender new greenery.
To your relief, some of the tree shoots have survived, growing tall and vibrant amidst the remains of leaf piles.
Now this… this is a sight you are familiar with.
The beginning of the new year’s cycle has come.
Behind you, Nightfall is gathering the leaves scattered around the tree stump, clearing the space for the wishing tree’s first watering of the spring season. The bear fur is draped over his shoulders to ward off the chill still lingering in the air.
You roll and tie back all of the burlap to the frame of the shelter, opening up the space. “Welcome back, grand-tree. It’s been a while, how’ve you been?”
Refreshed. The sapling waves its leafy branches to you. The sound of fresh leaves rustling in the air instead of dead leaves crinkling underfoot is a relief to hear. Winter has been very good, I will be able to grow properly now.
“Really? I doubt that– the winter set us back a lot.” You step up and examine the sapling as usual, your head tilting up to observe the branches. Everything looks well– the sapling seems to have suffered no damage. Above you, the glimpse of snow on a leaf makes you reach out for it to flick it off.
The snow doesn’t budge.
Frowning, you gently pull the offending branch down so you can see it better.
It’s not snow.
The buds of white blossoms peek out from behind young leaves.
Surprised, you release the branch and take a step back, then another, and another. Your eyelights dart around the sapling to assess the slightly thicker stem, the spring growth lengthening its twigs, the abundance of unopened blossoms rosy like pearls amidst the foliage. You blink as the height of the sapling registers to you.
Last time you checked, you had to crouch a little in order to get a better look at it.
The sapling is the same height as you now.
When did it grow so large?
Your voice is barely there. “You’re growing flowers.”
At your observation, Nightfall straightens up as he brushes his hands off, finished with his cleaning up. He moves over to you, his gaze fixed on the sapling all the while. “Are you growing fruit this year, great grand-tree? It seems much too early for that.”
Blossoms are growing, yes, but no fruit. The sapling– can you even call it a sapling anymore?-- stretches its branches up into the sky, the leaves fluttering as the branches relax back down. Not strong enough yet to produce good fruit, not for a few years.
...Ah.
The wishing tree is immature still, despite the blossoms. It can’t produce and support any fruit.
Not yet.
“Well then, we need to ensure that you’re in top condition for when you do decide to grow some fruit.” You stretch your arms up over your head, your joints popping from the strain. “Right, you’ll need fertilizer. We have some leftover bear stew, you want some?” You quickly duck under the incoming swipe of Nightfall’s hand, only to stagger as he follows up with a whack upside your head, knocking your circlet askew. “Hey! I didn’t even do anything this time!”
“Sure you didn’t.” Nightfall only shakes his head at you as you fix your circlet. “You only offered to feed great grand-tree cooked meat right in front of me. You definitely didn't consider pouring the leftovers on the roots, ah?”
“Fine, fine, maybe not meat. How about bone meal? I’ve got plenty of bones in stock that I can grind up into powder.” Checking your inventory real quick, you nod to yourself. “Yeah, that should work if we mix the bone meal with some crushed leaves- hm?” You quickly step aside as Nightfall brushes past you to peer into your inventory. “What’s up, Night?”
Nightfall only gives you an incredulous look as he scours through the various items you have in storage. “These bones- I was wondering where those skeletons in the fields went! I thought that you might have gathered them up and then dumped them somewhere in the forest– why do you even still have them?!”
“Why would I dump out something useful–”
“How is keeping skeletons in your pocket useful?!”
“You’d never know until you need them!”
"...What the hell is this?"
You can’t help but beam at the disgust gracing Nightfall's face when he points at the massive expanse of water stretching deep into the void of your inventory. "Water. For the fish pond, remember?"
Your brother simply closes your inventory and covers his face with one hand as you break down laughing.
Notes:
The concept of role: integrity and devotion to the performance of a duet; duty given identity.
Not to be confused with priority.
Your role is to be a guardian to the wishing tree.
Your brother is priority.
Chapter 5: Unravel
Summary:
The second year begins and ends with you.
You ended and began with him.
Notes:
Please heed the tags, they have been recently updated specifically for this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He
knew.
The moment he opened his eyes to a blue sky clear of smoke, the roots of a tree unseen digging into his back, he knew.
He never slept lying down with his back to the ground.
He should not have woken up.
Yet as he stared up at that blue sky, tauntingly serene and unmarred by falling ash, he wondered if he was dreaming instead.
…A delusion, then.
Because if he was not truly awake, if he was only dreaming a beautiful delusion, then where…
…where was his… his…
(...brother?)
(...mother?)
The sound of something snapping nearby– frighteningly similar to the sound of bones crackling from the heat of bonfire– had him tearing his gaze away from that forsaken blue sky to locate the source of the sound. An ache bloomed at the base of his neck, the juncture leading down to his left collarbone throbbing as he turned his head to a flash of silver at the corner of his eye–
Skeleton.
There was a whole skeleton crouching before him, staring at him with white pinpricks in its eye sockets.
He knew that skeleton.
He’d recognize that face anywhere.
Even when reduced to just bones, it was like he was peering into his own mirror image.
His brother–
It’s
you.
Warmth like a hot summer’s day radiated from you as something trembling within him reached out into the air to meet that warmth halfway. Upon contact, elation raced through him unbridled like wildfire as you tackled him to the ground, clinging to him as your laughter thrummed through his very being.
Somehow, you were here.
Safe.
Somehow, you were here with him.
You were safe.
It no longer mattered that he should not have woken up.
It no longer mattered that his neck ached while your joyous laughter jostled him around, as he clung to you just as tightly.
It no longer mattered that he couldn’t remember his own name, or yours either.
It no longer mattered, because the names he and you gave to each other later that day were beyond precious, twin barbs burying themselves into the world that had not once wanted either of them.
As he watched you turn away from that sky to look at him, the burning light of the sunset revealing your awestruck face, the sound of bones crackling unseen rang out once more before subsiding as you accepted the name he had given you.
Sundown.
To be named together in this very moment as the sun burned out and night shrouded the world…
Nightfall
knew.
A spray of white petals drifts past you.
Squatting before the tree stump next to Nightfall, you are instantly distracted from your brother’s discussion by all the petals fluttering around you like snow. Tracing their aerial paths back up to the source just above you, your breath catches again at the sight.
White blossoms dominate the branches above you in a stunning halo against the clear blue sky, the cool nip of a breeze stirring the petals to come adrift into the air. Nearly buried by the sheer amount of white, the bright green leaves peek out from beneath the flowers, the contrasting colors bringing out the rosy pink tinting the petals.
The wishing tree is in full bloom.
This delicate yet prolific display of flowers rustling in the breeze is the very picture of spring. Viewing the sapling tree from below is even better than looking at it straight-on— the sunlight sifts between the gaps of the blossoms, the white petals nearly glowing in the noon sun.
As you lie down on the ground beneath it, you could almost pretend the tree stands much taller than you than it actually is. With a content sigh, you breathe in the heady floral aroma—
—and sneeze hard, three times in a row.
“What– what the–” You jerk back upright, a sudden tingling up your nasal ridge making you sneeze some more. “Ugh, that burns!”
Above you, the tree startles at the noise, causing a rain of petals to fall around you. You quickly shoo them away from your face. Where, where. The tree lowers a flowery branch atop your head in worry. The air is not hot, there is no fire, where is it burning.
Hunched over the tree stump, Nightfall spares a droll glance at you, then at the tree. His attention is largely focused on the papers spread out on the flat surface, like a tactician observing the battle plans.
You wipe the back of your hand over your face, snorting forcefully to clear your airway. “I’m fine, I’m fine— gah, that burns.” You wave away another branch that the tree lowers down on your head. “I’m fine, grand-tree, I think I only breathed in some petals, and maybe a whole bunch of pollen.”
A thousand apologies. The tree gently lifts its branches up from your head. A couple of flowers get stuck in the band of your circlet, the petals tickling against your skull. Meant no intent to hurt you with blossoms.
Nightfall only sighs and waves you over. In his hand, a twig with a blackened end dangles loosely in his grip. “Come back, Sun, we’ve still got work to do.”
You give the tree a quick wave, then scoot over and settle back in your spot next to him. As Nightfall gets busy marking something down on a piece of paper, you turn your attention there as well.
Your vision swims.
Blocky walls of text swarm the papers, all cramped in the tiniest script you’ve ever seen. You have no idea where to look in this mess, until Nightfall points to the middle of the overlapping papers. Focusing on his finger, he traces along a jagged black line, and immediately you can see it again: bold strokes of charcoal jump into focus, cutting through the background noise of script as the strokes sprawl out into a detailed map of the clearing and the surrounding border forest.
Now that you can properly tell what you’re looking at again, you glance around at the outermost edges of the map. The heavy lines of charcoal over there taper off into empty space in every direction, all uncharted territory. The border forest is huge; you have not yet found the boundary where the trees would thin out or cease altogether. Not surprising, since the extent of the explored areas were confined to at most a day’s journey before returning to home base.
The tapping of Nightfall’s finger still on the center of the map— a circle-inside-a-circle mark for the wishing tree— has you tuning back in on his voice, a low mutter. “Really… if I find out later that we can get allergies despite being just bones, I am going to have a talk with great grand-tree.”
“A talk, eh? Let me know if you need me to help with that.” Chuckling, your gaze slides over to the thick marks forming neat rows on one page. It doesn’t look to be part of the map, so you pull it closer to you. “What’s this one about?”
“Calendar.” Nightfall points to a few more pages with similar marks on it, the lines resolving themselves into jagged symbols of the sun, moon phases, and assorted weather conditions. “It’s how I’ve been keeping track of the days. Another couple years of this, and I’ll be able to see exactly what kind of seasonal patterns we’re dealing with here.”
Nodding, you brush your hand over a section of crossed-out suns and rains in the middle of one page. There’s a lot of days that’s been crossed out like this, about two months’ worth of time. “What happened over here?”
Nightfall winces at the sight of that page, his eyelights flickering lowly like stirred embers. “Ah. That section’s from where we… when we thought it was monsoon season.”
…Ah.
From when you had completely lost it and lashed out against the tree.
“That part was… well, I had marked them as summer, until great grand-tree told us otherwise.” Nightfall carefully slides the calendar page you had pulled out back in its place. “I don’t know when exactly autumn began during that time, and I won’t know until the seasons come back around again.” He gives you a wry smile, tapping his writing twig to the page. “But this time, we’ll be prepared for it. We have this now— we won’t be coming in blind anymore.”
You grin back at him as Nightfall pulls you back into discussion, as he goes through the list of various tasks to take care of before the spring season comes into full swing. Already the grasses in the clearing are growing a vibrant green, the new growth speckled with yellow and white wildflowers amidst the dried grass stalks of the prior year. Also standing tall at waist-height in the clearing are the tree sprouts that had survived winter, the young saplings all flexible stems and supple leaves. Far in the distance, the tree line is filled to the brim with greenery, as it should be.
However, even with this tranquil scenery, there is no time to slack off. Winter had already forced you to a standstill for too long. Now that it is spring, everything that might have needed some attention before is now urgently rearing its head up in the wake of increasingly favorable weather.
“Fertilizer’s already been laid down for the trees,” you say, ticking off your fingers, “and they’re all watered for today. I did see some bugs flying around, though.” The wishing tree’s aura is still weakening to accommodate the saplings in the fields. Earlier this morning, you had stepped out of the shack to squint up at a cloud of tiny bugs swarming around in the air. And when you had watered the saplings just a little later, a lone wasp had flown by you, its legs dangling low as the wasp ducked under the sapling’s leaves. “We have nothing in storage we can use to make pesticide.”
“Tch. No good. Can’t we use magic, then? Ugh, maybe not… great grand-tree’s already using aura, and it’s not getting any better.” Nightfall’s muttering again as he writes on a fresh page, the charcoal marks flowing all jagged and wide. His other hand reaches up to rub at his neck, his irritation evident as he writes faster. “Pollen, pests, magic, what else is going to be a problem? We don’t know how rainy it gets in spring yet. Hopefully it’ll rain often– otherwise, watering the trees is our primary task. We need them to grow as much as possible before dry-summer.” The twig creaks ominously in his grip as he pointedly taps it against the paper. “As for the forest, we still need to scout out the rest of it, but we’ll need to take much longer trips– one-day expeditions aren’t enough anymore.” On the next tap, the twig snaps in his hand, the bits of wood and charcoal scattering all over the papers. He hisses, quickly flicking away the mess. “That’s the problem, ah? We can’t leave this place unguarded when we’re gone.”
“We’ll have to fix that first, and quickly.” You can sense how restless the border forest is through the edges of your aura, the buzzing of activity from the wildlife positively raucous– especially after the deafening silence that was winter. “We have no defenses or deterrents set up here except for grand-tree’s aura, and ourselves. I don’t want to leave and then come back to a bug infestation, or those goddamned deer chewing through all the saplings.”
There are only two of you, and splitting up is not an option.
You and Nightfall share a long-suffering sigh at the large number and urgency of your tasks. After retrieving another blackened twig to write with, Nightfall moves over a page to draft up a tentative routine, occasionally bouncing off observations and ideas with you, all the while the sunlight coaxes the shadows to slowly peek out into the budding warmth of the early afternoon.
There is still so much work to do.
The passage of time was something Nightfall recorded with precision.
Year two, spring, one and one-half months after snowmelt. Day of waxing half-moon. Late afternoon, full sun, no clouds, mild-warm.
Nightfall had long held the belief that the inventory was the most nonsensical and convenient method of storage ever.
Squeezing his eye sockets shut, he pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, the metal of the circlet’s emblem digging into his palm.
Not only that, he was the unfortunate witness to you taking advantage of that nonsensical and convenient inventory, by storing all sorts of things that clearly should not go there. Oh, he knew– he had watched you toss that deer carcass in there without a care, that pleased grin of yours taunting him all the while.
Taking in a fortifying breath, he opened his eye sockets and glared into the opening of your inventory.
He supposed that ever since you and he could keep separate inventories, you had thoroughly enjoyed the freedom of having your own personal storage space for the first time. Admittedly, if he did not think too hard about the ridiculousness of magical pocket dimensions, he enjoyed having his own storage space too. No more meticulously rationing out bag space with stolen belt pouches and soldiers’ bags.
However… he really should have checked up on your inventory sooner.
He wasn’t exactly sure when or how the state of your inventory had devolved into… this.
Inside, a lake of water stretched far into the right field of the inventory landscape.
Water, a mind-boggling amount of it, but still water. Water was a useful and heavy necessity, and thus acceptable to keep in stupidly large quantities. He could understand that.
The chaos strewn just left of that shore, however, severely challenged his understanding of the proper usage of inventory.
Because by the gods above and nine hells below, why did everything look like an absolute disaster?
Spare knives and neatly folded clothes were carelessly tossed against a mixed pile of wooden markers, branches, and old leaves near the entrance of the inventory. Lying precariously close to the water’s edge was the gutted half-carcass of the deer and the skinned bear carcass, the hind legs of the bear having been carved out from the bone. Stacked next to the carcasses were their discarded guts– why oh why had you even kept the entrails? In the left corner, those skeletons from the fields were piled behind a veritable spread of plants foraged from the border forest, the fresh plants having been made a bed for your lone spear. And next to that was a mound of what he could only describe as junk– literally just scrap clothes, torn leather bags, rusted steel tangs, and other broken items scavenged from the fields.
Behind it all, a small mountain of snow loomed in the far distance like some mockery of a scenic backdrop, a pale beacon shining in the void. Gods only know how much snow you must have shoveled in there by hand.
Rolling his eyelights up didn’t spare his sight of this travesty, because of course it didn’t— even the airspace of the inventory wasn’t spared from this treatment. He hadn’t even known you could put things up there.
…You couldn’t just have left the bones lying in the corner?
No, for whatever forsaken reason, not only had you had dismantled all the skeletons to pieces, you had also strung up all the long bones into the air. Femurs, humeruses, the paired bones of the lower arms and legs— all of them were suspended above his head like some macabre flock of birds. What baffled him the most was the warm thrum of your magic reinforcing the bones, and their exceedingly peculiar arrangement: they all were aligned to point towards the opening of the inventory.
Nightfall wondered if you knew of the dozen burial customs you had probably violated just by treating these bones as mere decorations, and then scoffed at himself. The burial needs of dead men were of no concern to you whatsoever.
Yet despite the utter chaos that was your inventory, you had actually sorted everything out. With a bit of focus, he could sense your intent saturated throughout the entire space in an ironclad scaffold. Every item was grouped by likeness and assigned into their own pocket of space, so each allotted object never actually interacted with each other despite everything appearing to overlap. Still, his hands ached to reach in and lay out the knives away from the good clothes, to separate out the wood from the leaves, and to just fucking toss out the entrails.
He was sorely tempted– and disgustingly impressed at your ability to test both the limits of his temper and your inventory to the fullest.
The fact that maggots hadn’t infested your inventory due to the carcasses and entrails… was apparently not a miracle.
The best he was able to understand the logic of inventory was that it was weird. Inside, time no longer seemed to be a concept: dead things did not decay, and living things did not die.
Well… he wasn’t so sure about that either, but he’d rather not place an insect or mouse in there and find out. Gods forbid if the animal broke loose somehow and got lost in the void, or worse, started populating in there.
The bed of plants you had laid out were still very fresh, their leaves and roots clear of any spotting or wilt. It could be that once placed in the inventory, the living thing was effectively removed from the world, thus halting its perception of time. Since the living thing could no longer perceive the world, the world could no longer perceive it.
You had joked about keeping a fish pond inside the inventory, and Nightfall would be lying if he said he had immediately dismissed the joke. It was an appealing thought, having fish swim in the safety of the void-lit waters… if not for the very obvious issue that neither you nor he would be able to relax by the shore of the pond and enjoy the scenery. Looking in from outside the inventory just wasn’t the same, and stepping into the void was completely out of the question.
Fish ponds were meant to be enjoyed outdoors, not hidden away in non-existence.
…Whatever. As long as your inventory remained clear of any mold or maggots, Nightfall was… he was not happy about it, but he would let these transgressions to common decency slide just this once.
A rush of heat in the air suddenly crashed past Nightfall, startling him into turning away from your inventory. Squinting against the blinding light of the late afternoon, the air was ripening into a golden haze– it was approaching sunset. The sound of footsteps scuffling against the grasses registered to his senses as he blinked–
“Hey Night, I’m back!”
Nightfall’s soul leaped into his throat.
You had returned from your aura-scouting at the edge of the border forest. Trudging through the grass from the direction of the setting sun, you soon came to a stop before him, bringing with you the source of the heat– your aura. Wild magic spiraled and crashed all around you, the currents slowing down to a gentle ripple as it circled around him.
Behind you, the sunlight seared at the edges of your form.
“Sun–” His soul stuttered at the way you grinned at him, at the way your eyelights shone brightly like the full moon. “Ah– welcome back.”
You looked… happy.
It had taken some time in the beginning for Nightfall to get used to seeing you smile at all. Such a smile was once a rarity, a rarity now made a common occurrence now that both you and he were guardians. Yet it was no less precious every time he saw you happy, because seeing you express yourself so freely, unburdened by the pressures of defiance and subservience…
Gone were those days when such unguarded expressions were far and few, the smile always sharp with derision, or marred by caustic rage.
Joy suited you much better than rage ever did.
“I’m back.” You stepped up to him, pointing at your inventory. “So, you find what you need?”
And just like that, Nightfall’s good mood evaporated into familiar territory: exasperation. “No, not at all.” Closing your inventory with the wave of his hand, he shook his head at you. “I mean, yes, I did find the… um…” It just occurred to him that while he was stuck trying to comprehend the state of your inventory, he had completely forgotten to retrieve… well… anything, that could be used to form a line of defense for the wishing tree. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back in there again. “I’m… impressed with your methods of organization. Truly. I couldn’t figure out where to even look.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad!” You patted his shoulder in consolation. “Everything’s properly sorted, I swear. But if you want, you can use some of my methods to improve your inventory. Yours is pretty neat, but I think it could use some spicing up.”
Nightfall snorted. His own inventory, reduced to a hot mess? No thank you, paper and porcelain was a massive pain and a half to store properly. “I’ll keep that in mind for when I feel like having a change of scenery.”
“Hah! So, never?” Swiping your inventory right back open, your smile turned smug as he quickly turned his head away from the chaos. “Really, Night, I know it looks like garbage, but it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad, you say?” Turning his head a bit, Nightfall risked a glance at you, grimacing at the sight of your still-open inventory. “Even with those bones up there? Why are they even there, anyway?”
Your face lit up in surprise. “Oh, that reminds me— watch this!“
You waved at him to step back, quickly checking the suspended bones. Curious, Nightfall complied, noting your positioning to stand facing away from your inventory, your hand cocked back to the opening hovering above your shoulder. Your knuckles grazed the rippling edges of the opening, as if waiting for a signal, before you snapped your hand forward.
Silver flashed as a spray of long bones flew out of the opening and past you, the bones hurtling through the air and into the sunset.
Nightfall could only stare incredulously at the burning sky where the bones had disappeared into, then back at you.
You held your arm out to your inventory in a flourish. “Neat, huh? I was bored—“ At that, Nightfall shuddered— “when I found out how to do that! It’s like a quick draw, but with magic, and no hands. Well, maybe one hand, but still!”
Pushing aside the mention of the horror that was your boredom, Nightfall instead honed in on your explanation, how you reinforced the bones to carry a reserve of magic around it like a coating. This magic reserve would act as the aiming barrel, fuel, and fuse— and the intent laid in the bones would power them to fire at will, no matches or black powder needed.
Already, his mind was racing with possibilities, his soul pounding hard as he glimpsed at the frightening ingenuity you had inadvertently shown from your little stunt. No doubt you were poking fun at him like you always did, but his irritation never lasted long, not when it was you. Conventional logic and common decency had no sway in your actions when you put your hands to work, and Nightfall saw this fully. Improvised ammunition, the ease of setting up and storage, the out-of-bounds nature of inventory allowing for discretion and ambush, an alternate means for attack and defense—
You had effectively weaponized your inventory.
“By the gods—” Breathless, Nightfall immediately pounced on you, nearly toppling you over. Catching him easily, you took a few steps back to steady yourself, regaining your balance. “Sun, that’s incredible! It’s like the magic arrow, but more economical than just using pure magic— show me again?”
Up close, your smile could rival the incoming sunset. Nightfall could bask in the radiance of your joy forever. As you set him down to demonstrate again, he lingered close this time, uncaring of your messy inventory as you retrieved a set of spare knives from there, the excitement in your voice intoxicating as you guided him in reinforcing and readying them in his own inventory in preparation to shoot.
The distance covered in launching those knives into the sky far exceeded the draw weight of his bow, his soul soaring just as high to the sound of your delighted laughter.
The wishing tree says no.
High above you, an aggressive wind tears at the parade of heavy grey clouds, the clouds pulling apart from each other like cotton. Shards of blue sky peer through between the cracks of the shifting clouds, the edges searing white by the concealed sun.
You stare at the tree, mulling over the response it had just given you. No. A sharp laugh escapes you as you repeat the word again. “No? You have all this magic, yet you don’t know how to use it to attack? How do you defend yourself, then?”
Already, you think Nightfall should be over here to talk instead of you, if only to argue some sense into the tree. Currently, he is preoccupied in the fields with the nearest saplings, discussing with them the extent of their sensory awareness, if they could help keep a lookout on the border forest. Apparently, a lifetime spent in the presence of magic had allowed these trees here to be somewhat magical as well, although not to the same extent as the wishing tree.
Attack…? Defend…? No. The tree repeats again in staunch refusal. Its green leaves rustle in the heavy wind, the branches completely shed of blossoms. I do not understand, you ask of me of intent to harm. Why would magic ever be used to harm another.
The sheer hilarity of that statement makes you chuckle lowly in disbelief.
You know the wishing tree had declared to you before that it was simply a tree, that it had no power or desire to be considered as a higher being. But to hear its confusion of why magic would be used maliciously, the complete obliviousness of the unique position it is in, the inherent power it has just by virtue of having magic–
You resist the urge to both cackle out loud and shake the tree hard.
Out of all the authority figures to serve under– you’ve somehow managed to get the one that does not understand power. The very existence of magic is magical, revered as an otherworldly power in the old legends. Any other lord would have gleefully ordered the slaughter of their own army and their families, if it meant that the lord could claim that power and make the rest of the world bow down to them.
“Sounds like you haven’t been paying attention to what we’ve been doing. Do you know why we keep messing with magic so much? Sure, it’s fun to play around with, but that’s not the only reason. Even I can see the tactical advantages of magic.” Turning away to face the fields, you shift your posture into a ready stance. Extending your left arm out in front of you, a line of silver magic grows from your outstretched hand to extend where your right arm is bent close to your side, the weight of the newly-formed spear settling firmly in your grip. “Think, grand-tree. All this magic, and you only use aura? I’ll admit, your aura’s useful, but it isn’t enough. Because what are you going to do when the animals start ignoring it? If they won’t listen to you despite your intent to keep them away—“
The tree shivers at the sharpened intent concentrated in that spear.
“—then you switch tactics and make them listen by force.”
You heft the silver spear up in an overhead grip with your right hand, rearing back and taking aim towards the grassland. With a quick ping to your brother, you launch it forward at his crouched form and then charge at him through the fields, another spear rapidly forming in your hands.
Alerted by your ping, Nightfall rises to his feet as he catches the thrown spear flying past him. Scowling, he deftly swings the spear to knock aside your charging thrust. “What kind of greeting is this supposed to be, Sun? Trying to impale me or something?”
The edges of your mouth curl up, your teeth bared in a sharp grin. “Aww, Night, missed me already?”
“Not at all.” He deflects a jab aimed at his shoulder, retaliating with an overhead swing. You duck down, then are forced to jump as he sweeps his spear low at your feet. “If you wanted a spar, you could have just asked.” There’s a smug gleam in his eyelights as he forces you backwards with a series of rapid jabs aimed at your head. “I would wipe the floor with you anyway.”
You continue backing up, deflecting his strikes as you will your inventory to shimmer open behind you. “You sure about that?” Blocking a strike to your chest, you land a kick on him, forcing him back. With a swipe of your spear, you duck to the side as a flock of bones launch themselves out of your inventory. At the same time, you dismiss the magic spear that Nightfall’s wielding, disarming him in the process.
The sudden lack of weapon leaves Nightfall stumbling, his advance shifting into a retreat as he pivots to dodge the bones flying at him. Tilting his head, he watches the bones bury themselves deep into the ground behind him, leaving no weapon for him to readily use against you. With an amused huff, he raises his hands in defeat. “Yield,” he says easily. “What was that for, anyway?”
You bound up to him, dismissing your own spear. “Just a demonstration to grand-tree. Can you believe it when it asked me why magic would ever be used to attack or defend?” You can’t help but laugh at the scandalized look on his face. “Yeah, I thought so!”
“Then it clearly doesn’t understand.” Nightfall hooks his arm around yours as he marches you back to the wishing tree, shaking his head at it. “Great grand-tree, I can’t believe I have to say this to you, but you are magic. Do you know how many people would kill just to have a piece of what you have? Why even have magic if you’re not going to make full use of it? Your aura is impressive, but you need to have options for when it fails you. If attacking or defending yourself will cover the weaknesses that aura does not address, then it is an option worth using.” Seeing the tree ruffle up in disagreement, Nightfall swiftly cuts through its protests. “This is basic survival— you make the most of what you have, and you cover your weak points. If you still don’t understand, then that’s fine.”
Nightfall’s eyelights glint with a spark of cold steel, his voice dropping low and measured.
“But look around you, and then look at yourself. Look at your own stump and tell me that it doesn’t bother you at all, that you’re happy living in a clearing instead of a forest. Tell me that I’m wrong and that your aura was enough, that it had kept you safe from whatever had cut you and your forest down.”
The jerk of the tree’s branches could easily be mistaken as movement from the heavy wind. The unsteady pulse emanating from the tree, however, clearly belies to you the skittering flashes of fear, the rooted, buried grief unfurling open in its wake.
You have never known this place as anything but a clearing. From what you can glean from the fleeting whispers of the saplings in the fields, this place was once an old part of the forest, matching the density of the border forest. The tree stumps hidden in the grassland are huge, with the wishing tree’s stump being the largest out of them all— you can barely wrap your arms halfway around the stump.
Despite your best efforts, the saplings’ regrowth is not a smooth recovery. Half of the tree stumps had been truly dead since the dry-summer of the prior year, their roots only now starting to decay underground. A quarter of the sprouts had died off during the winter, their tree stumps struggling to send up new shoots to try again.
There is no refuting the state of the clearing, not when the wishing tree stands within the site of its own massacre.
“Great grand-tree.” Nightfall’s voice is barely there, softer than the subsiding wind. “You already know, right? That… that’s why you wished for us, right? You’ve seen my brother’s little demonstration just now— at the very least, we are capable in combat. We know.” Slowly, the fear and grief emanating from the tree subsides as well, lulled to rest by the security of his words. “I’ve told you before. We will do whatever it takes to ensure your survival. If it means making use of everything at our disposal in order to protect you, then so be it.”
“No matter what.” You step towards the tree, a sunny smile on your face. “And that means we’re gonna teach you how to fight.”
The tree startles, caught off-guard by your directness. Fight…?
“Right now, you are completely defenseless without us. A highly disadvantageous position to be in.” Nightfall chuckles as you split away from him to circle around the tree, every step measured in a lazy predator’s stalk. “We are forever grateful for you, great grand-tree. You took us in as family, and guided us on our magic when we knew nothing. Let us help you in turn.” The gleam in his eyelights is like polished steel. “Don’t you know, that the best way for us to protect you is to teach you to fend for yourself? To take control when you had absolutely none before… don’t you want that?”
Wait! A flurry of confusion shakes the tree, frantic as it realizes too late that beneath the surface of Nightfall’s soft words lies a burgeoning wildfire, scorching and unyielding in his intent. Scion and scion, please wait! To intend to harm, it is not my nature! Please be reasonable!
“No more waiting, grand-tree. No family of mine is going unarmed— because if you can’t defend yourself, who cares about what you want? Who would ever listen to someone that won’t fight back?” You come to a stop around the tree, standing opposite of Nightfall. “You’re going to learn how to use that power that you keep saying you don’t have—”
The grins you and Nightfall share promise nothing but sadistic delight.
“--and you’re going to adapt.”
There’s absolutely no surprise that the wishing tree is completely resistant to your declaration to teach it basic combat.
It is a tree, after all.
Pushing past that, Nightfall interrogates the tree of its offensive capabilities, though he soon ends that line of questioning when all of the tree’s responses are seeped in dismay, discomfort, or just helpless confusion.
Questioning about the tree’s defensive capabilities goes a little better, but not by much. It is obvious by the hesitant answers it gives that the tree is uncomfortable with violence. As it had repeated again and again, it is not its nature to be aggressive.
Well.
That can be worked with.
Even a noncombatant still has some sense of self-preservation.
All you have to do is give the tree an incentive to want to take initiative.
“C’mon, grand-peach, what kind of attack was that?! I’ve seen pine trees with better thorns than whatever magic you just made!”
A game of tag.
Simply put, all the tree has to do is land a hit on you with magic laid in harmful intent.
I am an apple tree! Apple! Not peach! The amount of silver mist rising from the tree’s leaves is impressive. Equally impressive is its poor attempts to shape them into a projectile that doesn’t fall apart at the first signs of movement, as the blobs of misshapen magic tumble through the air towards you. Pine trees do not have thorns! Only those honeylocusts have thorns!
Eliciting an outrage from the wishing tree by taunting it with blatantly incorrect tree facts is plenty of incentive for it to play, if only to get it to make you stop calling it by the wrong fruit name.
A fair distance away from the tree, you stand in the fields, your eyelights locking onto the incoming magic. You watch in horrified amusement as the magic flies wide, landing far away from where you are standing. You didn’t even have to move to dodge. “Was that supposed to hit me?” Glancing at the magic as it dissolves back into mist on impact, you shrug, chuckling a little. “Your magic doesn’t even last that long, hah? I guess those honeysuckles are better than you–”
Honeylocust tree, not honeysuckle flower! And I do not appreciate being compared to those trees! Horrible trees with horrible thorns! Another barrage of lumpy projectiles hurtles towards you, accompanied by the tree’s furious pulse. You easily sidestep it, nodding in approval at the rage-induced jump in accuracy.
Despite the tree being able to ping you from a great distance whenever you’re away in the border forest with pinpoint accuracy, the same could not be said for pings carrying an intent to harm, let alone condensed magic with intent to harm. Even with you standing still about twenty paces away from the tree, its magic would fly short or fly wide, the spike of not-really-harmful intent landing way too far from you.
The tree’s reluctance to strike you, even when you have given it an incentive to do so, is reassuring. Impractical right now, but it is nice.
Perched atop the tree stump with one leg crossed over the other, Nightfall critically observes the tree’s technique. Some sheets of paper rest against his knee, a blackened twig held at the ready. “Less complaining and more aiming. You’ve yet to tag my brother, and he hasn’t even moved out of position. You’re going to keep letting him get away with it, great grand-pear?” He leisurely leans back as a spike of magic flies over his head, narrowly missing him. Unperturbed, he lets out a tsk as he leans back forward to make a mark on the paper. “Penalty for attacking the wrong guardian. I will talk to you later about the terms of your penalty, but for now, focus on tagging your target.”
How can I focus! I am not a pear tree! I do not grow pears! The frustrated rattling of the tree’s branches is rather impressive. You didn’t even know branches could make noise like that.
Nightfall’s expression is flat as he peers up from the paper to stare at the tree. “Well, you do now. Don’t hiss at me— focus. Your target is highly mobile, but is within your aura. You’ve identified where my brother is currently located— which is always a good advantage to have— but he is liable to move at any moment. You only have a limited amount of time to act before he decides to do something. We’ll stop with the names when you land a hit on him and win.” A smug smirk grows wide on his face as he twirls his writing twig between his fingers. “You don’t want us to call you ‘great grand-pear’ forever, do you? Great grand-pear?”
I do not! I am not a pear! But I do not wish to hurt you! It is not my nature!
“Aww, don’t worry about hurting me! I know how to take a hit!” You ping the tree in reassurance, just in case. Grinning, you wave your arms in the air like a dutiful target should, the mirth bubbling up in your voice. “Don’t listen to Night if you don’t like being called a pear tree! Heh— because— heh— you’ll always be our grand-pawpaw!”
Pawpaw?! Even worse! What part of me looks like a pawpaw tree?! The next few volleys of magic flying towards you are nothing short of extremely offended. Scion and scion, you are insufferable!
You easily skip out of the way, your laughter joining in with Nightfall’s as the tree continues to miss its shots.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with accuracy.
Year two, spring, three months after snowmelt. Day, waning half-moon. Noon after, half sun, half clouds, warm.
“Do we really have to go bathing now? I’m not that filthy, you know.”
Sweet birdsong echoed all over in the forest canopy above, the sunlight filtering softly through the trees. The gentle burbling of the stream grew louder as Nightfall herded you over to the edge of the water.
“You’re still covered in mud.” Nightfall flicked at the dried mud stains on your tunic, scowling. You may had thought the rain shower earlier this morning was enough to clean you off, but Nightfall had standards. There was no way he was letting you slip out of the weekly bath session, even if he had to bump it up a day earlier because of your careless jaunt through the muddy fields. “Now shut up and get in the water.”
You only rolled your eyelights before jumping right into the stream— clothes and all.
Nightfall groaned. Couldn’t you have stripped first before doing that? Your boots were going to take forever to dry.
Thankfully, you immediately waded back over to him to take off your boots, a sheepish grin on your face as you tipped the water out before placing them on dry land.
Appeased, Nightfall stripped out of his clothes, setting everything aside on the ground. Taking careful steps down into the stream, he submerged himself into the waist-high water.
It was always weird, feeling the wind blow right through him— and the cold water flowing between his bones was no exception. His body tingled at the foreign sensation, though it soon settled down as he dipped himself further into the water, the water level coming up to his chin.
Bathing was a luxury that Nightfall took every moment to indulge himself with. Even though washing himself down with just a rag would suffice in getting clean, he would rather take his time and soak. There was no need to be quick and efficient with hygiene anymore.
Also, he much preferred to clean himself in a secluded place far away from the clearing. Ever since he had talked with the tree saplings about the extent of their awareness, he was surprised to learn just how chatty they were. One of the things they had mentioned that had mortified him down to his toes was apparently your and his “peculiar method of self-watering”. Even if they were only curious about how sparingly he “watered” himself compared to the saplings, the fact that he was observed whenever he had washed himself down in the clearing was highly embarrassing.
You may not have minded being observed like that, but Nightfall had some shame.
“Night?” You splashed your way over to him, dragging your clothes with you through the water. You were barebones as well, a rag slung over your shoulder as you turned around and gestured behind you. “Help me wash my back? I can’t reach.”
Taking the rag from you, Nightfall dutifully washed your back while you got to work scrubbing your clothes. Up close, he could feel your aura tightly restrained within you, roiling unhappily in an inferno. Heat radiated off you as he gently wiped the rag in between your ribs, wincing at the numerous marks littered across the surface of your ribs. Wisps of magic seeped out of them like steam despite your iron control over your internal flow.
It never got easier looking at your ribcage.
The marks could only be wounds. They all had cut sharp and deep into the bone from front to back, all aligned on the top and bottom areas of each affected rib– all clustered close to your spine and sternum.
The placements and implications of the wounds were grievous. If you had any organs, they would have been pierced right through.
An agonizing and fatal injury.
(His neck ached.)
Nightfall forcibly pushed that observation aside and continued washing your back.
Finished with your scrubbing, you dipped your clothes into the water one more time before wringing them out. “All done,” you said, tossing your wrung-out clothes over onto dry land. You turned your head a bit to glance at him over your shoulder. “The cracks… how’d they look? Are they healing?”
There was a hopeful rise in your voice.
You were entirely aware that the wounds you bore left open a huge liability in ensuring the wishing tree’s safety. Having your aura run wild was a critical security issue in its potential to attract unwanted attention to your location. If the wounds could be healed, it would close the breach in your internal flow. It would solve the issues of control and your aura not listening to your intent. You would be finally able to properly regulate your magic emissions.
The rudimentary salve Nightfall had made from the small white flower herbs in the fields had no effect on your ribs. Infusing the salve with magic laid in intent to heal also had no effect. Testing the infused salve on a fresh scrape on your arm had worked, curiously enough– the scrape had scabbed over and then smoothed itself out by the next day. Such a result was noteworthy, because it meant the wounds on your ribs were already there before you and he had awoken.
Nightfall was seriously going to have a talk with the wishing tree about its incompetence in creating structurally intact guardians.
Currently, he was making use of the cloth he had woven purely with magic thread from the loom as bandages. After applying the infused salve on your ribs, Nightfall had then carefully wrapped each rib with the silver bandages, his intent to heal beyond saturated into the woven fabric.
If even this method failed, then Nightfall was at a total loss at what else he could do. Directly infusing the magic onto your ribs the same way he would reinforce a damaged bow was a last resort. He wasn’t sure how well living tissue would respond to a sudden reinforcement, and he was reluctant to test it out on you, even if you didn’t mind.
To your immense relief, your aura had mellowed itself out somewhat with this treatment. Granted, the intensity of your magic had only dimmed down from the strength of a monsoon rainstorm to an all-day downpour— a minor but still significant change. The bandages seemed to have a placebo effect, in that keeping the ribs wrapped seemed to encourage your magic into continuing the circulation within your internal flow instead of breaking free. It was no wonder you sounded hopeful. You would take any scrap of control you could get, even if it meant you had to wear the bandages for the rest of your life.
Emboldened by this, Nightfall had changed your bandages every bathing day for the past four weeks, keeping a critical eyelight out for any signs of improvement.
Leaning in close, Nightfall examined the wounds, his thumb brushing up at the edge of one abrasion. On closer inspection, he could see a webbing of silver strands across the surface of the wounds, bridging the gaps. It was easily missed, with how finely the silver blended in with the bone. He blinked at the rather familiar way the strands intersected over each other. It was almost like they were woven… “Sun, did you take off the bandages?”
“Hmm? Nooo…?” You shrugged your shoulders, the silver webbing glimmering at the movement. “It was weird, but they weren’t there when I took my clothes off. I know I had the bandages on yesterday, so I’m not sure where they went.”
“Did you feel any different earlier today when you pulled your aura in?”
“Not really… hmm.” You tilted your head to one side. A frown lingered on your face as you focused inward. “Now that I’m thinking about it, my magic is flowing a bit softer now. It’s still uncomfortable, but… it doesn’t feel like I’m constantly fighting to keep my aura in this time.”
“Hold on.” Nightfall examined the other wounds, all glimmering with woven silver. Stepping around you to check the wounds on your front, he saw more of the same. “I think they’re healing. The bandages— they’re purely magic. You must have absorbed them. That’s why you couldn’t find them.” He looked up to meet your gaze, his soul stuttering under the full brunt of your hopeful smile. “It’s— it’s working. I’ll get some new bandages for you when we get back home.”
Somehow, your smile grew even more radiant at that. “Home, ah?” Nightfall’s soul pounded hard against his ribcage as he drank up the sight of your smile. By the gods, he hoped he could see you happy like this every day. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”
The cacophony of rustling trees in the border forest and the cotton fluff drifting across the clearing is a sobering reminder of the passage of time. The wishing tree’s complaints about the ensuing heat only hammers home at how long you’ve been here.
One year.
A full year has passed.
You now know what to expect in the years ahead.
Comfortably hot and dry summers with a frequent demand for watering.
Warm and rainy autumns that decline into a cold and barren landscape.
Winter.
And the fragile revival of life in spring.
You have a routine for everything.
Water and feed the trees when they need it. Tend to the trees if they’re struggling with the heat or cold. Talk to the saplings and bask in their constant chatter and gossip. Taunt the wishing tree in its growing losing streak of trying to tag you. Indulge Nightfall when he drags you towards the western stream to bathe and wash clothes.
Stick to one-day running expeditions through the border forest with Nightfall. Map out more of the border forest and add it to his maps. Utilize your aura to scout out ahead of you. Avoid the animals that come after you. Hunt down any animals that keep pestering you. Forage some more to replenish your supplies.
Watch the weather. Watch the clearing. Watch the border forest. Watch your aura. Watch the sunsets. Watch your brother.
Keep the shack– home– tidy. Keep your inventory sorted– Nightfall’s continued exasperation at your inventory never gets old. Keep the cracks in your ribs clean and wrapped, they’ll heal, they’ll finally heal. Keep your brother within sight, he’s still here.
Overall, it’s a… quiet… life.
You’ve never had this before, this domesticity.
You wish this would last forever.
You know what to expect now.
You do.
You have to.
There’s a floating sensation inside your head, small and dizzying and aimless like the neverending parades of cotton fluff, all left untethered and drifting in the high winds.
A hand on your shoulder has you coming back down to the present, the floating sensation dissipating upon contact. The cacophony of rustling trees crowds the air, loud under the intense noon sun. The sky is clear, an endless blue sky.
Nightfall is in front of you. His hand firmly weighs down on your shoulder, grounding you.
His eyelights flicker like a newly-struck match. “Want to bother great grand-tree with another game of tag?”
You only beam back at him. Calling the wishing tree by the wrong fruit name is always an easy way to rile it up. Maybe it’ll actually manage to tag you this time, though you won’t make it easy for the tree to win. “Sure, lead the way.”
Nightfall’s hand grips your shoulder all the while as you follow him back to the tree.
Still here.
Your brother is still here.
Your brother is priority.
When the wishing tree launches at you a thorn that unfurls out into a glimmering silver net, you’re so stunned by the sudden change in appearance that you barely manage to dodge in time. The netting grazes your sleeve, the intent petal-soft as it brushes past you in a promise to capture.
You can only stare behind you as the netting hits the ground, the silver glittering like a spider’s web amongst the long grasses.
When you turn back around to stare at the tree, you can see Nightfall leaning forward from his seat atop the tree stump, his gaze hawkish.
The tree itself has the audacity to rustle its sizable branches at you. Intent to harm is not my nature. Will this suffice instead.
You absently touch your sleeve. The intent deposited on the fabric is not piercing sharp like a thorn. Instead it is featherlight, inviting and ensnaring like vines beneath flowers.
Intent to capture instead of harm, huh.
You can work with that.
“Yeah.” A grin grows wide on your face. “Sure thing. We can play catch instead of tag, grand-pawpaw–”
Immediately, the tree’s leaves bristle out as a flurry of unfurling thorns flies at you. Scion, why?! Why are you still calling me that?!
You dart away from the magic in a flourish, laughing as you duck and weave in between the barrages of glimmering webs of silver, a near-proper game of cat-and-mouse. In the fields, you can hear the saplings cheer at the spectacle, their pings fueling your exhilaration as you flit around the tree’s attempts to capture you. “C’mon, c’mon, catch me, catch me!”
Stop moving so much!!
“No way!”
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with rapture.
Year two, dry-summer, five months after snowmelt. Night, new moon. Warm. Trees all said today was too hot. It was not hot.
Tonight was a good night to sleep under the stars.
Nightfall usually preferred to sleep inside the house, under the roof you had made for him. But on nights such as tonight, the residual heat of the long-gone day combined with the clear view of the starry night sky was too tempting to not sleep under.
Especially when it was with you.
Ensconced in your arms, Nightfall pressed himself to you as closely as he could, trying to maintain direct contact with every part of you he could reach.
You indulged him, your body tipping further back against the tree stump while your legs folded up to cradle him, your feet braced flat against the ground. Your arms wrapped tight around him, secure and safe and so, so warm.
And you were beyond warm, radiating so hot yet so soft that the blazing summer days could not compare. All Nightfall wanted to do was to bury himself into you, take in all the warmth and comfort you had to offer him until he melted in your embrace, blissfully content in the feeling that you were here, you were safe, you were safe, you were safe with him.
Every night with you was sanctuary, and nothing could ever take that away from him.
Nightfall would kill anyone who tried, if you hadn’t already gotten to them first.
Above him, the stars glimmered within the inky black sky, impassive to everything beneath them.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with responsibility.
Year two, autumn, eight months after snowmelt. Day, full moon. Morning, half sun, full clouds, warm.
Nightfall didn’t know how you could stand it. Making small talk for hours with the saplings– he could barely stand just five minutes of it.
Sitting before a small cluster of saplings, Nightfall idly listened in on their gossip as he seamed two large bolts of magic-woven fabric together. He moved swiftly, the silver needle and thread gleaming brightly against the grey of the clouded sunlight.
Over by the northern tree line, he could see the beginnings of yellow tinting the leaves, just a hint of the cold weather that was yet to come. Summer hadn’t lasted long; it was barely four months long, much less than what he was used to having. But for right now, it was still very warm, the border forest still flush with life.
Gossip was a pastime he saw little reason to partake in. Sure, it was a good way to glean information from loose-lipped targets, but he found it tedious to engage and mind-numbing to keep up with. It was worse when he had little to no control over the flow of conversation.
And the saplings in the fields definitely pulsed to their own tune.
Little seed, little winged seed. The saplings stood about chest-high if he were to stand up. Their pulses rang out to him like clear bells, always chiming and fluttering their leaves whenever he neared them. Blessed scion of the wishing tree, hawk of the maple tree.
For how literally the trees always spoke, they sure were incredibly obscure in their meaning. Nightfall’s keen interpretive abilities were sorely tested every time he stopped by to listen in on their observations on the state of the border forest. Their constant chatter about anything and everything was somewhat useful, if cryptically mundane… except the times when they turned the focus of their observations on him instead.
Really, it was downright embarrassing hearing the saplings coo at him as if he was the small one instead of them. The amount of attention they had lavished on him made him squirm; he had never received such positive attention before, and never so much of it at once either. At least they didn’t mind if he didn’t talk much and just listened– they just waved him closer and then continued chattering amongst each other like children.
To be honest, he’d rather you were here to talk to them instead of him— you thrived in the saplings’ constant gossip.
Currently, you were over by the tree stump, busy whittling down a stack of tree branches you had scavenged from the border forest into wood chips. Based on the errant flashes of magic coming from the wishing tree, you were probably poking fun at it at the same time. It was incredible, the lengths you would go to get a reaction from either the tree, or him.
Well. At least this time, it was all in harmless fun. Provoking higher authorities in order to seek out weaknesses and gain the upper hand on them was no longer necessary.
Despite all your successful attempts to rile up the wishing tree, the tree had never turned violent, nor did it ever try to exert control over you or Nightfall. Even when you and he had repeatedly offended the tree by calling it various fruit names and stating outright wrong information about trees, the magic it had sent out in retaliation was always gentle and firm. The tree’s refusal to inflict harm— going so far as to develop capture-based tactics to deal with your constant dodging— was admirable.
The tree’s persistent attempts to catch you despite its incompetence was also admirable, because between your unpredictability and his criticisms— well, Nightfall was pretty sure it was a miracle that the tree had remained nonviolent in the first place.
Truly, the wishing tree was fortunate to have him and you both as guardians. And Nightfall in turn was forever grateful that it had allowed them to have this life.
Tuning back in on the saplings’ gossip, Nightfall retrieved another set of two fabric bolts out of storage to seam together. Meanwhile, the saplings chattered about hardening themselves in preparation for cold weather, the last dragonfly sightings of the season, the mass migration of birds occurring in the northern direction of the border forest, and other inane chatter about himself. Blessed scion, come talk with us, you and you who alight in our forest of wishes.
Nightfall only shook his head at that and continued sewing. Blessed? Him? What a strange day indeed, if he was considered to be blessed instead of cursed for once.
The snow comes down gently upon you like the petals of disintegrating blossoms.
You pay no heed to it.
Frost crunches beneath your boots as you shiver and trudge across the fields. A silver bundle of Nightfall’s magic-woven fabric is bunched under your arm as you make your way towards the nearest cluster of saplings.
A heavy coat hangs off your form, protecting you from most of the cold. The hood is flipped up over your head, the hood crookedly stitched to the coat collar with silver thread. A patchwork of cracked leather gloves cover your hands, the cracks sealed shut with copious amounts of reinforcement magic. Flexing your hands a little, you can feel the rough wool lining the interior of the gloves, the stray bits of wool fiber catching between your knuckles.
It’s quite impressive what Nightfall can do with hole-ridden clothes and torn leather bags. Cobbling together a set of windproof gloves for you is just the least of it, and you are immensely grateful for his foresight.
You had wanted to construct a new shelter for the wishing tree, but it had firmly declined, stating that it was big and hardy enough to endure the winter uncovered. The ensuing argument between Nightfall and the tree was brief but decisive– Nightfall had relented after critically assessing the good condition of the tree. You had reluctantly agreed, noting the tree’s size. It was much taller than you now– you could just barely reach the very top of its branches if you stretched your arms up and stood on the tips of your toes.
Building a shelter over that height would severely test the hard limits of your woodworking capabilities. The shack you had built is the hard limit, because it now sits slightly shorter than the tree.
You had let the tree be, only after you had wrapped its thin trunk and covered its stump in magic fabric. However, you will not allow the saplings in the clearing the option to decline the same way the tree had. Unlike the wishing tree, the saplings are all shorter than you, and still too young and spindly to stand in freezing weather unprotected.
Little seed, little winged seed. Sleepy chimes ping all around you as you drape the silver sheets over one sapling. Snow lines the tops of its branches, the layer of wood chips and crushed leaves spread over its tree stump and roots already nearly buried in white. Blessed scion, your wish was not with us yesterday.
You blink at that, the ends of the sheet cascading down on all sides of the sapling. “Hmm? You mean the first snowfall yesterday? We did join in when you all wished together for a better new year.”
I mean of wishes for you only. Collective wishes are of the forest, but wishes for self are also welcome. This tree’s wish is not the same as that tree’s wish. The slender branches wiggle under the sheet, a lumpy silver silhouette in the midst of falling snow. This tree wishes to grow strong and have large flying spikes and thorns. You snicker at that— the wishing tree would absolutely hate to hear that particular wish. Your wish, what did you wish for you.
“Ah. I didn’t know we could add in our own wishes.” Crouching low, you weigh the ends of the sheet down to the ground with some rocks from storage, making sure the sapling is fully covered. “I didn’t wish for anything. I’ll make sure to add in my own wish next year.”
But what do you wish now. The sapling’s pulse rings out plaintively, with a hint of impatience. Is the sapling whining at you? I want to know.
You turn away from the covered sapling, hiding your grin under the shadow of your hood as you move over to throw another sheet over the next sapling. “Nothing.” You make quick work of covering up the rest of the saplings in this cluster. “But you’ll know next year, ah? Now go to sleep, it’s time for everyone to rest.”
Awww. The sapling ruffles itself beneath its covers before stilling as the wind begins to pick up. I eagerly await your wish in the next year’s cycle, blessed scion, lark of the maple tree.
You only shake your head at that and make your way towards the next cluster of saplings, your footsteps revealing a trail of brown grasses stark against the accumulating snow.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with impunity.
Year two, winter, ten days after first snowfall—
“I’m bored.”
Nightfall gaped at you, the weaving shuttle slipping from his hand and thudding onto the ground.
In all your infinite wisdom, you simply sighed and got up from your spot by the firepit, making your way towards the entrance of the house. “I’m bored,” you said, reaching down for the heavy coat discarded at the entryway, “I think I’ll go outside for a bit—“
“No!” Nightfall bolted up from his seat and grabbed you by the arm, practically ushering you around to sit down in his place.
You glanced at Nightfall in confusion as he firmly sat you down on the floor in front of the loom, his hands clamped down onto your shoulders. “What do you mean, no— wait, Night, I don’t know how to work the loom—“
“Yes, you will.” Nightfall’s soul thumped far too quickly in his ribcage for this. “Don't worry about it, I’ll teach you how to weave.”
Your boredom was a terrifying thing to behold. Usually, such a thing was a non-issue– if there was a task that needed to be done, you would do it without complaint. You always had a routine to rely on, and the multitude of tasks that cropped up throughout the year ensured you always had something to occupy your time.
Except for winter.
That one time you were bored, you had nearly blown up the house.
Entirely by accident, of course, but Nightfall would highly prefer if you didn’t go on another boredom-induced experimenting spree and do something even more stupid than attempt to reinforce fire with magic.
The roof was still horrendously crooked from the resulting explosion last winter. Sure, you had fixed the blasted roof in sheepish apology, but Nightfall would like the house to continue standing, thank you very much.
You squinted at him, unconvinced. “Eh, you sure?” You looked back at the wide loom laid out before you. No doubt it just looked like a gigantic swath of threads and sticks stretched across an open square wood frame to you, the frame balanced on four boulders in an improvised table configuration. Gingerly brushing one finger along the vertical silver warp threads, you traced the light blue leaf-vine brocade curling along the horizontal dark blue weft threads. “This looks a lot different from what you made before… You sure you want me to start? I don’t want to mess up what you’ve got here.”
“No, no, no, that’s okay, I don’t mind at all.” Disaster successfully averted, Nightfall sat beside you and picked up the weaving shuttle. “It’s pretty simple to do, once you know where to look. Here, I’ll show you.”
You watched closely as Nightfall showed you how to raise or lower the shed bar of the loom, thus raising or lowering the two alternating sets of warp threads and creating an opening for the weaving shuttle to go through. After every pass of the shuttle through the opening, he battened the working thread left behind the shuttle towards him, firming up that thread into a new layer of weft to the slowly-growing fabric.
“Think of the shuttle here like making a running stitch with the sewing needle, but instead of sewing a line on the fabric, you sew by weaving over and under the alternating threads of the warp threads.” Nightfall pointed to the triangular spacing between the warp threads, the spacing propped open by the wide battening stick fitted in it. “But the opening made by raising or lowering that shed bar just makes it easy to do just that in a single pass instead of constantly making the over-and-under weaving motion.”
“Mmm, that makes more sense. Sorta like running a needle between two layers, except I’m joining the layers from the inside.” Taking the shuttle from Nightfall, you blinked at the dark blue threads wrapped around the slim stick, then at the warp threads gleaming silver on the loom. “The working thread is… blue?”
Nightfall grinned and reached over to grasp your hand holding the shuttle. “Yeah. You want a different color?”
The palpable delight on your face when Nightfall willed the blue magic thread to turn orange or green or pink was absolutely worth it, even if he had to give up on weaving clothes for a while.
So what if his blue-silver brocade suddenly switched to a veritable rainbow of plain-woven stripes halfway through?
Perhaps another loom was in order.
The soft rhythmic chop of the knife against wood fills the air.
It sounds like home, listening to your brother cook.
Squatting on the floor, Nightfall thinly slices the green onions lengthwise against the surface of the low table. Set aside on the table is a large plate with silver veins running jagged through the porcelain, the cleaned and gutted carp lying atop of the plate waiting patiently to be seasoned. Just off to the side, a low amount of water simmers inside the cooking pot over the firepit. Steam rises up from the cooking pot, filling the shack with a comfortable warmth.
Sitting at the opposite side of the low table, you ignore the sheath of papers spread out before you on the table, instead watching Nightfall as he seasons and garnishes the carp before placing the dish inside the cooking pot. He retrieves from storage a large scrap of metal scale-armor and puts it over the cooking pot, cutting off the rising steam.
The fish should steam for about fourteen minutes, plenty of time for Nightfall to clean up his cooking space.
Cooking show over, you reluctantly turn back to the neglected sheath of papers, your hands absently running over the rough surface of the low table.
Well. It’s less a table and more of a bunch of wooden markers nailed together into a slab with sturdy thorns, the slab balanced on a pair of river boulders on either side serving as the legs.
The table is incredibly ugly even by your low standards, the surface more than rough-hewn by all the whittling you had done in your attempts to even out the table top. The table surface is questionably flat at best, but the magic reinforcing the grain and filling in the uneven bumps and gouges in silver ensures there are at least no splinters.
Ugly as it is, the table is at least sturdy. The thorns keeping the whole slab together are strong; you had found them one autumn day in the eastern direction of the border forest, on a tree that was just covered in them. The thorns were longer than your hand and intimidating in their sharpness— even the thorns had thorns.
You had stepped on one when you had approached that tree.
The thorn had punctured cleanly through your boot, narrowly missing the bones of your feet.
Both you and Nightfall had balked at the sheer amount of thorns scattered about the leaf litter on the ground around that tree, before cautiously taking all the loose thorns you could safely see.
Walking hazards aside, the thorns make for good building nails. You had used them to reinforce the walls of the shack, after seeing how well the table had held even with your shoddy building skills. No longer are you relying solely on magic to keep whole structures together.
Everything in the shack here might be ugly or salvaged or need repairs, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s home, and your brother finally has a table.
Your brother is priority.
Finished with cleaning up his cooking space, Nightfall takes a seat next to you, wiping his hands dry with a rag. “Hey, Sun. The fish is cooking. We’ll eat in a few minutes.” He glances over at the papers. “How’s the reading going? Did you find anything?”
At that, you slump over in clear resignation, your head thumping onto the table. “I can barely read any of this. The writing is too small, and I can’t focus, even when I use my finger to track the words. Who the hell wrote all this, anyway?”
Even though Nightfall held primary control of all the papers, he had difficulty in actually gleaning any information from them. He had given you some of the papers that he hadn’t written over to look through, just in case you might spot something he had missed.
But just like before, the lines of script had swam and bled into each other in an amalgamation of inky blocks, all at once appearing solid black yet see-through like a net. You had recognized the simpler bits and parts of symbols that represented the base meaning of the word, but that meant nothing when all the symbols blended together into incomprehensible ribbons of script on every single page.
In comparison, Nightfall’s writing is infinitely easier to read, just by how large and clear he makes the marks. Every stroke is sharp, knifelike in its simplicity.
“Doesn’t look like someone actually wrote it. There’s no smudges, see– the ink is too clean. It must have been printed somehow.” With a sigh, Nightfall gathers up the useless papers from the table. He swaps them out with another stack of papers from his inventory, handing the new stack to you. “Can you take a look at these ones next? They have pictures on them.”
Perking up, you lay the papers out on the table. Immediately, you’re struck by the sudden appearance of faces staring back at you. Picking one page up, you peer closer at it.
A figure glares at you, wiry with black slashes obstructing its face.
“These are… portraits? This guy’s head is crossed out.” Scanning through the faces on the rest of the pages, you bark out a laugh at a dark stain splattered over one figure. “Finally, something that matches his stupid ass! Serves him right.”
Nightfall leans over to look at the ruined face. “Do you know who that one is?”
“Mercenary, I’d imagine. I can tell just by that stupid leather hat and scale-armor chestpiece he’s got. Probably took that armor off of a soldier, because it doesn’t match the rest of his getup.” Scoffing, you pick up another page with another crossed-out face on it. If you had to guess, the blocky script cramped beside the portraits must be profiles identifying each person. “Wow, everyone here is ugly as hell. Who drew all these?”
“Doesn’t matter who drew it– but a mercenary group? That… would make sense, actually. I was wondering why everyone’s outfits here weren’t coordinated. What a disgrace.” Nightfall shakes his head and turns towards the cooking pot. You can hear the dish inside clattering noisily from the boiling water, the steam escaping profusely from beneath the improvised lid. “Keep looking, I’m going to check on the fish.”
As interesting as the frowning portraits are, there’s not much information to glean from it when you can barely read the mass of tiny script accompanying the faces. You suspect some of the script is probably a list of possessions, because you can spot some variations of the simpler symbols repeating itself across profiles, like knife and water and clothes.
The drawings of the faces you can’t help but chuckle at– the expressions are stern, but you think they just look constipated. Half the portraits are marred with dark stains, making it difficult to see the rest of their angry features. Two of the faces have been heavily crossed out by hand– a curious detail, because none of the other portraits have been defaced like that. Bounties, perhaps, or maybe someone just really didn’t like the faces of those two poor bastards.
One of the pages seems to have been mixed up in this stack of profiles, in that there is no face drawn on it. Instead, large marks run jagged across the stained paper, the knifelike words complaining about a myriad of things: the leftover food growing too cold and stale, another thwarted thieving attempt on their belongings, the forest feeling cursed, the captain trying to skimp out on their payments…
The complaints just go on and on, morphing from simple gripes to scathing insults about their not-exactly-fellow sellswords. Chuckling, you lean over to Nightfall as he’s removing the cooking pot from the fire, holding up the paper. “Hey, Night, look at this! This guy sounds just like you!”
Placing the cooking pot down on solid ground, Nightfall turns to you, offended. “What do you mean, that guy sounds like me–” He blinks at the paper, his eyelights flickering across the words in stunned comprehension. “Oh— oh.” Taking the paper from you, he stares at the page, then turns it over. The insults written on the back side continue down into detailing various acts of retaliation and contingency plans for desertion, before ending in a curious little drawing– just two parallel short lines across bisected by one long line down.
It’s not a symbol you recognize, as it’s too simple to mean anything, and it’s not part of the blocky script either.
“Wow, I…” Nightfall’s voice falters as he turns the page over again. His eye sockets are wide, his eyelights flickering up to you in bright clarity. “Oh, that is weird. I don’t know how I missed seeing this one, but I’m glad you found it. Seems there’s no name on it, though, and this signature doesn't mean anything by itself… what a shame. I would like to have gotten to know more about this person.” He glances over at the other papers containing the unreadable profiles, before sighing in frustration. “If only everything else was written like this one. Clear the table, it's time to eat. I’ll read through this one later.”
You quickly gather up the papers and put them away in his inventory while Nightfall removes the lid from the cooking pot. A cloud of steam rushes up, filling the shack with a mouthwatering fishy aroma. He carefully lifts the dish up from the cooking pot, setting it on the table. Laying within a bed of fish-oil sauce on the plate, the thinly-sliced green onions decorate the glistening tawny skin of whole steamed carp.
You’re already drooling when Nightfall hands you a pair of wooden chopsticks. The wood of the chopsticks are rough from having been whittled down to size, with one stick being shorter than the other, but you easily adjust your grip as you slide the ends under the fish skin at the belly to peel it away, exposing the white meat. Breaking off a chunk of the meat and dipping it in the sauce, you pop it in your mouth, groaning in bliss at the hot freshness of the delicate fish meat and savory-salty flavor.
With the carp caught from the southern river and green onions harvested from its shore, along with salt boiled off from the saltwater collected from a saltwater spring discovered further in the northern forest, the dish steam-cooked to perfection…
It tastes like home.
Nightfall eagerly tears into the head of the carp with his own pair of chopsticks, murmuring appreciatively as he takes a bit of green onion and fish skin to garnish the meat every other bite.
You and your brother end up devouring the entirety of the steamed carp, leaving behind only the fish bones and fins, thoroughly satisfied with the meal.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with prejudice.
Year three, spring, midst of snowmelt. Day, waning crescent moon. Morning, full sun, no clouds, windy, COLD.
Nightfall kicked a pile of melting snow out of the way from the entrance to the house, scowling at the crunchy-sludgy mixture of ice.
He knew he had to leave the comfort of the house sooner or later, but that didn’t mean he liked going out when it was freezing cold outside.
But the specks of green growth pushing through the melting snow cover could only herald good news.
Spring was approaching.
That, and the numerous pulses flying around the fields as the saplings pinged each other nonstop. They had been incredibly noisy when they woke up yesterday, clamoring under their covers and all, and today looked to be no different.
A sudden gust of wind had Nightfall shivering and wrapping the bear fur tighter around himself. He had never hated the cooler seasons before, but he had made an exception just for this type of winter and all the illogical bullshit it entailed. He didn’t understand it at all: the sky was clear, and the sun was shining brightly— how could weather conditions like that not be warmer than an overcast day? Cursing at the wind, he stiffly trudged his way out in the fields, where you were in the middle of checking up on a group of saplings.
The silver sheet that had once covered a sapling billowed in the wind, the threads translucent in the air.
Your hands gripping the sheet were drawn down by your sides, unmoving.
You stood just as still in the wind, your head cocked towards the northeast direction of the tree line.
“I smell smoke.”
Nightfall smelled nothing but cold air in the frigid wind, but the strange flatness laid in your voice made him freeze in place.
Your voice— always bold with humor and laughter— was stripped of any warmth and familiarity.
It was toneless, a frighteningly foreign sound.
The intensity of your gaze fixed to the northeast direction was equally jarring, as were the hazy clouds of smoke staining the clear blue sky over the far horizon.
“Something’s burning.” Your eyelights flickered away from the horizon to meet Nightfall’s gaze.
Your eyelights were as blank as glass, unresponsive to the clamoring of saplings all around you growing in alarm: smoke, the wind burns with old cedar ash and bitter smoke.
“Smells like black powder.”
The newly-awakened wishing tree is courteous enough to send out an inquiring pulse to the border forest. Its bare branches quiver in the wind, the pointed buds clustered on the twigs showing the faintest hints of green, the buds ready to unfurl at any moment.
After waiting too long, the information that the tree finally relays back to you and Nightfall is nothing but bad news.
There is a disturbance deep in the north-northeast direction of the border forest. Based on the wishing tree’s unfamiliar description of the reported location, the disturbance is much further in than where you had explored— it is more than a full day’s trek if you only run straight in. Furthermore, the disturbance is described to occur at a wide and open area, at the edge of an abrupt tree line.
That a boundary for the border forest would be found so soon, much closer than you had expected, especially in that direction, is highly concerning.
According to the wishing tree, the trees over there had reported a sudden fire.
The possible threat of the fire spreading further into the border forest cannot be ignored, but you are reluctant to leave the clearing unattended while you and Nightfall investigate.
Nightfall’s urgent instructions to the wishing tree allow no room for disagreement: maintain a full negative aura for the entire time it is alone. Stay silent and inconspicuous if the saplings detect any suspicious activity nearby. Attack any intruders making past its aura with extreme prejudice.
Kill any trespassers on sight.
“Let’s go.” Nightfall steps away from the tree and towards you, where you stand affixed in the same place near the saplings. The bear fur he had earlier has been swapped out in favor of a heavy coat and gloves, matching you in attire.
You hate it.
All of the saplings in the clearing have been uncovered, the magic fabric having been dissolved and then absorbed by the saplings. The magic will have to serve as sustenance and protection for them in place of water, food, and shelter for however long you are away. You will have to apologize to them later for leaving them unattended like this.
“Mm. Let’s go.” You lead the way towards the north-northeast tree line, your long strides breaking into a sprint the moment you and Nightfall enter the border forest.
It takes two days too long to reach the site of the reported fire, and two nights too long when the utter darkness of the early spring nights forces you to stop and make camp until sunrise.
The air had tasted of smoke the entire time.
You had fallen into formation without much thought: you had taken point, with your brother taking up the rear. You kept a wary lookout on your surroundings out front, your brother easily keeping pace behind you.
The wishing tree had pinged you whenever you began to veer off-course in your running navigation, the tree’s guidance immensely helpful once you had started forging ahead into uncharted territory.
You also had employed your aura to scout out far ahead of you, putting pressure on your emissions to smother the positivity to a muffled whisper, your aura becoming effectively unnoticeable to the passing wildlife.
When you had finally set foot outside of the forest, Nightfall trailing behind you—
The air burns acrid, charring in the feeble wind.
A line of wooden markers stand before you at the tree line. Red strips of cloth are tied to the tops of the markers. Crudely carved into the back side of the wood are large marks forming blocky script. The script is rough to read, but what you can glean from the simpler parts of the words is a clear warning.
NO ENTRY
DANGER
FOREST
In the hazy light of the cold morning, you catch sight of a group of huts smoldering in the open area up ahead.
Village.
Clearing.
It is utter destruction no matter where you look.
The tamped ground is scorched and littered with trails of old blood and broken objects leading out of the huts. Clumps of charred feathers cling to the remains of chickens scattered in the yard beside one hut, the feathers ruffling in the breeze.
Ransacking.
Massacre.
The thatched roofs of the huts have been burned away, exposing their internal wooden structures. Smoke drifts out of the gaping holes, the doors hanging open by their hinges. The wooden walls warp and crackle as the flames consuming them lick up into the hazy sky.
Incendiary explosives meant to flush out targets.
Incendiary arrows aimed at the targets—
The glowing disk floating within the yellowing clouds above shines too brightly to be the moon.
Taking cautious steps towards the closest hut, you retrieve a long knife from your inventory, the sturdy weight of the blade poised in front of you to guard. Nightfall does the same, guarding your back.
Pillars of smoke rising, downed timber set aflame—
You step inside the hut. It is nothing but ruins inside, the walls charred black by the indiscriminate reach of fire. The bitter stench of black powder is absolutely pungent here, the air stinging acrid with every inhale. Grimacing, you tug the hood of your heavy coat over to cover your nasal ridge and mouth.
Falling ash and bodies, piercing screams—
Passing through the doorway to what looks to be a sleeping area, the wood floor squelches under your boot.
Lurid red splattering between your every step—
The suffocating tang of iron in the air registers to you, profuse and sticky and red.
Staggering, you fall—
There is a person lying at your feet.
Failed, you failed, you failed—
Your body seizes in recognition of the overwhelming dark red red red dried on the person’s neck, hair splayed around their head in a halo, the unnatural tilt of their head against the floor.
Your brother—
The man at your feet is already dead.
(Something within you fractures.)
The tight grip of your brother’s hand in yours is barely enough.
It has to be though. He would clench his hand, and the pressure of it would make you squeeze back in response, back and forth and back and forth the signal goes, just to make sure you’re both here, still here.
When your brother doesn’t squeeze back but instead simply holds your hand in his, you blink at the dark silhouettes of the wishing tree and the shack before you.
Turning towards the west, the sky is already very dark. Dusk has firmly settled in, the clouds already smothering whatever remnants of faded pink and green and blue gradients of the horizon to darkness.
…Ah.
Your brother must have led you back here.
It doesn’t taste like smoke anymore.
Welcome home. The wishing tree rustles at you, the sheer relief in its pulse washing over you both in incredibly warm and protective intent. Scion and scion, welcome home, welcome back home.
Sleepy little chimes ring all around you, echoing welcome home, welcome home in chorus.
Your soul trembles within the warmth of the tree’s aura surrounding you in an embrace. Only now do you become aware how cold you are, of how overwhelmingly warm the greetings ping around you, of how long the trees had kept watch, all waiting for the both of you to return safely.
You’re home.
“We’re back.” Nightfall’s voice is barely there, just strong enough to return the greeting. He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back, your grip a little stronger now. “Great grand-tree, everyone… we’re home.”
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with apprehension.
Year three, spring, sixth day of snowmelt. Night, waxing crescent moon. COLD.
It had come to Nightfall’s attention that you were not sleeping well.
Dug low into the ground, the firepit crackled, the flickering light cast by its low fire barely illuminating the walls of the house.
…No. Such a statement like ‘not sleeping well’ was false.
Heavy silver sheets were pinned over the windows, keeping out the cold chill of the night, keeping in the warmth from escaping the house.
You had always slept lightly. True sleep was an elusive and precious commodity for you, fleeting in how frequently you had been disturbed awake before in order to take the night watch. That particular task was no longer mandatory, but your ability to sleep had suffered immensely for it.
You leaned heavily against the wall, your arms trembling minutely around Nightfall under the cover of the fur blanket. You were blazing hot under him, a furnace compared to the firepit fueling the house’s ambient warmth.
Nightfall had taken many measures to stabilize your sleeping schedule, always dragging you back to bed even if you didn’t feel tired, always grounding you with his full weight on you. Even if you could only take short naps throughout the night, such stolen moments of rest were a marked improvement compared to before.
The rapid rise and fall of your chest pressed against the back of his head, his shoulders, his back, everything.
But now…
All around him, your aura spasmed, your body jerking in turn beneath him.
You were not sleeping at all.
Nightfall shifted within your hold, drawing your attention. Breathing heavily, your unfocused eyelights flickered down at him, your eye sockets widening in faint surprise. “Still awake…?” Your voice was barely there, low and rough with exhaustion. “Ah… did I wake you up?”
“Not at all.” Nightfall twisted around until he faced you fully, straddling your lap. You absently caught the edge of the blanket before it fell away, draping it back over his shoulders. Sighing at the heavy warmth, Nightfall leaned in to hug you, squeezing hard with his arms. You returned the hug, the squeezes going back and forth and back and forth. “Sun? What’s wrong?”
Your breathing stalled, the rise and fall of your chest stuttering to a stop mid-squeeze.
Caged in your arms, a sinking feeling rooted itself deep in Nightfall’s soul.
You had never hesitated before.
Deliberated, maybe. Made snap judgments, absolutely. Despite what Nightfall had thought sometimes about your impulsive decision-making skills, you were very capable of critical thought. Everything was shared between you and him. You had to, he had to— there was never a reason to withhold any sort of information from each other.
But your hesitation just now…
Seeming to recognize the strangeness of your own behavior, you grimaced and curled up into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck. Nightfall felt your soul writhe inside your ribcage, your pulse erratically latching on to him and black smoke marring the sky, inferno burning with every heave, the red of your arms cradling—
“I don’t know why I’m so upset.” Your breath tickled against his neck, rapid and shallow. The bursts of magic sparking from you latched onto his clothes like thrown embers, lodging themselves into his soul. “It was just a burning village with a dead guy in it. There was nothing else left. Nothing for us to salvage. We put the fire out, and then we left. That’s it.” You hugged him closer, as if the tight pressure could hold the strangled keening of your soul at bay. “But ever since we came back, I see things that aren’t there. I hear screaming where there isn’t any. And that dead guy…”
The sustained pulse connecting your soul to his abruptly broke away, severing the constant barrage of imagery flitting through his mind. Your soul hushed in turn, smothered under the weight of your hug.
“Sometimes I see you dead instead of him.”
You knew.
Nightmare.
You had always known, however fleetingly you had acknowledged of your and his shared situation.
You were afflicted with nightmares.
Dead men did not wake again.
Nightmares… or perhaps they were mere flashes of a memory that you and he would never fully remember.
And yet look at where both you and he were right now.
(The names you and he once had were forever lost to the eternal wind.)
“We’re dead, aren’t we.” It was a quiet confession, uttered so softly that Nightfall barely recognized that voice as yours.
Nightfall hummed in slow deliberation. “Technically.”
You stilled at his admission, waiting quietly. The silence stretched itself out in the air, flickering in the weak firelight, until you snorted upon the realization that there was no further follow-up. “Just technically? Not ‘technically yes, we’re dead’, or ‘technically no, we aren’t’?”
“Eh. We’re both and we’re neither.” Nightfall pulled back from the hug to look at you. Your eyelights were transparent like glass, but there was a faint smile etched on your face. “So technically, it doesn’t matter anymore, because we’re here now. We’re still here.”
“You’re starting to sound like me. I’m not sure I like that.” You chuckled, your eyelights brightening up like the full moon unveiling itself from heavy clouds. “That’s a bastard answer and you know it.”
Nightfall shook his head at you, relieved to hear the playful bite in your voice again. “You know calling me a bastard just means you’re calling yourself a bastard as well. Bastard.”
“Well, it’s not really an insult if it’s true, ah?” You drew your hand up over your mouth, stifling your chuckles from rising to full-blown laughter. There was no need for the entirety of the sleeping world to hear your delight, not when your intended audience was just him. “What would I ever do without you.”
Leaning down, Nightfall pressed his forehead to yours, the emblems of his and your circlets clinking together. “You would die. Really, you wouldn’t last long at all. What would you do without me.”
Your smile turned wry, your eyelights softening in contentment. You pulled him down into a hug, adjusting your posture accordingly as Nightfall made himself comfortable under the blanket again. “What would I do, huh. Die, of course– because there’s no point in being alive when you’re dead.”
It was highly inappropriate humor, crude and morbid and entirely unfunny, considering it was about both his and your mortality. Such self-deprecating banter was more suited for vagabonds than guardians.
But if it pulled you back from reaching the breaking point that Nightfall had glimpsed in that glasslike gaze, then he would do whatever it took to ground you and give you relief.
If he had to be soft, then so be it.
If he had to be cruel, then so be it.
The sky is indecipherable.
The sunlight is exposed, the rays streaking across the expanse like the gleaming edges of glass. The sky is a pale grey, a dusty purple, a hazy yellow, the color of the sky changing with every blink. The clouds are just as inconstant, wispy like feathers, clumpy like cotton, streaky like a smear of charcoal…
It doesn’t matter.
The color of the sky doesn’t matter.
The ensuing argument behind you grows loud, drawing your attention away from the sky. Turning around, you catch the last threads of Nightfall sniping at the wishing tree about its incompetence, with the tree vehemently defending itself from his barbed criticisms.
“Spring has barely started, and you’re already infested, great grand-pear!” Pulling down one of the branches, Nightfall glares at the numerous black slugs dotting the leaves. The slugs are rather small and thin, only about as long as the smallest segment of your pinky, and more wormlike than sluggy due to the fact that they lack antennae. “What is the point of teaching you to defend yourself with magic, if you are unwilling to make use of it when you need it the most– like right now?”
The damage on the leaves where the slugs lay on is unsightly. The upper surface of the leaves is pocked with bald brown patches, revealing the delicate lines of the vein structures underneath. You don’t recognize this particular insect, but you recognize this type of crop damage to know it’s clearly a pest, just like you.
Hatched, eggs hatched! How do I defend against insect eggs! The tree shakes its branches hard, the leaves quivering all at once in a bid to free itself of the pests. It’s not working. And I have told you many times, you do not listen! I am not a pear tree!
Nightfall lets out a huff of irritation as he swipes a slug off a leaf, squashing it between his fingers. “I will call you whatever I want. You still haven’t caught Sun in a game of catch, and he isn’t even trying that hard to evade you.” He squashes another slug, grimacing at the slime coating the tips of his fingers.
The tree’s aura must have given way somehow, the negativity warding the clearing weakening enough for insects to pass through unobstructed. Or maybe the insects had never heeded the warding in the first place, given their ubiquitous existences.
Regardless of how the insects had managed to get through, the wishing tree is now infested. The timing of it is rather coincidental, the slugs showing up just shortly after the tree had shed all of its blossoms. Pests usually didn’t care to wait for the flowering season in spring to be over before laying waste to field crops.
The wilted petals still scattered about the ground is as reassuring as the tree’s declaration that it would also not grow fruit this year.
How much longer then, until the tree decides it does want to grow fruit? Already, the tree towers over you both. At this rate, it will reach twice your height by next year.
You do not have the supplies nor the capability to make pesticides. If it had been only the wishing tree, then you would have been able to set aside some time and squash every slug by hand. Your brother would have to ride your shoulders in order to reach the topmost branches, a cumbersome but doable task.
But the wishing tree will never be as small as a garden, and you cannot devote the same amount of time and effort to the clearing’s worth of saplings if they also become infested.
If you let this infestation run its course instead, would it delay the time when the tree will bear fruit by another year?
If such willful negligence of duties meant you could spend more time under the wishing tree, would it forgive you for your failure to protect it from infestation?
Sooner or later, the tree will be able to fend for itself. Your role as a guardian would end, rendered useless by the tree’s independence. There would be no need for it to rely on you anymore.
Would the wishing tree still let a failure like you stay?
A hand squeezing your shoulder cracks the world back into disjointed focus. The sky above is a dizzying white hue, the expanse crowded with towering clouds.
Nightfall stands in front of you, the weight of his free hand on your shoulder plummeting your focus down to earth. He tilts his head towards the tree. “Sun, here. Can you give me some vision on the pests? I want to try something, see if there’s an easier way to get rid of them.”
You oblige, your aura rapidly spilling out of you to crash into the tree. Seeking out the leaves in particular, your extended senses prickle at the numerous slugs plastered on the leaves throughout the canopy, all unaffected by the absence of positivity in your aura.
Being able to tamp down on the intensity of your positivity is the best thing you’ve ever done. The newfound control you had recovered from having your ribs nearly healed had enabled you to suppress the positivity inherent in your magic, effectively muting it. It is incredible, being able to finally utilize the sensory aspect of your aura without having to deal with the emotional draw all the time.
A sudden ping from your brother warps your vision from the fragmented kaleidoscope of identified slugs on the leaves to the view of a single slug being squashed to a paste between his– your– his fingers. Your aura quivers with overwhelming energy, the world sharpening to a knife edge as a rush of negativity flows into you through the sustained ping, overriding your nonexistent positivity.
Nightfall’s magic is heady, as mesmerizing as the clear blue sky above you, the edges of the expanse charring black like rotting hydrangea petals.
You can’t believe it, how alive you feel.
Alive, you’re alive, you’re dying, you’re alive you’re dying you’re dying—!
Breaking out into a laugh, you forcefully flood your aura laden in Nightfall’s negativity into all the slugs you can sense, his magic roiling through you like wildfire. With a decisive yank of your aura, the resulting explosions of the slugs are more satisfying than you had expected, vindictive in its brutality. You barely register the tree’s dismay at all the slime splattering over its leaves, your laughter echoing out uncontrollably–
Your back hits the ground hard, the world cracking out of focus.
Dizzy, you look up.
Nightfall stares down at you. His entire weight is on you, pinning you to the ground. His head blocks out that indecipherable sky, the rays of sunlight fragmenting behind him in a halo. He reaches over to grab your hand, squeezing hard.
You reflexively squeeze back. You feel empty, your body drifting despite your brother’s weight keeping you down. Nightfall must have withdrawn his negativity from you. A shame, it’s a shame, you would like to have basked in it a little longer.
The question Nightfall asks you is simple.
“What just happened?”
…You don’t know.
You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know.
Does he know how fragile the world feels right now? That the sky can’t seem to decide on a color, that the clouds keep changing their shape? Does he know that the wishing tree needs the both of you for only so long, that there’s an unspoken countdown on your usefulness? Protect the tree, plant the fruits– you’ll fulfill your duties, and then you’ll be discarded. Family doesn’t matter when you’re worthless, right? If the tree had created you, surely it can unmake you just the same— just like those slugs, right?
Your brother’s face crumples in response.
Distantly, you hear a cacophony of pulses from somewhere flitting over you. You can’t seem to pinpoint where they are coming from.
It doesn’t matter.
Your brother is priority.
Nightfall’s shoulders sag as he slowly shakes his head at you. He blinks rapidly, his eyelights wavering like smoke from a doused candle, his gaze searching your face over and over and over and over.
Your hand hurts from squeezing and being squeezed so much. You cling to it, afraid that the pain in your hand will turn numb.
The next question your brother asks is also simple.
“What about you? If I’m priority… then what about you?”
(Something within you fractures in response.)
A failure.
After your brother had patted you down and then dragged you into an emergency discussion with the wishing tree, the tree had then repeatedly reassured you that even after your duties are fulfilled, it would be forever delighted to have you and Nightfall stay as long as you wished.
I have told you before, your magic is you and yours. The tree had rested a slime-covered branch atop your head, so gentle compared to the carnage you had so viciously wrought over it. The moment my magic became yours, I let go of any and all forms of control, gave all and everything of me over to you. I will never be able to wield any power over you, nor do I ever want to. If you would still have me as your family tree, I wish for that to never change.
Your brother’s hand locked with yours had prevented you from dropping to the ground in prostration, so you had instead settled for hanging your head low in apology.
…You know.
You desperately wish you could believe it.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with fear.
Year three, spring, one month and three weeks after snowmelt. Day, waxing gibbous moon. Noon, full sun, no clouds, mild-warm.
There were only a couple of things about you that had never made sense to Nightfall.
They were trivial, insignificant before. Yet such minor details now could not be ignored, not in the wake of your breakdown during his experimental attempt at pest eradication earlier today. He could still hear it, the echoes of your laughter seeped in hysteria ringing in the back of his mind.
Nightfall still remembered the ball of magic you had offered to him, a silver pearl gleaming in your palm.
It had tasted bitter, the kind of bitter characteristic of overripe bitter squash, so overripe that the bitterness had mellowed itself out to be palatable instead of overwhelming, the soft consistency of your magic coming apart easily between his teeth.
What had made no sense back then was the feeling of utter devastation mired in that bitter flavor.
The emotion had crept down the column of his throat, insidious like wires catching in between the crevices of his spine.
For the longest time, Nightfall could not place the emotion, for it was an entirely negative sensation, the flavor completely at odds with the inherent positivity your magic exuded.
It was not that you could only experience positive emotions to the exclusion of any negativity. Even though your magic only encompassed half of the emotional spectrum, you yourself were very capable of feeling both positive and negative emotions. You felt joy and calm as much as you felt rage and sorrow.
But your detached gaze when you had repeatedly tried to focus on him—
How your answers kept drifting despite his attempts to ground you—
The sound of bones crackling unseen, that horrifying sound Nightfall had finally pinpointed was coming from you—
(That ruined blue sky, the expanse smeared with pillars of smoke, flecks of blackened ash falling all around him—)
Guilt.
The flavor of your magic was mired in guilt.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with sorrow.
Year three, spring, two months after snowmelt. Day, full moon. Mid-afternoon, full sun, half clouds, warm.
One week after your breakdown.
Nightfall sat before the loom, a sheet of paper held limply in his hand.
The loom was propped up against the wall, the blue-silver brocade fabric suspended within the confines of the loom frame. A dark blue thread dangled halfway down the side, the cut end waiting to be woven back into the fabric.
The weaving was nearly done. All he needed to do was cut the fabric off the loom, secure all the ends, and give it a wash to settle the fibers. After that was done, he could finally use the finished cloth to make new clothing.
He stared at the bottom of the loom, where a section of colorful stripes interrupted the brocade midway through.
You had woven those stripes a little tight, evident by the fabric pulling in a bit at that area. It was an easy mistake to make, though you had been more focused on deciding on what colors to use, rather than paying attention to how tight the working thread was woven. Managing weaving tension was not a priority when you were just learning to weave.
Bowing his head low, Nightfall shut his eye sockets, the paper crinkling in his tight grasp.
Priority.
After your breakdown, Nightfall had paid close attention to your mood. You had recovered well, seemingly so, always smiling at him whenever he had checked up on you.
But the smile you gave him never matched your aura.
Whenever your aura was let loose outside your body, your emissions were torrential, the positivity normally present in your ambient magic completely absent. Your aura took on a possessive edge as it prowled around you, like a fabled drakon of old legends guarding its most precious treasures.
Priority.
You had set him, your own brother, as priority.
Nightfall knew how devoted to him you were. You had always been attentive to all his needs, his wants, his health, his survival, everything.
Yet for all your birds-eye attentiveness on him, you had left open a massive blind spot.
Yourself.
You were blind to your own well-being, blind to the heavy toll you took upon yourself to be reliable. Your self-imposed need to be reliable consumed you, a persistent fire that would not extinguish despite the repeated assurance that you were doing enough. Your aura alone belied the worrying state of your mental state, your ambient magic perpetually at the cusp of igniting as it lashed out against your surroundings.
Despite the wishing tree’s promise that it would always keep both you and him as family, you were still blindly hurtling towards imminent self-destruction.
Left unchecked, you would burn out as fiercely as the sunsets you always watched, just to see him through to the next day.
Priority.
You did not consider yourself as priority alongside him.
When had that changed? You and he had always been a unit, complementary in duet. Every role was interchangeable to a point, to be modified or swapped out as you both saw fit. You had to, he had to.
You were not-father, the provider, attacker, provoker, vanguard–
And Nightfall in turn was mother, the homemaker, defender, negotiator, rearguard–
Such complementary roles were once necessary for survival. It was a way to cope, to fall back on established roles and the skillsets they represented.
The role of guardian was a complete outlier. It was a curious role with no complement that Nightfall had to take as counter-role– instead, he was also assigned as guardian in the same breath.
A rare dual-reinforcement where he and you both played on equal footing, instead of being forced to take separate halves in order to mask each other’s weaknesses.
Strange role as it was… you actually liked being a guardian.
You liked it here.
Nightfall’s eye sockets flew open at that. Blinking rapidly, he stared down at the crumpled paper in his hand.
It was the page you had found.
The only page he could read without issue.
The jagged words scrawled across the page were acerbic in their complaints. Details about hostile treatment and a worsening financial situation were frequently mentioned, the silent voice of the unknown writer clear in their desire to defect from the group they were working with. The very last section in particular had caught his attention, as the writer had mentioned a brother.
We are unwanted here, the captain refuses to pay us. We will leave immediately after the skirmish tomorrow. Take the captain’s bags as compensation. Asshole can keep paying nothing just like he wanted while his hired men gut him for nonpayment.
Brother doesn’t want to leave, but we cannot stay. He doesn’t show it well, but the constant moving is taking its toll on him. He works too hard, he isn’t sleeping anymore. If only we could find someplace safe for us to rest, for his sake.
One week, just one week of rest.
The details themselves were sparse, but the words were uncanny in their familiarity. The writer had held similar grievances to him, worrying about their brother and the situation they were in. Only in their case, the writer seemed to be constantly on the move, desperately seeking safe haven.
But unlike them, you and he had already found sanctuary with the wishing tree. The tree had made it clear that you could stay, that it wanted you to stay.
Wet splotches bloomed across the trembling paper, the tears dripping down his face.
But you didn’t believe you were allowed to stay for good.
Scrambling to his feet, Nightfall tucked the paper away in storage and stumbled out of the house, wiping at his eye sockets. The afternoon sunlight was blinding against his blurry vision, but the ambient magic swirling about in the air had immediately brushed up to him in warm recognition, the currents softening to a gentle ripple around him.
Your aura.
Letting out a shaky sigh at the warmth, Nightfall followed the currents of your magic back to the source beneath the wishing tree, bracing himself to talk to you.
Priority.
You were priority with him, even if you no longer believed it.
So warm.
Lying down beneath the shade of the wishing tree, you stretch your arms up into the air, your joints popping from the strain. Sunlight filters through the wide canopy overhead and onto your outstretched hands, the dappled shade dancing all around you as your arms fall to rest at your sides. The fuzzy glow of the afternoon seeps into your bones, the rustling of the border forest in the distance making you feel lazy.
It is unusually warm today, almost hot even, according to all the trees. Given that the spring season is just at the cusp of dry-summer, soon such temperatures will be typical instead of unusual.
Both Nightfall and the wishing tree had suggested to you to take some breaks throughout the day, stating that you needed to rest more often. You don’t see how it could be of any help to you, as all you would usually feel when you’re doing nothing is restless.
But right now the warmth of the afternoon is tempting for once, enticing you to try for a nap.
The incoming rustle of grasses has you tilting your head back to spy the scuffed leather of Nightfall’s boots by your shoulder. Your eyelights trail up the dappled sunlight falling around him in a halo, the light glinting off his circlet in silver. “Hey, Night, you’re back.” You leisurely pat the ground next to you. “Wanna lie down with me? The weather’s just perfect right now— I could almost take a nap here.”
Nightfall’s eyelights flicker in faint amusement as he leans over you, holding out his hand. “I know a better napping spot, and it’s definitely not here.”
“Heh, really? There’s a spot better than grand-tree’s shade?” Grinning, you reach up and grab his hand. “Alright, show me, I wanna see.”
The passage of time was–
–here.
All around him, the young trees of the clearing stood as tall as him, modest in their growth. Whispers of greetings and reassurances from the no-longer-sapling trees reached Nightfall as he walked past them, leading you by the hand all the while. Far away from the wishing tree he walked, with that blue sky above him just beginning to burn gold in the afternoon sun.
You followed him without question.
He led you under the shade of a slender maple tree, folding his legs under him as he sat down. The maple tree was not much taller than him, but the wide and gentle shade cast by its large leaves more than made up for the small area it covered. The young tree itself remained silent, but the steady pulse emanating from it was comforting in its encouragement.
You had followed suit, easily settling down with crossed legs. With him still holding your hand, you had sat close beside him in the shade, your knee brushing up against his leg. Your hand loosened to let go as you focused on him with a fond glimmer in your eyelights. Similarly, your aura playfully encircled him in warm contentment.
His hand tightened.
Nightfall turned his body to face you fully. His free hand rose up to reinforce his grip, keeping your hand suspended between him and you.
Amused, you shuffled around to face him as well, a smile tugging at your face as your other hand came up to loosely mirror his grip on you. A bridge of joined hands between you and him. “What’s up, Night?”
Nightfall looked straight at you, his soul seizing at the sight of your smile. How the veil of the shade brought you into muted focus, while the rest of the world fell away in a glow.
“Sundown.”
Priority.
You and he together were priority.
“What do you want to do after we have fulfilled our duties to the wishing tree?”
All around him, your ever-wild aura… stilled.
“I don’t know.” You wore a smile, a careless smile. But your hands… they had slackened completely in his firm grasp, belying the faintest tremors, like a bow strung too quickly. “I suppose I could beg grand-tree to keep us around a little longer, maybe extend our duty to the rest of the forest. After we plant the fruits, we could stay to protect the new trees that would sprout from them.”
Nightfall shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t answer my question. You already know that great grand-tree wants us to stay. We will never have to leave… if we don’t want to.” His hands moved to lace his fingers with yours, the movements slow but firm. “Sundown… brother. What is it that you want?”
His words were nothing but featherlight intent aimed solely at you, his question too soft to nock on the taut bowstring as he drew it back with a deep breath–
–and let go.
“What do you dream of?”
The sound of bones crackling unseen rang out before him, splintering and sharp as the delusion shattered under the blow of his intent.
All around him, your aura began to collapse, your magic withering as it all sank to the ground in defeat. Your eyelights had guttered out, leaving only empty eye sockets staring back at him. Your grip was crushingly tight, the tremor in your hands on full display between you and him. “I— I don’t know.” Only your smile remained, a careful and broken smile. Your voice was barely there, your expression lost. “I don’t— I don’t think I dream anymore.”
Squeezing his hands in yours, Nightfall closed his eye sockets, shutting out the world.
“Sometimes… I dream of a house.” He felt the jolt of your hands through his, the flex of your fingers as they eased up in pressure. “Just a small house. It’d be hidden in the woods, where sunlight would fall through the treetops to dance across the roof.”
His voice was barely there, slow in reminiscence.
“Sometimes, I dream of a room in that house. Sunlight would fill that room, and books and papers would be scattered everywhere. A desk would sit in front of the open window, the breeze coming in to gently stir the papers awake.”
“Ah… ‘Sunlight streamed onto faded paper, the words drawn from the shadows cast, by the dust motes suspended in the golden light.’” Surprised, Nightfall opened his eye sockets to see your head bowed low, your own eye sockets closed. “The poem of the old storyteller… his room was just like that, full of sunlight and stories.”
“You remember that one?”
“I do.” You lifted your head in a slight nod, your eye sockets opening to stare down at your lax hands threaded together in his. Your eyelights wavered, unsteady like the full moon reflected in rippling water. “You… you always wanted to be a scholar.”
Nightfall was… cruel, wasn’t he? He had to be, leading you across long-lost daydreams with soft words, as if reminiscing about the things you could never have would ever help you.
But you were here.
Despite everything in the world, you were here with him.
“I did.”
He was cruel, how his words pulled out the long basting stitches, the many roles held in your facade falling away from you in a curtain.
“Sometimes I dream that I’d be in that sun-filled room. You’d come in, hauling in a batch of books from the nearby market for me to read.”
He was cruel, how his voice brushed along the embroidered seams binding you to your duties, the threads catching and tearing free with each breath.
“Sometimes I dream of a kitchen, with metal pots and matching porcelain sets. There’d be spices and herbs hung up to dry above the window. And through that open window, I’d see you washing the dirt off your boots in the garden.”
He was cruel, how he stripped away the worn cotton batting of family to expose you—
An absolutely tangled mess greeted him.
Your soul.
Threads of priority ran through you in every direction, knotting and twisting and doubling back onto itself to form an armature around your now-visible soul. The very armature was crackling— your soul keening in guilt with every pulse— your priority to him perforated to shreds from its own threads running through itself and you over and over and over and over.
“Sometimes I dream…” He faltered as your breath hitched, your gaze pleading as tears silently dripped down your face. “I dream… that you’d haul yourself in through that window, not caring that the garlic that I’ve hung up would hit you on the head on your way in.” Your shoulders hiked up as you curled in on yourself, the curve of your back prominent as you lowered your head to the ground in prostration, still clinging to his hands in a desperate plea. ”You’d only laugh and show off all the long beans that you harvested from our garden, all ready for me to cook for– for dinner.”
He pulled one of his hands away from your grasp to caress the tangled threads of priority caging your soul, before digging his fingers into the mass–
–and tearing it all out in one fell swoop.
“I dream that we— we’d finally live– in peace.”
All around him, the ruins of your aura smoldered.
You
fell
apart.
“I once dreamed— the same thing as you.” Choked laughter escaped between your sobs, your every breath dragged out of you like the rasping of a knife. Folded over in prostration, your hands grasping at the ground, your confessions spilled out of you undammed, an ever-growing pool of guilt. “So many stupid dreams I had, before— before—“
Your soul writhed in turn, every pulse flickering between sunlight on vines growing high on the garden fence, red and gold carp splashing in the pond, larks singing on the roof, the glimpse of him cooking just beyond the open window—
“I– I denied it, you know? That we were living so good. Those dreams– before, I gave up, I had to–”
Safe, safe, safe? Your soul was completely exposed before you, your intent crumbling from the strain. Failure, I failed, I failed to keep you safe.
You abruptly halted, your words fragile as you struggled to breathe.
“But this life… is so nice. I can’t believe it, I can’t— why couldn’t we have this before? But I don’t want to leave anymore. I don’t want this to end.”
Your soul similarly faltered, drifting afloat in long-familiar exhaustion.
Nightfall reached over to grasp your shoulders, tugging you up carefully from your prostration to sit up. “Brother.” He leaned close, pressing his forehead to yours, the emblems of your and his circlets clinking together. His soul pulsed softly in tandem to the uneven staccato of your soul, anchoring you. “You can see it right now, don’t you? Every day, every passing year, since the beginning… we’re safe now. We’re truly safe. We can stay now, forever if you want.”
Utterly shattered eyelights stared back at him, your face stained with tears. “I… are we… can we really stay?” You pulled back a little to swipe your hand over your eye sockets, blinking down at the silver burning gold across your hand. The veil of the maple tree’s shade had long since lifted away from you and him, the light of the setting sun searing at your form. “Are we… really allowed to have this…”
This… Your soul murmured so, so softly. …peaceful life?
“Heh… hah… we’re already living in it, aren’t we? There is no one else but ourselves to tell us what we can’t have anymore.” He spread his arms out to you, his smile barely there, his eye sockets brimming with tears. “This dream… those stupid little dreams we once had… I still want it, mine and yours. Do you…?”
The world staggered, that golden sky blurring above him as you tackled him to the ground, your head knocking into his. You clung to him tightly as he cried with you, your soul keening always, always, always, in time with his soul’s matching pulse of together, together, always.
It is an unusual feeling for you to be held like this.
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving the last remnants of gold embers to linger on the sparse clouds above. Soon the veils of night will snuff them out, clearing the way for the stars to slowly awaken in their place.
After crying with your brother throughout the entirety of the sunset, you had no will to get up and head back to the wishing tree and the shack… home. Laying there beneath the small maple tree, Nightfall’s arms tentatively wrap around you from behind. You lean back onto him, tensing as your back makes contact with his chest.
You would always hold your brother at night. On the most difficult nights, you and he would hold onto each other instead, clinging for comfort like little fledglings cast out of the nest.
But never before did Nightfall hold you like you had held him, and for good reason. The sleeping arrangement you had was one born from necessity: you were the bed upon which your brother slept on. He took solace in the warmth of your embrace, and he in turn grounded you under the weight of his presence.
Changing the sleeping arrangement away from the usual feels… strange.
Nightfall’s suggestion to swap positions had been sound in theory— it was a way for him to give you comfort the same way he received comfort from you. Still, you find yourself not really liking it, this particular role reversal. Your back prickles at the limited contact with your brother. Your arms ache, empty of his reassuring weight pressed onto you.
Nightfall seems equally unsatisfied by this arrangement, evident by his constant shifting around beneath you in his search to get comfortable. A low laugh reverberates from him through your back as he gives up and goes limp. “We’re terrible, aren’t we? Can’t even fall asleep any other way.”
You can only snort in agreement.
A bit more shuffling around ends up with you and Nightfall both lying on the ground facing each other, instead of you lying on top of him. Nightfall immediately scoots forward to huddle into you as your arms encircle him, the relief washing over you both as you hug him tight.
A compromise, where both of you brace the ground and neither of you bear all of the other’s weight.
It’s still not what you normally want, but for now, it is good enough.
Satisfied, Nightfall lets out a little hum, his sigh stretching out into a lullaby under his breath. The sound of his voice like this is surprising— it has been a long, long time since you’ve heard your brother try his hand at singing. The hummed notes of his tune are wordless, but they brush past the edges of your memory, the intense nostalgia of the lullaby tugging free an echo from within the deep recesses of your soul.
(When was the last time you had heard music?)
…And the dragonflies in the garden, come out to play, fly in the glow of the warm summer’s day.
It sounds a little like the poems you had always listened to together with your brother.
…And the sons chase in the garden, mother comes over to play, dance in the shade of the warm summer’s day.
Falling under the inviting lull of his lullaby, your eyelids flutter closed.
…And the wishes made in the garden, winged seeds poised to fly…
You burrow deeper into your brother’s embrace, the slow pulse of his heartbeat in your ear pulling you under to sleep.
…may they take flight upon the eternal wind, into the silver sky.
(You dream of sunlight on pearl strings beneath strands of long hair.)
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with contentment.
The next day.
Nightfall had woken up early in time to witness the soft pinks and reds painting the dawn overhead, with you asleep next to him.
Surprised, he leaned close to you, waiting for you to open your eye sockets.
You made no such motion. The only movement he could see was the slight rise and fall of your chest.
You were… truly asleep.
It was a rare sight to witness you like this. Nightfall could not recall a time where you had woken up later than him. You were always awake by the time he woke up, always ready to greet him in the light of a new day.
You looked serene, unbothered by the slowly brightening sky. There was no trace of the pain and guilt of yesterday on your sleeping face, no tension present in your lax body.
Lying back down on the ground, Nightfall kept quiet, simply content to watch the light of dawn brush over your sleeping features.
You had later stirred awake in the light of the late morning, your eyelights igniting in surprise at the sight of the bright sun above you.
“What?” Stunned, your wide gaze landed on Nightfall, your whole body jolting into full awareness. “What the– how?”
“Yeah.” Nightfall could only smile at you. “Ah. Good morning, brother.”
You blinked at that, before sighing in faint exasperation, amused at his greeting. “Heh… good morning. I’m awake now.”
The sky.
All around you, the fields are muted in shadow, the young trees keeping you company hushing themselves to mere silhouettes.
The sky.
Clouds stretch across the western horizon in an inferno of red, their shadows searing gold against the blue-purple of the incoming dusk.
The sky.
A last display of vivacity before the shroud of night takes over, the day finally put down to rest.
The sky.
The sky is ablaze.
You contemplate the world and your place in it.
You absently rub your hand against your chest. Beneath your tunic, you can feel the raised contours of bandages wrapped around your ribs. Your soul resides inside the hollow space within your ribcage, contained within the limits of your body. It is from there where your aura flows out of you, unbothered by such constraints.
Unbothered by the guilt threaded within the flavor of your magic.
Guilt.
You wonder how long you have been carrying it.
…You hate to admit it, but you are not very good at introspection. You don’t know where to start with the mess that is your thoughts and feelings. With routines and tasks, you have an objective to fulfill, a result to strive for. They have a beginning and an end state that you can work with, a before and after that can be observed. If something got in the way of your duties, you got rid of the obstruction by any means necessary.
A spool of thread that had its threads tangled into itself from being dropped would have been no problem for you to sort out. You would simply find the end of the thread and untangle your way up from there, until the thread had been fully straightened out and wound back into formation, the spool ready to be used again.
You suspect that your thoughts and feelings are tangled in the same way, but with too many ends that lead to nowhere, yet somehow joined into one continuous thread. The plies are unwound and frayed, the threads all twisting back together into one massive knot. The spools are empty, all suspended within the entanglement like dragonflies caught in a web. With that kind of mess, you can’t help but wonder if it is just better to cut out the entire knot rather than attempt to unravel it all– if there’s any point in salvaging such ruined threads.
Your brother had seemed to think so. He had sat you down next to him at the table and pulled out some papers for you, advising you to mark down anything that came to mind. “Even if it doesn’t make sense, just put them down,” he had said, his smile barely there. “It’s easier to sort out what you’re thinking when you can see the words, right?”
After a long while of staring down at the blank paper, you had finally moved to fold the pages into small squares, before flattening them back out in a gridwork of creases. The first strokes you had made with the writing twig were nonsensical, aimless in their meaning. The words you had soon scrawled out marched along the creases in the paper, their jagged forms slowly growing purposeful as you strung and tied the phrases together like pearls on a string.
…You wonder if it is too late for you to be a poet, because it is much easier to see it now, just like your brother had said. You are immensely grateful to him for talking and leading you through everything, however difficult and uncomfortable it had been for you to just… stop, and reflect.
The delusion you had entangled yourself in, since the beginning.
The denial of acknowledging this life as anything but peaceful.
The dreams you had once had, that you gave up on a long time ago.
What is your wish?
Your wish…
What is it that you want?
You want—
You want to live a peaceful life with your brother under the wishing tree.
You want it so much.
You want to be here. You want to stay. You want to be safe, you want to be wanted, you want your brother, you want your mother, you want to go back home—
–all of everything that the world had always barred you and your brother from having.
The guilt threaded in your magic… somehow, you understand it now. Even if you don’t understand why, you understand this guilt as simply as you understand this painful ache in your soul as grief, this water dripping down your face that you finally recognize as tears.
An acknowledgment of a past life you and your brother no longer have to endure.
A life you will never fully remember.
You let your guilt go as you cry, the tears burning hot against the backs of your hands. An arm draped over your shoulder has you turning your head to see Nightfall at your side. He simply leans in close to you, his other arm raised in invitation for a hug. You allow yourself to be pulled into his embrace, to be held tightly like you had always held him, your tears soaking the collar of his tunic.
You are here now.
You are here with your brother now.
Ah…
How beautiful the sunset is, as the sun burns out below the horizon, the blue-purple of the dusk ushering in the first glimpses of the evening stars.
It is time for the world to sleep.
Notes:
The concept of peace: was never an option.
A fabricated perception to be withheld and leveraged against you.
The delusion of peace: was made of glass.
Its only purpose was to shatter.
The dream of peace: was yours to have.
The world could no longer tell you otherwise.
(May your dreams flourish in your forest of wishes.)
Chapter 6: Yearn
Summary:
The third year begins and ends with you.
Your last year ended and began with him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
You wake up entangled in the fur blanket, the fur shoved up your nose.
With a confused snort, you move to push yourself up to your haunches… only to sneeze at the fur still tickling at your face. Didn’t you just get up?
A chuckle above you makes you tilt your head towards the sound, your movements strangely slow. You blink at the sea of black fur obscuring half your vision, the steam wafting up from the cooking pot, the sunlight spilling across the walls…
“Heh– good morning, Sun.”
Your soul jolts into awareness, your aura sparking awake at your brother’s voice.
For some reason, you’re completely rolled up in the bear fur and face down on the ground, your arms pinned to your sides. You have no idea how you had ended up like this, considering you don’t toss and turn like your brother does, but your back aches in protest at the increasingly uncomfortable sleeping position you’re in, not to mention how stuffy it is being bundled in the fur. You usually don’t mind the high heat of dry-summer, but this is way too hot, even for you.
The shuffling of footsteps brings Nightfall’s bare feet into view as he crouches down next to you, still chuckling. “Did you sleep well?”
You let out a huff, spitting out some strands of fur. “I… fell asleep? How long was I—“ Your body locks up as a huge yawn interrupts you, your jaw cracking open at the effort. Distantly, you hear your spine popping as well. “Ugh… help me up, Night? I can’t move my arms.”
There’s only a smile on Nightfall’s face as he unrolls you across the ground and out of the bear fur, his shoulders shaking in mirth. He helps you sit up before the firepit, his hands firmly steadying you by your shoulders before you can slump over face-first in the fur again.
What the hell happened to you? Your entire body feels heavy and sluggish, like your bones have been replaced with soft jelly. Is this what your brother feels all the time when he wakes up? You jolt when a wet rag is tossed at your head, the cold water making you shiver fully awake.
Oh.
Your hands automatically reach up to grasp the rag before it slides down your face. You begin the task of scrubbing your face clean, the routine of it slowly bringing your senses back into order. With that done, you tuck the rag away in storage to be washed later, then turn your gaze up to look around the shack.
Your soul nearly leaps out of your ribcage.
Nightfall sits directly in front of you.
He hasn’t moved at all while you were washing your face. His hands are still braced against your shoulders, still keeping you upright. This close up, his eyelights glow round and silver, as bright as the sunlight slanting across the walls behind him. He smiles when you meet his gaze. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you say, “good morning.” You’re not sure why, but the sunlight looks a little weird right now. You don’t think it’s supposed to reach across the shack like that, not this late in the morning. The shack is rather dim too— it must be cloudy outside. “How long was I asleep this time?”
“Ah, right.” There’s a certain look to Nightfall’s smile, one you can’t help but stare at. For some reason, he seems pleased, his eyelights gleaming brighter than the full moon. “You slept for quite a while. I did say good morning, but it’s actually evening right now. It’ll be sunset in a couple hours.”
“Hah?!” You nearly trip trying to stand up. Your legs have somehow become numb while you were sitting, and Nightfall’s hands suddenly clamping down on your shoulders isn’t helping. “Wait, what– why didn’t you wake me up?! That means– I slept all day!”
The pleased look on your brother’s face turns smug. “Exactly.”
“Night!”
You’re not sulking.
You’re not, goddamnit.
With your head turned away, you pointedly ignore the fact that you are leaning heavily against Nightfall. He sits right next to you, bracing your weight, his arm securely wrapped around your waist. You definitely ignore how his low chuckles reverberate through the contact, the way he tightens his arm around you so you don’t fall over again.
It’s an awkward position, what with your legs splayed out uselessly on the ground in front of you. Any attempt to flex your feet just sends numbing sensation up your legs like static through a wire, so you’re stuck waiting until they finally regain some semblance of proper feeling.
The sunlight spilling in from the window stretches across the shack, lighting up the loom propped up on the opposite wall in a glow. The loom itself is empty, but you can spy the glimmer of silver threaded up and down across the empty space on one side of the loom frame. Judging by the low angle of the sunlight, there’s really only about an hour left before the sun sets.
Usually in that hour, you would eagerly look forward to the view of yet another stunning sunset, your tasks all completed for the day.
Except your tasks are not done at all. You haven’t even gotten started on anything today. Your usual routine has been completely disrupted, tossed out the literal window by your ridiculously late awakening. There’s no point in following the routine when the day’s almost over.
It doesn’t help that you’ve been waking up later than usual. That you’ve been falling asleep at all is a miracle in of itself, because you’ve never slept well in the first place. But ever since that day Nightfall had shattered your delusions, it’s like a switch had flipped in you, because you’ve been dozing off more and more often during the night, to the point that you’ve been sleeping through the entirety of some nights. This has been happening so often that you had to ask Nightfall to just shake you awake if you were still asleep by daybreak.
“I did try to wake you up, though.”
You resist the urge to turn your head upon hearing Nightfall’s voice. Instead, you pointedly stare at the steam wafting up from the cooking pot, how it enters the shaft of sunlight above to bathe itself in gold.
“In the morning. You were struggling to get up. Lost your balance a lot. Couldn’t focus on anything in front of you.”
The deep breath Nightfall takes in presses against your side, how his arm trembles faintly around you. His slow sigh makes you exhale as well.
“You kept saying you were dizzy.”
You jerk your head around at that, your eye sockets wide.
Nightfall’s dim eyelights flicker back at you, on the cusp of guttering out. His smile is barely there. “I… I let you sleep in. To see you like that… I would rather let you sleep in as much as you needed. I couldn’t let you exhaust yourself, just to make it through the day.” He closes his eye sockets and leans in against you. You wrap your arm around him to accommodate the shift in balance, your legs protesting in a flurry of static as you fold them to sit cross-legged. “You needed to rest. You’ve been tired for a long time.”
“I’m not tired—“
The words seize in your throat, rotting with the blatant lie. The bitterness of it chokes you, rancid and flecked with blackened ash.
You don’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t be tired. Exhaustion meant that you had to stop, and stopping meant you were vulnerable useless failure unreliable, and you could not afford to be unreliable during nighttime. There was no room in your routine for you to sleep, not when your brother needed to rest more than you.
Yet for all your attention spent keeping watch over him, you’ve never spared a look at yourself, because why would you? When your brother was plenty enough mirror to gauge what you had to do next? When he took utmost priority in a world that preferred you both dead?
(But your brother is finally safe here.)
The numbing static in your legs gnaws at your bones, the sensation crawling past your hips and up your spine. The insides of your eye sockets ache in turn, the white-hot pressure against the inside of your skull dizzying in its throbbing.
(You’re safe here, right?)
Distantly, you feel the arm wrapped around your waist lifting away to brush up your back and past your neck. A hand grasps the back of your skull, pushing your head forward–
–the clink of your and Nightfall’s circlets pressing together makes time stop.
The world becomes... small.
All the empty space inside the shack seems to vanish in an instant. The bitterness and aches vanishes as well, their sudden absence leaving you feeling as if you are floating in pure bliss. The soft crackling of the firepit is muffled, your very awareness dwindling down to just the two of you. What little space you are aware of is here, hidden in the hushed breaths you both share, grounded in the comforting warmth of your brother’s forehead against yours.
The world is small.
But here in this tiny moment, it is just big enough for you and him.
Dazed, you barely register the moment when Nightfall pulls away from you, though your free hand belatedly grasps at the empty space where his presence had lingered just seconds before. At that, Nightfall simply chuckles and leans forward again, your circlets clinking together again. You close your eye sockets and bask in his warmth. Just a little longer.
“Here, you’re safe here. Take it easy. We finally have time now. See?”
Time.
There was never enough time before.
But here, there are no deadlines to meet, no orders to follow. The wishing tree will not punish you for breaking your routine. Your brother will survive if you unwittingly fall asleep. You don’t have to work so hard anymore. To be allowed to stop and rest— wherever you want, whenever you want— without repercussions…
This… by the gods above, this’ll take a while for you to get used to. You can… you can do whatever you want now.
You have all the time in the world.
Blinking up at Nightfall, you give him a tentative grin–
–and yawn right in his face.
…Um.
Your mouth suddenly clicks shut, your face flushing hot. Up close, the droll stare Nightfall just gives you only fuels your newfound desire to combust, preferably right now and fast.
“Hmm, maybe not. Perhaps you should rest a little more, Sun. Take it easy for tonight. It’s alright to miss a sunset or two, I’m sure it’ll be just fine—”
Nightfall’s clear amusement, along with his sidelong glance at the sunlight fading outside the window, is enough opening for you to stumble onto your feet and out of the shack, the cloth coverings flapping behind you entirely ineffective at stopping his laughter from following you out.
Scrubbing at the heat still lingering on your face, you groan upon realizing what you had just done. By the gods, that was embarrassing.
As much as you like to mess around to see Nightfall’s reactions, it’s just not as fun if you’re not in full control of yourself to enjoy it. It’s also not as fun when you’re the one being teased instead of him, and you get the distinct feeling Nightfall had been quietly poking fun at you.
A sudden gust of wind snaps you out of your reverie. You look up in time to see the sun dip under the tree line, the western horizon searing orange against the dusty blue clouds. The entire clearing is swathed in shadows, though you can still make out the murky shapes of the numerous young trees dotting the landscape.
It still astounds you how much the tree saplings have grown. Most of them are about as tall as you now. There are some smaller saplings trailing behind in their growth, but they are all still here, still growing.
No longer is the clearing merely a grassland. You’re not sure if you can even call it a clearing anymore, not when it looks more like the beginnings of a small grove.
Trudging away from the shack, you make your way towards the wishing tree. “Hey, grand-tree, I’m up now. How’ve you been today?”
Today is very good, but too hot. The tree’s branches shake and sway in silhouette as another gust passes through. In the distance, the darkened tree line rustles loudly in the constant wind. You are well, I am glad. I worry you would be unwell.
You blink up at the tree in confusion. “Why would you be worried? All I did was sleep in and wake up late.”
Your aura wavers when you are upset. The lower branches of the tree bend down to rest atop of your head, the leaves tickling at your face and neck. Very powerful and very corrosive when you are unhappy. But you are resting and stable now, I am glad.
Powerful, you can understand, because you know just how widespread and pervasive your aura can get. The countless nights you had spent wrangling your aura under control are plenty enough proof of its power. But– corrosive? Besides that time when you had lost it over some slugs, you’re pretty sure you haven’t been using your magic destructively lately. “What do you mean by ‘corrosive’?”
The branches lift up and then gently back down on your head again, up and down and up and down. You startle at the odd familiarity of the gesture, how the leaves caress your face as the branches pat you on the head.
The tree is consoling you.
Corrosive, yes, to you. Continuous suppression of positivity from your magic erodes you, disrupts your internal cycle. Absence of positivity in your magic is loss of stability in self. I have told you before, your magic is you and yours: you are your magic, and your magic is you. You were not aware, could not be aware, how much you suffocated yourself. A slow pulse rings out of the tree in relief as another gust of wind picks up, the leaves trembling against your face. I am glad, I am glad you are okay now.
Shame curdles inside your ribcage. You clutch at your chest, your fingers scraping along the length of your ribs. You’ve been destroying yourself without even realizing it—
No.
Such a statement is… untrue.
You had untangled enough of your thoughts and feelings onto paper to know that much.
…You had deliberately put yourself under strain, however unwittingly you had known of the consequences.
Ever since you had discovered that burning village in the far north-northeast, you had been upset. In your need to regain control of the situation, you had forced yourself into submission, reined yourself in under the guise of duty to cope. Your magic had reflected that in turn, smothering your positivity to nothing. Such an imbalance in your magic had left you wide open on a knife’s edge, allowing Nightfall’s negativity to flood into you in full force during that sustained connection, when it would have otherwise been buffered out by your positivity.
You had spiraled downwards.
Badly.
Your lack of control, your unreliability, your delusions… you had completely lost it.
Your priority to Nightfall had only exacerbated your distress. You were unwanted, both you and your brother were unwanted. Yet you had deliberately neglected yourself to prioritize his wellbeing over yours, and for what?
You and he together were supposed to be priority, not only him.
Because all you had left was your brother.
And all he had left was you.
For you to have barred yourself from priority in the first place… meant that you had ultimately judged yourself to be less than worthless. Expendable.
(How did you end up this way?)
“I… I’m sorry, grand-tree,” you whisper. Your face burns hot again, the humiliation searing deep into your soul. “I’ll do better this time. I’ll make sure of it. I have to.”
Please, scion, have no apologies, do not bind yourself so. Begging does not suit you. The tree wraps its aura around you in reassurance, its pulse latching onto you in a steady thrum. You have been recovering since the beginning. You have endured enough, both you and you. Insufferable, so willful. Cruel, so soulful. I am proud to have you as my guardians.
You cling to the pulse as tears drip down your face, as sudden and unbidden as the apologies flooding out under your breath. Again… you’re crying again? You had thought you finally stopped with all the tears. What the hell are you even crying about this time? The tree is just consoling you, that’s all. Such praise is wasted on a failure like you…
Scion, my scions, it is okay. The tree’s branches guide you under its canopy, the warmth of its aura sheltering you from the wind as you hastily wipe at your face. Distantly, you can feel the thrum of another pulse brushing past you and into the shack, the tree’s second pulse opening up to sustain itself alongside the existing pulse connecting to you. Blessed lark, it is okay to cry. Blessed hawk, it is okay to cry.
When Nightfall joins you under the wishing tree just moments later in the growing night, his eye sockets blotchy with tears, you think you can finally believe it.
That not only are you both wanted, but that you are cherished.
(You dream of sunlight upon tears as lips press soft to your forehead.)
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with blessing.
Year three, dry-summer, three months after snowmelt. Day, full moon. High noon, full sun, no clouds, warm. Trees all said today was very hot and noisy. It was not hot.
Nightfall thought today was a perfectly warm day, but he did have to agree about the noise.
The border forest was loud with cicadas.
Buzzing filled the air from every direction imaginable. The sun shone through the dense canopy above, setting the cotton fluff blanketing the forest floor to nearly gleam like fresh snow. Their procession in the wind was over, the cotton fluff spent and finally at rest.
The cicadas sounded different from what Nightfall remembered. Their calls stretched out into a droning jeer, instead of being churned out in a series of rapid chirps. But they were no less nostalgic in their incessant singing, how they heralded the promise of hot summers and good harvests ahead.
Focusing back to the task at hand, Nightfall walked further into the western border forest, kicking up little clouds of cotton fluff in his wake. As he scanned the trees, he finally spotted the red strips of cloth dangling from the branches just ahead.
The perimeter.
Well, what remained of the perimeter. Ever since you had retrieved the wooden markers and retied the cloth strips back into place, Nightfall had known the perimeter would lose its effectiveness in its warning. Without the wooden markers, the red cloths were too inconspicuous, too easily bypassed to warn away anything.
Reaching up to a low branch overhead, Nightfall grabbed ahold of the red cloth tied to it, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. Despite the faded color and substantial amount of holes chewed into it, the cloth was still holding up, although for not much longer. He would give it a year at most before the fabric disintegrated entirely, the perimeter rendered obsolete.
Not if he had anything to do about it.
Silver magic seeped up from his hand and into the cloth, slowly weaving the holes closed. His magic threaded itself along the frayed edges, securing the loose ends back into the fabric. Running his thumb over the repaired edges, he willed his magic to darken the entire cloth into a brilliant red hue, before letting go of the cloth. Satisfied, Nightfall stepped back to admire his handiwork.
The restored cloth fluttered boldly on the branch, vibrant and jarring like newly-lain funeral flowers. The heavy thrum of his negativity saturated in the cloth was unmistakable as well, his intent made clear in its warning.
Go no further.
There, much better. The cloth should last much longer now. He would have to go around the perimeter again and reinforce the entire line, but having his negativity imbued in the perimeter should be sufficient enough to ward away any wanderers, wildlife or otherwise.
Of course, this alone was not enough to defend the clearing, but combined with the wishing tree’s aura and the lookout kept by the young trees, it should be good enough, as far as preventative measures went. Nightfall needed to figure out some additional measures that would intercept any trespassers instead of just repel them, but ideas were still painfully far and few on that front. The large scope of the clearing was difficult to defend when it was just him and you.
A ping from you alerted him to your whereabouts, at the western stream just up ahead. After returning your ping— at the perimeter closest, heading northwards— Nightfall resumed his walk, stopping occasionally to reinforce the scraps of cloth along the way.
A few moments and two dozen mended strips of cloth later, another ping from you had Nightfall turning around in time to see you loping towards him, following the perimeter. “Hey, Night, I’m done!”
“Welcome back, Sun. Did you get enough water?” Nightfall snorted as you came to a stop before him, his soul skipping as usual at your bright smile. “And where are your boots?”
You were drenched from the waist down, your pants wrung-out and plastered with wet cotton fluff. Your bare feet were equally covered with the stuff, even when you wiped them against the base of a nearby tree.
You looked… happy again.
Your happiness was always the high point of Nightfall’s days. It had been only one month since his talk with you, but he could see how well you had recovered. Your aura felt at ease, as gentle as drizzling rain, even now with it currently tucked away within you. To see you happy again…
Relief was too small a word to describe what he had felt when it came to your wellbeing. Even when there were days when you had sulked from waking up late, your guilt momentarily flaring up in a soft bitter echo, having you be grumpy all day was infinitely better than having you be completely unresponsive and detached from reality.
Nightfall would do anything to ensure you would never fall back into that drifting state ever again.
“My boots? I put them away, didn’t want to get them wet. You should’ve seen the stream, there’s just so much fluff floating in there!” Swatting at your pants, you shook your feet clean before joining Nightfall as he began to walk again. “Ugh, that was a pain, trying to filter them out from my inventory. But I think I got enough water to last us through the dry-summer now— just gotta make it last for a few months until the rainstorms come in. Can’t believe I ran out in the first place.”
Beyond all belief, your ridiculously large water reserves had actually run dry, due to the unexpectedly early and hot weather, according to the wishing tree. So hot, the tree had complained, why is the weather so hot so early this year.
“Well, it’s no big deal if you run out again. We can always come back and fetch more water.” Nightfall stopped at another tree to grab ahold of the cloth tied around its thin trunk. “I’ll be busy working on the perimeter, you can go on ahead and get everyone watered. I’ll see you home later before dinner, ah?” This cloth wasn’t too worn, only a few seconds’ worth of mending. But when the seconds stretched on into silence without your reply, Nightfall glanced over to see you staring at him, your eye sockets blown wide. “Sun? What’s wrong?”
The flash of your grin was the only warning he got before you suddenly pulled him into a hug, before letting go just as quickly. Your eyelights shone so brightly, like sunlight on still water.
“I… yeah. Yeah. See you home soon, Night.”
The cicadas were loud as you took off towards the clearing with an enthusiastic wave at him before you disappeared into the forest again, but the traces of your aura lingering in your hug resonated louder through his bones in unbridled hope.
Home.
You stumble past the trees’ startled calls for more water, only stopping when you clip your shoulder against the doorway of the shack. Panting hard, you shove the cloth coverings aside, your vision wavering at the sight.
Home.
(How did you not see it until now?)
Sunlight spills past you and through the doorway, inviting you in.
Inside, the firepit sits in the middle of the shack. It is unlit, with strips of dried bear meat hung over the firepit, to be boiled in broth for dinner. To the side, a spare tunic lies on the low table, a line of silver stitches marching above its frayed hem. Some papers are scattered next to the tunic, the pages already filled to the brim with poems. And propped up on the far wall, the loom glimmers with silver, fully strung, the bear fur piled in a heap before it.
Nightfall had referred to the shack as home before. You had accepted this designation, knowing that your brother had always wanted a place he could call his own. But only now do you see it, your soul reeling at the cozy space laid out before you.
This is not just like home.
It is home.
Because you do not only protect the wishing tree and guard the clearing and care for the saplings and watch over your brother.
You are not stationed here.
You live here.
You’ve lived here for two years now.
And you will live here for many more years to come.
From open stump to shade cover to shelter to shack, you had claimed your place in the clearing as yours, just like the wishing tree had claimed you and your brother as family. You had stayed here out in the open with the tree throughout the seasons, built the structure that would form the very roof that your brother could retreat under to his comfort, even though the cover of the border forest would have been a more feasible shelter early on.
Because you’ve made this place yours since the beginning, took ahold of the boundaries of the world and wrenched them aside in order to make space for you and your brother.
This is your home.
Ah… you really had been unable to see it, how peaceful this life is.
But you can see it clearly now, that the passage of time does not count down towards a deadline, but towards a lifetime of bliss.
(You have come a long way home.)
The incessant buzzing of cicadas dominates throughout the hot dry-summer days, with the soothing chirping of crickets taking over come nighttime.
The wishing tree complains of the heat through it all, with the young trees complaining just as much for more water. Such scenery is familiar, what with the usual cloudless skies and bright sunlight.
But this same scenery feels a little foreign with the additional noise of the cicadas singing vwee-vwee-vweeee all day long. Why the cicadas had shown up only now and not every year like you had thought they would is a mystery to you, but now you’re just grateful that you didn’t have to deal with them in your first year here.
Because they are just fucking everywhere in the clearing.
On the ground, on the trees, in the air, the cicadas’ constant vibrating through your aura is beyond overwhelming. Equally overwhelming are the amount of distressed pings from the young trees, the cicadas climbing up their trunks in swarms and cutting open little slits into their branches.
This infestation is the worst-case scenario you never want to see replicated with actual pests besides cicadas. Caterpillars, beetles, deer— you don’t even want to imagine the level of destruction if it had been any of those pests. Thank goodness for that at least.
Still, the cicadas are a nuisance, and the trees are still too young to withstand the damage they’re taking. Getting rid of the insects with the exploding-slug method won’t work due to their sturdy bodies, and there are far too many of them for you to track with your aura.
You had eventually got rid of the cicadas by luring them out of the clearing. Standing at the tree line, you had flooded your aura into the border forest, while Nightfall had stayed behind with the wishing tree. He had channeled his magic through the tree’s aura, blanketing the clearing with a roiling miasma of negativity, unsettling the cicadas into flight. Letting your positivity ratchet up to bone-rattling levels of mania, you had rapidly pulsed your aura in a kir-kir-kir-kir-vweeee for good measure, before ducking away as the entire clearing’s worth of cicadas came rushing past you in a huge swarm, the border forest soon becoming deafening with harmonic buzzing.
Nightfall had slumped back against the tree stump after you had made your way back to him, the young trees cheering in ragged relief. “Well, that was exhilarating.” Draping an arm over his eye sockets, Nightfall had let out a breathless laugh. “I can’t believe that actually worked! Hopefully they won’t come swarming right back. I was starting to get tired of them getting inside the house.”
With the cicadas successfully relocated for the year, you had then tended to the trees, cleaning up all the cicada shells stuck to them. The damage sustained on their branches had been extensive but not severe. Nightfall had wrapped magic cloth over the affected areas, while you had carefully cut back the wilting branches succumbing to their wounds in spite of the care. The trees will absorb the magic and heal in time.
Infestation aside, there are more pressing matters to deal with besides the usual dry-summer heat.
You are no closer to figuring out how to effectively protect the clearing. Setting traps around the perimeter would be just impractical for the massive circumference you would have to defend. You would have to set and maintain the traps from perimeter to tree line for it to be of any use— in every direction of the border forest.
At the very least, the perimeter itself is restored and active, thanks to Nightfall’s diligence. This should take some pressure off of the young trees keeping watch. Nightfall had also decked out the entire northeast direction of the border forest all the way up to the northeast stream in red cloth, warding that area in negativity. He had given you some strips of cloth as well; you had immediately recognized the coarse brown weave of burlap. “These are for you to reinforce,” Nightfall had said. “Tie them someplace where it can draw away any wanderers.” You had saturated the burlap strips with positivity, and then staked them right underneath the edge of the drop-offs overhanging the southern river. With all the new wardings in place, this should help narrow down the number of directions where the clearing can be readily approached.
Back at home, a few of the taller young trees had become energetic. To your surprise, silver mist had shimmered up from their leaves in tiny bursts, their branches rustling excitedly at their newfound grasp on their ambient magic. Nightfall had been intrigued, and further inquiry revealed that these particular trees had wanted to play tag too.
The wishing tree’s leaves had abruptly drooped at that, the low pulse it gave off tinged in disapproval. Of course it is the honeylocust trees that want to do something so strenuous. Why could it not have been the poplar trees instead. Poplars have no thorns, and their seedpods are not messy.
Nightfall had only shared an incredulous look with you during the wishing tree’s lament, before shaking his head and turning back to focus on the eager trees.
The wishing tree can complain all it wants, but you’ll take any and all the help you can get.
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with fervor.
Year three, dry-summer, five and one-half months after snowmelt. Day, new moon. Late afternoon, half sun, full clouds, warm. Trees all said it was very hot. It was not hot.
Out in the fields, Nightfall sat beneath a cluster of tall young trees, unminding of the magic sparking around him. The trees cheered loudly, their magic condensing and popping like firecrackers. The sky was cloudy, gently so, the cloud cover smooth and light like an unrolled bolt of silk fabric.
This was the best spot to view the game of catch-me between you and the wishing tree. It was a safe distance away from the action, but still close enough to witness everything in full. Regardless, Nightfall kept the cooking pot lid on hand to block any stray bolts of magic coming his way.
Because by the gods, there was just so much magic.
The air shimmered with silver particles rising up from grasses where the magic projectiles had impacted. The conjured thorns that the wishing tree shot at you unfurled into wide nets, a constant barrage of intent focused on capturing you.
And you–
You ducked and dodged between the waves of magic with ease, your laughter sharp with exhilaration. Every quick-step you made was sure in its placement, every maneuver ruthless in its efficiency. A rusty knife flashed silver in your hand, parrying aside a thorn of magic hurled too close to you, a manic grin on your face.
Surrounded by the sheer amount of magic narrowly flying past you in a windstorm, you were laughing through it all.
It was commendable in how long the wishing tree had spent trying to capture you, even more so when it had been over the span of two years now. Nightfall had long thought the tree would give up after only a couple sessions– the tree certainly did not enjoy playing catch-me as much as you did.
But it was honestly ridiculous how much progress the wishing tree had made. What had initially started out as a taunt to pull the tree out of its avoidance for power and harmful intent had turned into a sort of arms race between you and the tree. The tree’s attempts to capture you had morphed from simple projectiles to widespread netting to persistent magic trailing through the air like ghostlight, all in the effort to suppress and limit your movement and space. You had easily kept up, your evasive maneuvers becoming more acrobatic. You had even started deflecting the tree’s incoming magic with a reinforced blunt knife later on, intent on keeping your winning streak going.
Truly, it was absurd how this little game of catch-me had escalated into a genuine display of capture and counter-capture tactics. Equally absurd was all the young trees cheering at the spectacle during every session– there had been bets on how many more days, months, years these games would go on. Apparently you had inspired some of the trees into wanting to be more active with their magic.
Nightfall would be lying if he said he did not consider joining in on the fun. However, the wishing tree had been very adamant that he stayed out of it, knowing that you alone were insufferable enough. A shame, but Nightfall did have to respect the tree for its persistence. Still, just watching you in action set his soul pounding anew, your exhilaration contagious even with your aura tucked away for the session.
Darting away from some patches of silver hovering in the air, you flipped over a barrage of thorns aimed low, but the ground rumbling when you landed turned into an eruption as thick roots shot straight up from the ground. Your eye sockets widened in shock as you were hoisted up into the air, the roots lashing around your waist in restraint.
You dangled there in the hold of the roots, your boots just barely skimming the tall grasses. Kicking your feet, you gave a cursory struggle, then went limp when the roots stayed firm. You let out a breathless laugh, an elated smile on your face. “Heh, you caught me, grand-tree! You win.”
Finally. The wishing tree slumped over its stump amidst the cheering ovation pinging around in the air, clearly exhausted. No more wrong names, no more incitement. I… understand now the merits of offense and defense, however unwilling I had wished to harm. But it is done.
“Yeah. We won’t call you a pawpaw or a pear tree anymore.” You wiggled some more against the roots to no avail. “Can you put me down now?”
No. I said no more wrong names.
“Awww. Yeah, alright, no more name-calling.” You slumped there in the hold, though you perked back up when Nightfall made his way over to you. “Hey, Night, that was pretty fun! I wish you could have joined in too.”
“I know.” Nightfall grinned back up at you. “We would’ve been total menaces.”
You probably should’ve seen this coming.
“Hold still.”
“Ow! You poked me!”
“Ah.” Behind you, Nightfall brushes a hand over your shoulder in apology, right where he had just pricked you with a pin. “That’s why I told you to hold still. Keep your arms up– yes, like that, now hold them there.”
Grumbling, you comply, holding your arms out from your sides. Above you, the rain drums steadily against the roof, with the occasional thunder rumbling in over the noise. Outside the window, the world is tinged yellow from the rainstorm. It must be approaching evening. “Do you really need me for this? We’re the same size, can’t you fit this by yourself?”
“I’d need a mirror for that, and you are much better than any mirror I could ever have.” A line of silver forms between Nightfall’s fingers, the pin gleaming in the soft firelight. “Just hold still for a bit, it won’t take long.”
You resign yourself to your fate as Nightfall’s personal clothes stand as he flits about you, tucking and pinning the fabric of an oversized tunic currently hanging off your form. The shoulders of the tunic fit you just fine, but the long sleeves completely cover your hands, the body of the tunic billowing around your middle, the hem reaching down to your knees. The tunic is silk beyond a doubt, the smooth fabric shimmering a pretty pale green like jade beads. Whoever had worn this tunic before you must have been tall, wide, and rich, the lucky bastard.
This motionless standing-with-arms-out pose is something you do not miss doing, even if it’s to help model out all the clothes that Nightfall repairs. It’s domestic, sure, but you are still adjusting to the realization that you can be domestic whenever you want.
Turns out, when you aren’t constraining yourself to a mindset of only duties and routines, there’s a lot of free time to be had. You have no idea what you’re going to do with all that time, but that’s a problem your brother considers a luxury to have.
You’re already spending half of that time on sleep. It’s not much, just intermittent naps throughout the night, but at least you are no longer swinging between the extremes of insomnia and oversleeping anymore.
You haven’t thought much of it, but this allowance of free time is something you cannot ignore. The trees will gradually become less reliant on your care as the seasons pass. They will become self-sufficient, only needing your help if the need arises. Routine tasks such as watering, fertilizing, and pruning you will always have to do, but only when the season calls for it.
It’s okay to not be working all the time.
“There, that looks much better. You can put your arms down now.” Nightfall steps away from you, taking some notes on a sheet of paper. You relax your arms, rolling your shoulders back to shake out the stiffness that had set in. Nightfall watches you critically as you carefully move your arms about you, mindful of the pins. “Hmm… I’ll have to take in the excess fabric at the sides, then make the sleeves and hem shorter to fit.” He sighs as he slips the tunic off you, leaving you standing with just your pants on. “I had thought that green colors would suit you well, but this particular shade just washes you out now.”
You stretch your arms up over your head, grateful to move around freely again. “Eh, I don’t mind. It’s a very good color, even if it makes me look like a ghost.” Spying your own tunic lying on the ground, you move to pick it up, but Nightfall’s arm in front stops you in place. “Hmm? What’s up?”
“Not yet, I have one more left.” Nightfall chuckles at the disbelief on your face, gesturing for you to stand back up. “Just one more, Sun, then that’s it. Last one, I promise.”
“Fiiine.” You reluctantly straighten back up, rolling your shoulders again. “This better be the last one– whoa!” You quickly move to catch the neatly folded bundle of cloth that Nightfall hands over to you. “This one, right?” Unfolding the bundle, you shake it out, though your confusion grows when the fabric unrolls all the way down to your feet in a long, wide panel. The panel is deep blue like the midnight sky, with some leaf-vine motifs curling along the edges of the fabric in the palest blue shade. You stare down at the familiar design, before jolting at the thrum of warm magic coursing throughout the cloth. “Oh! This is– you were working on this earlier!” Glancing over to the loom leaning on the wall, sure enough there’s a new half-woven cloth hanging from it. “You finished it?”
“Yeah. It’s for you.”
“Wow, this is really soft— wait, what?” You blink up at him, your soul stuttering to a halt. “Huh?”
Nightfall gazes wistfully at the cloth. His eyelights smolder, low like candlefire. “I made this one for you.”
You stare at him, your eye sockets so, so wide. You become acutely aware of Nightfall’s magic woven into physical shape in your hands, the silkiness and depth of the colors, the meandering leaf-vines shining exquisitely against the backdrop like moonlight. A tremor runs through your bones, your soul quivering so hard you think it’s going to vibrate right out of your ribcage.
“For me…?”
You swallow hard, and then focus on your breathing in an attempt to stop the tremors. Every bone in your body is shaking in anticipation— for what, you don’t know— your eye sockets prickling with hot tears. You quickly duck your head, trying to blink the tears away. Again? You’ve really got to stop crying for no reason. It’s just your brother giving you something he made…
A gift.
For you.
It’s for you.
Nightfall smiles wryly at you. “Yeah.” He waves his hand over to the cloth that you’re still holding. “Want me to take measurements? It won’t take long, I’ll just measure and mark it down for now. I’ll sew it up for you later, see how well it fits you.”
Embarrassed, you give a quick nod, your gaze still fixated on the— for you, for you, it’s for you— soon-to-be new clothing. You’re not exactly sure where you’re looking while Nightfall takes the cloth to measure out the fabric over and around you, but the rain pattering on the roof overhead gives you something else to focus on besides the burning heat on your face. You immediately lose that focus when Nightfall reaches into his inventory and pulls out a long sash, your face growing even hotter upon recognizing the colorful stripes cut diagonally on the sash.
Nightfall– that bastard– only grins at you, a devious gleam in his eyelights. You can’t take much more of this, but you swear he is intent on giving you the equivalent of a heart attack, because he drapes the cloth over your shoulder and gives it a quick tap of his fingers, the midnight blue of the fabric burning away into a stunning sunset orange before your very eyelights, the white leaf-vines tinged in gold.
You would later deny that you had stars in your eyelights, no matter how smugly your brother had teased you otherwise.
(You dream of sunlight on silk swathed around you in soft embrace.)
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with fire.
Year three, autumn, eight and one-half months after snowmelt. Day, waning crescent moon. Noon, no sun, full clouds, mild-warm.
The border forest was ablaze.
Swathes of red and yellow and brown overtook the green foliage of the border forest, the burning colors looking almost painted against the grey sky. All around him, the young trees in the clearing burned just as vividly, their leaves shedding everywhere like embers.
Such a striking sight was welcome on this dreary day. Today was dark despite the noon hour, the clouds thick and heavy with the possibility of rain.
It has already rained too much for Nightfall’s liking. Thank goodness the house you had made for him was sturdy and spacious. The days of retreating under the cover of the makeshift shelter were long behind him.
Your boredom, on the other hand, still persisted despite his best efforts at alleviating it during the rainy days. There was only so much tidying up and writing and cooking you could do before you eventually started rearranging your inventory again. Nightfall had offered you his loom to ease your boredom, but you had quickly declined his offer, stating you were looking for something in storage. Whatever it was you’re searching for, Nightfall was not looking forward to witnessing whatever new hellscape you had wrought in there in the meantime.
Focusing back on his task, Nightfall pulled out an armful of crushed leaves and wood chips out of storage and spread them out beneath a cluster of young trees. Pulses of appreciation wafted from them, their fiery leaves dropping from their branches even in the still air, all fluttering to the ground.
Winter was fast approaching, and Nightfall was taking no chances as usual. Cover the ground space where the trees stood with mulch, then wrap the trunks with cloth before all the leaves were shed. The smaller saplings would need to be fully covered before the snow arrived, but the bigger trees should do just fine if he only covered their trunks.
It was impressive how much the trees in the clearing had recovered. Some of the most impressive growth came from the narrow trees shaped like spearheads, their rapid growth overtaking the wishing tree’s height. Already those trees were twice, maybe even three times his height, their branches boldly lancing up towards the sky.
A series of pings startled Nightfall before he could make his way towards another cluster of saplings. The pings had come from the center of the clearing, registering to his senses in a conflicting mixture of irritation from you, and… panic from the wishing tree?
Huh. Nightfall changed course and made his way back towards the wishing tree. His curiosity soon gave way to amusement as soon as he came close enough to hear the ensuing argument between you and the tree.
It is not that urgent, please do not—
“Oh, c’mon, grand-tree! You can’t just say that and then think you can avoid a talk from—“
—wait, please, no, not the talk! Hawk wields words sharper than barbs—
“—exactly why I’m calling him over right away!” You turned your back to the panicking tree, crossing your arms in defiance.
To Nightfall’s delight, you were wearing the new tunic he had sewn up for you. The tunic fitted you well, the shimmering orange brocade flattering on your form. The autumn colors of the border forest paled in comparison to you.
You glared out into the fields, though you brightened up upon noticing his approach. “Hey, Night! Grand-tree’s planning to have fruit next year!”
“Oh! That is quite good news. We should celebrate for the occasion.” Pleased, Nightfall turned towards the tree, noting its irregular pulse. “Be at ease, great grand-tree. We still have plenty of time to make preparations. We’ll make sure you’ll have a good harvest next year.”
“Yeah, but that’s not all.” You scoffed over the tree’s stuttering attempts to talk over you. “Grand-tree’s been ready to have fruit this whole time, since earlier this spring.”
“What.” Nightfall’s good mood vanished immediately. The tree shrank back despite its greater height over him, the yellowing leaves quivering at his lowered voice. “Great grand-tree. Come now. Explain.”
I did not tell you, yes. I could not let you know. The tree valiantly straightened back up under Nightfall’s withering stare, the leaves still trembling despite its attempt to bolster itself. Scion and scion were disrupted and stressed by the sudden fire in spring. The tree’s irregular pulse slowly smoothed itself out, its aura reaching out to console you. Dutiful as you were, you had suffered the most, and so wished to delay by another year. I could not, would not let you know I was ready for fruit. Not at the cost of you.
You flinched hard, your eyelights guttering out.
Nightfall's soul seized at the reminder.
He knew what you would have done if you had known.
Hell, you knew exactly what you would have done if you had known.
You would have taken on the task of preparing the wishing tree for a bountiful harvest without complaint.
You would have pushed yourself past the point of exhaustion, thoroughly blinded in your delusions and priority to him.
You would have fallen apart completely by the end of dry-summer.
(He would have been too late.)
You bowed your head low, your hands clutched to your chest. The silence stretched on in the gloomy air, before you finally exhaled, your voice barely there. “Grand-tree. Back then, during the infestation… you heard?”
I did. The tree extended a branch to you, drawing you under the shelter of its yellowing canopy. More time, you wished for more time.
You let out a choked laugh, your hands coming up to wipe at your eye sockets. “You knew?”
Of course I knew, I am a tree. After all, wishes are what I hear. The tree waved a branch to Nightfall as well, beckoning him over to join you. You peeked up at Nightfall as he moved to hug you tightly, your eyelights clouded with guilt. Does this explanation suffice.
“...Yes.” Ashamed, Nightfall ducked his head. “Great grand-tree, I… I’m sorry. It was cruel of me to demand an answer from you like that.”
The tree simply waved his apology aside. Please, hawk, have no apologies. I am quite used to it now. You are you, and no one else. The tree’s pulse was wistful as it enveloped its aura around Nightfall and you in a warm embrace. Alas, you are not a tree. You and you would have made fine maple trees.
“Really?” You looked up at the tree in surprise, before glancing at Nightfall again. He was equally taken aback by the tree’s remark, though your surprise soon softened into contentment. “Well, then, that’s too bad, grand-tree. We are still just bones.” A mischievous light glimmered like the edge of flint in your eyelights. “Besides, it would have been better if we were thorny trees instead, right–”
No, no, no, lark, why. The tree’s aura around you immediately flattened itself in displeasure, although it still remained warm. It would not be better, why must you insist on the thorns–
Nightfall could only laugh quietly as you easily goaded the tree into another petty argument trying to discern which trees were clearly the best kind to be. The curious pings coming in from the young trees nearby were unexpected but welcome, the wishing tree flatly declining their inputs to nominate themselves as the best kind of tree.
There was work to be done. Preparing the trees for the coming winter, readying the wishing tree for fruit next year, protecting the clearing from potential danger, observing you whenever your moods wavered.
But for now, Nightfall simply set all those concerns aside and basked in the radiance of your triumphant grin, as you gleefully sparked an argument between all the trees for the claim of best tree in the clearing.
You abruptly wake up to cold darkness, your brother shaking your shoulder.
“It’s snowing,” he whispers.
Yawning, you drag yourself up to the doorway with Nightfall’s help. He wraps the fur blanket tightly around you both as you push the cloth coverings aside, shivering as the cold rushes in.
The sight of the snowfall during nighttime still takes your breath away.
The absence of wind makes the snow fall like rain, a deluge of white veiling the air as the particles all fall in a straight path down to earth.
All around the clearing, the entire landscape glows with silver. Magic rings out in steady chimes from everywhere and everything, a fragmented harmony of sorrow, longing, and grief, the emotions blending together into the most yearning hope.
Nightfall grips your shoulder, bringing your attention back to him. His aura is visible around him, leisurely twining around the rippling currents of your own aura. With a long sigh, Nightfall gazes at you, his eyelights glowing as brightly as the falling snow.
“Wish with me, brother?”
You nod and grab Nightfall’s hand, squeezing it. He squeezes your hand in response, the signal going back and forth and back and forth. Your aura spills forward alongside his, your combined magics blending together into the collective magic seeping up from the clearing, all rising to meet the falling snow.
Before, you did not have a wish in mind. You had been content to simply witness the end of the cycle, as the world came alive for one last time.
But now…
(You wish you could live here with your brother peacefully forever.)
Knives up front for easy access. Same for the spear, just off to the side. Various bones all overhead, primed and ready to fire. Thorns also up in the air as backup.
Plant cuttings near the water reserves in the center, on hold while you stake up the rooted plants in a separate pool of water. Just in case if they still need water while in the void.
Good clothes folded and tucked away to the left. Scrap fabric and leather in separate piles.
Rocks, leaves, branches, and other foraged items to the right, including the wooden markers. That gigantic pile of cicada shells will be crushed up and added to next spring’s fertilizer.
Hunted game towards the back, both raw meat and entrails. Only bones remain of the deer carcass. There’s still so much meat left on the bear carcass.
Leave the piles of snow in the far back alone, you’ll deal with them later. Who knew that the consistency of snow could vary just as wildly as rain?
Over your shoulder, Nightfall huffs at all the reorganizing you’re doing in your inventory, before moving around to sit down next to you. A whirlwind of white rages on outside the covered windows, the cold and wind mercifully kept out by the heavy silver cloths stuffed into every crevice in the house.
Nightfall sets down a thin wooden spindle and matching wooden bowl on the ground. Some of your magic is also piled before him in long vining strands, the magic settling in its condensed and unmanipulated state. Pulling a plume of silver from the pile and winding it over his wrist, he attaches the end to the top of the spindle, then stands the spindle up in the bowl. With the spindle poised and plume held at the ready, he flicks his hand, and the spindle blurs. The process is mesmerizing, his movements effortless as Nightfall deftly spins your magic into a glimmering silk-thin thread.
Of course, it had been far from effortless when you had given the spindle a try. Whittling and smoothing down the wood pieces to Nightfall’s specifications had been a lot easier than maintaining the level of precision and control needed to pull and spin the magic at an even consistency, and your first attempts at spinning had been anything but even. Nightfall had chuckled at the results, but encouraged you to take it slow and keep trying, stating that the spindle would be much easier to borrow than his loom whenever you got bored.
Well. You can’t deny how fun it is to make the spindle spin like a top in its bowl and turn raw magic into thread. You wouldn’t mind making another spindle set for yourself, even though the wooden markers you had used are a pain to work with.
But your brother is spinning the spindle right now, and you are still reorganizing your inventory. Everything’s sorted out a little better now, and judging by Nightfall’s relieved sigh, it’s a much easier sight for him to handle.
There’s only the junk pile left to sort, just in front of the water reserves. Broken spears, rusty knives, splintered bows, just the remnants of salvage. There are also some odd items you had found after some careful cleaning and piecing together. Lacquer boxes in various sizes, combs patterned with flowers, even a colorful featherball for kicking. All relatively intact and of fine craftsmanship, but are of unfortunately no use to you. Still, you move those items aside in their own pile to the left, admiring each one before putting them away.
One lacquer box you pull away from the rest, settling it in your lap. It is just the lid, the main body of the box missing even after you had thoroughly searched both your and Nightfall’s inventories. Judging by the size and plain exterior, the lid must have once fitted a jewelry box.
The underside of the lid is anything but plain.
Wavy petals adorn the edges inside the lid, framing the songbirds flitting around the wooden scenery. The flowers and songbirds are inlaid in mother-of-pearl, with the two large birds in the very center bearing the most intricate inlays. The two birds encircle each other in harmony, their long tails and wings playfully fanned out.
A hidden and tranquil paradise, all inlaid in mother-of-pearl.
“Oh…” Nightfall leans close to you, his voice barely there. His spindle and thread is slack in his grasp. “They look like firebirds. From the old legends.” Putting the spindle down, he carefully takes the lid from you. He stares longingly at the scenery, his hand tracing the elegant swoop of the wings. “The story… how did it go again?”
You only remember the end of the story. “‘And so the firebirds lived forever in the skies, where their flames illuminated the clouds in every sun rise and set.’” You think there’s supposed to be a drakon somewhere in this particular old legend, but this version with the family of firebirds just sounds right. A softer retelling of solidarity and paradise. “Ah, that reminds me. I… I can make a shelf for this. For an altar.” At Nightfall’s hasty nod, you grab some wooden markers and thorns from storage and get to work.
It’s not much, just a short wooden slab made the same way as the tabletop, the shelf then nailed to the wall not facing the entryway. The lid would have to be housed inside a bigger lacquer box so it wouldn’t fall off the shelf, but it is just good enough to work as a little altar shrine.
You have no pictures, no incense, no flowers to add to the altar.
Regardless, you and Nightfall both stand before it, before clasping your hands together in unison.
“...Mother.”
Your brother leads, bowing low with you to the altar.
“We… we’re here now. I’m sorry we took so long.”
You rise up from your bow. You have nothing but prayers to offer.
“We miss you. I… I wish you were here. We’re okay now, we’re safe here. We found a good place to stay. We have food, and a house, and everything, so you don’t— you don’t have to worry about us anymore.”
Your brother rises up from his bow, his clasped hands lowered to rest at his sides.
“…Please rest well, mother.”
You finish, your head lowered and hands clasped in one final bow.
“May your soul find rest from the eternal wind.”
(You dream of sunlight sifting through maple leaves overhead.)
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with reverence.
Year three, winter. One month after first snowfall. Day, waxing half-moon. Early morning, full sun, no clouds. COLD.
Nightfall really couldn’t question why you were up on the roof.
He probably should have, but he had just woken up. He didn’t question the ladder that you had cobbled together from the wooden markers. He didn’t question the parting call you gave him before you lugged the ladder outside either, but the subsequent scrabbling sounds overhead while he changed out the bandage around his neck had him finally throwing on the heavy coat and stomping out of the house to see what the hell you were doing up there.
The delighted shout you gave him when he squinted up against the blinding white sky was reassuring. “Night, over here! Come on up!”
The gigantic icicles hanging off the edge of the roof were… not.
With a yawn, Nightfall climbed up the ladder propped against the house and stood up on the roof with your help, mindful of his footing. “…Really, Sun? What are you doing up here? It’s too early to go outside, and it’s cold.”
You grinned at him, swiping at the snow stuck to the front of your heavy coat with gloved hands. “I know, I know, but look at the view!”
Putting his hand up to shield his eye sockets from the glaring sunlight, Nightfall begrudgingly looked out, his breath catching at the sight.
The world was blinding white in the morning sun. In the far distance, the tree line resembled those pristine snowy mountains from the poems. The young trees in the fields glittered, their branches full with frost, almost looking as if they were blooming in springtime. The wishing tree was no different, and Nightfall could see the individual crystals making up the heavy frost coating the tree’s branches.
Nightfall had to admit, this scenery was otherworldly in its beauty. No wonder there were so many poems about winter. Still, he shivered and wrenched his gaze back to you, his awe promptly turning into blank confusion. “What– what are you doing.”
You were squatted before the edge of the roof, cheerfully waving him over. “I’m making ice.” Water steadily dripped from your open inventory and onto an icicle… no, that was not quite right. Your inventory was open over all the icicles, the icicles shimmering from the water flowing down its columns. “Neat, huh?”
…Of course. Your boredom could only be staved off for so long before you eventually gave in and started experimenting with magic again, as Nightfall had unfortunately learned many times over. There really was nothing to do in winter, and all the trees were dormant again. At least you’re no longer messing around with fire. That would always be the stupidest thing you had ever done inside the house. “Huh. What are you going to use the ice for? It’s just going to melt back into water when it gets warm again.”
“Eh, no idea.” You closed off a section of inventory, then broke off the icicle beneath it. The sunlight shone brilliantly through the icicle as you hefted it up like a spear, admiring the clarity of the ice. “But if it’s always going to melt, that could be useful.” You shifted your hold to grasp both ends of the icicle and then snapped it over your knee. The icicle broke into large sections instead of two clean halves, the pieces scattering everywhere. “Say, Night, if I launch this ice spike at a target during dry-summer, then the target can’t use it afterwards, right?”
“I suppose. The ice would just break on them.” Or in them— it wouldn’t matter, since ice was generally inconsistent in how it would break. The effect would be nearly identical to dissolving condensed magic, the fired projectile then rendered unusable to the target. “Even if it didn’t break, it would just melt back into… water…” Nightfall trailed off, the realization dawning upon him. “Wait, hold on— the trees can use this!”
Up until the first snowfall, Nightfall had extensively tested the young trees on their magic capabilities. Excitable as they were, none of the trees were adept enough to form projectiles, let alone launch their magic into any given distance. However, they could access inventories, specifically your and his inventories. Weirdly enough, there was no such thing as inventories dedicated to trees. Oddities aside, you had immediately offered up your own inventory for the trees to use, and Nightfall was immediately blindsided by the limitations following afterwards.
Accessing your inventory was not an issue for the curious young trees. However, they could only affect plant items, dirt, water, and snow. The bones you had strung up had been too foreign for them to use; the knives were refused outright.
Dumping large branches or piles of dirt mixed with rocks onto unsuspecting targets would be feasible if the trees were tall enough, but it would require unreasonably close encounters with the targets. At least the thorns you were using as building nails would work perfectly for the trees as projectiles, even though the wishing tree had thoroughly disapproved upon hearing that.
Ice was well within the realm of items that the trees could affect. Whether it was dropped from a great height or launched into the distance, the method was of little concern as long as the trees could easily make use of it.
Truly, it was frightening how inventive you could be, how you could wrangle even the most inconvenient materials to your advantage.
Nightfall barely refrained from launching himself at you, his soul quickening in delight. “Sun, that is incredible! This is great, we can use this to fix the holes in our defenses!” The perimeter was heavily fortified with negativity, the northeastern and southern tree lines restricted and warded. With the trees armed, they could now easily anticipate any trespassers coming in from all the other directions. “We just need to teach the trees on how to aim!”
You couldn’t help but laugh loudly, your smile radiant against the white sky. “Hah! Grand-tree would hate that! It’ll just be a giant game of tag all the time. Oh– and you’ll finally be able to join in, too! It’s been a while since we both played!”
Nightfall was looking forward to it, even when you put all the icicles away and then slipped off the roof trying to get down the ladder, Nightfall falling in after trying to grab you. You fell backwards into the deep snow below, with Nightfall landing on top of you with a thump, your breathless laughter warm even as he yelped at the snow falling in under his coat collar.
The days pass by in a whirlwind of snow. From clear skies to heavy storm clouds blocking out all semblance of sunlight, the weather in winter was just as variable as the weather in the other seasons. Even when the clouds had rolled in and turned the sky a dreary grey for a week straight, there were still nuances to that dreariness— it was just extremely subtle and boring to look at.
You had occasionally wandered out into the clearing and into the forest proper, going only as far as the perimeter before turning back home. Nightfall had preferred to stay inside, but he eventually ventured out as well, if only to join you on your walks. It was difficult to go anywhere when you got stuck wading through waist-high snow all the time, and the constant chill was intolerable at best.
Contrary to what you had thought about the winter season, there was still wildlife roaming about in the border forest. You just had to look harder to notice the tiny birds clustered together on the bare branches, the squirrels peeking out of hollows in the tree trunks, the rabbits darting across the barren snow drifts. You had even spotted an unusually tall and bulky deer in the far distance once, the deer looking more like an ox as it strode through the high snow like it was nothing.
The animals hadn’t left for the winter; they had only gone into hiding.
Still, it’s a lot of free time as the snow begins to recede and the chilly temperatures lose their edge in the light of the approaching spring, but you’re slowly starting to get used to winter. You’re not exactly sure what to think about that.
What you do think is that you want a garden. Some vegetables would be nice. How long has it been since you had long bean stir-fry, or wax gourd soup? It would give you something to work on in your free time when springtime comes. You have plenty of foraged plants you can transplant, and you have a whole bunch of dried seed pods from a patch of mustard greens that had crept along the northeastern tree line during autumn. You’ll have to ask the wishing tree when it’s awake again if it’s possible to grow some vegetables you don’t have with just your magic. The tree’s going to grow fruit this year, and your magic already takes the shape of vines when it's idle, so it should be pretty simple to do, right?
Of course it’s not that simple.
When has magic ever been simple?
Indeed not. The wishing tree pats your head in consolation, the tiny leaves budding on its twigs tickling at your skull. You ask of creating new life with only magic. You cannot grow new seedlings without a seed to anchor it.
“Alright, fine, I get it now.” Scowling, you squat down on the ground, then shuffle closer to the tree trunk to escape the patting branches when the tree doesn’t let up. A layer of crushed leaves and cicada shells crunches under your boots as you move. Sitting atop the tree stump and with the bear fur draped over his shoulders, Nightfall snorts when you lean away from the branches bending down trying to touch you. “What about us, then? I’m pretty sure we didn’t start from seed, because we’re not trees.”
All life starts from seed, including you and you who joined my family tree as scions. Unable to reach you now, the wishing tree gives up and straightens back up again. You also began as a seed, your soul anchoring life.
You think there’s something to ask about that, but you’re too annoyed at the limitations of magic to pursue the thought. Nightfall has no such issue and immediately interrogates the tree about the differences between souls and seeds, his eyelights glinting at the prospect of new information.
It seems that making the garden you want is going to take a while. Most of the vegetables you had in mind don’t seem to grow around here– and if they do, you haven’t found them yet. You’ll have to be content with planting the root cuttings of green onions and the mustard greens seeds for now.
In the fields, all you can hear is a myriad of pulses echoing around as some of the young trees attempt to pelt each other with pebble-sized ice balls. Most of the ice balls simply drop to the ground or get tossed harmlessly up into the air, but occasionally a stray bit of ice would fly through the air like an arrow, an outraged pulse immediately ringing out as the ice ball hits some unlucky tree.
Looking up, the wishing tree looks quite tall now. The branches stretch up into the light blue sky in a latticework of lengthening twigs and budding leaves. But you know now that the tree’s height is not an illusion of perspective, because you can spot some young trees that match or even overtake the wishing tree in height, with only more room to grow as the spring warms up.
The tree had confirmed again that it will grow fruit this year. You’ll need to monitor the tree’s health closely and deal with any pests or problems that will come up. Fertilizer’s already been laid out for all the trees, but you’ll have to lay out some more for the wishing tree later on when it begins to set fruit.
This will no doubt be a busy year.
Shuffling away from the wishing tree and making sure there’s no branches following you, you startle when a sudden pulse emanates from the ground, a tiny but distinct ping from right under your boot. You lift your foot to reveal a tree shoot sprouting up from the side of the tree’s roots. “Hah? Grand-tree, are you also trying to send up more shoots?” You carefully poke at the tiny round leaves with your finger, noting a faded scrap of cloth crumpled next to it. One of the young trees must have mistakenly taken that out from storage while they were retrieving some ice. “It’s still too cold, you haven’t even leafed out yet, let alone bloomed. You have fruit to worry about, remember?”
Grand… tree…? The sprout trembles under your touch. Is that me? Am I, am I a grand tree?
You still at the distinctly unfamiliar pulse, then peer closer at the sprout. It’s a tiny thing, the fragile stem meandering along the wishing tree’s root and beneath the scrap cloth. Lifting up the cloth, you see a white seed half-buried in the dirt, the stem emerging from the split-open seed.
Oh.
It’s a seedling.
The astonished pings from the wishing tree overhead echoes your surprise. No, no, you are not. I am the wishing tree, of which my scions call grand-tree. This scion is lark, and that scion is hawk. The tree bends down towards the ground the best it can, its aura gently enveloping the seedling in the warmest welcome. You are, you are you, and no one else.
The seedling wiggles its little leaves, in awe of its own being. I am, I am me, and no one else. The seedling quiets down from its revelation, and then pings you, curious. You are scion? But you have no leaves. Where are your leaves? How come you still have roots if you are scion?
You chuckle at the questions and look up at the wishing tree. “Aww, I like this one. Can I keep it, grand-tree?” You quickly duck away from Nightfall’s incoming swipe, then block his follow-up swipe with your arm. “C’mon, Night, you can’t keep trying that every time– mmph!”
Nightfall simply dusts his hands off, having foisted the fur blanket over your head. “Where would you even keep the seedling? Not in your inventory, I hope?”
“Of course not!” Staggering under the weight of the fur blanket, you finally manage to throw it off you. Nightfall easily catches the blanket before it thumps to the ground. “This one can go into the garden.” You turn to the seedling, noting the spindly roots peeking out of the seed. “I can move you someplace better where there’s more space. Right now, you’re too close to grand-tree— you won’t grow well when grand-tree’s taking up all the space.” You ignore the wishing tree’s offended pulse prodding at you and instead lay your aura down in an offering before the seedling. “I’m making a garden. Wanna be the first one there?”
Garden…? The seedling straightens up on its stem, chiming brightly. Garden means good fruit, I want to be the big tree in the garden! Can I be big now, I want to grow fruit too!
You laugh loudly as the wishing tree tries to calm down the excitable seedling to no avail. Nightfall has to catch you before you fall back against him, staring drolly at you as your laughter chokes up into a wheeze. “You know we don’t even know what kind of tree it is, right, Sun?”
“I– I know, but– it’s just–” You manage to catch your breath, your soul thrumming with delight. “We have no idea, but I think– this is nice.”
You don’t know why, but listening to the seedling as it fires question after question at the bewildered wishing tree, you can almost see it. The large shade the seedling would eventually cast as it stands in the center of the garden, the dragonflies darting between the gaps of sunlight illuminating the crops below. Your soul feels light, your emotions welling up in inexplicable joy.
“It’ll be a fine tree.”
You clear up a patch of ground behind the house before moving the seedling there. You also bury the green onion root cuttings around it in a wide circle, a temporary boundary marking the seedling’s placement. The mustard greens seeds are scattered outside the circle, the garden then watered and covered in a thin layer of crushed cicada shells and leaves.
The seedling is a delight to listen to.
The young trees in general are fun to listen to, always recounting stories and relaying random instances occurring at someplace or such in the border forest. But there’s something that tugs at your soul about the seedling as it grows up alongside the sprouting garden, always finding wonder in the simplest things.
To your surprise, the sprout complains loudly about the cold, almost as much as Nightfall does. It’s such an unusual distinction, one you can’t help but be amused at, because every other tree in the clearing would rather complain about the heat instead. Dry-summer isn’t even that hot, humidity aside. At least the sprout agrees with you about how unreasonably cold the spring can get.
As the days warm up and the flower buds on the wishing tree begin to develop amongst its leaves, the white blossoms no longer rosy but instead tinged with gold, you look forward to when the fruits setting in will ripen, the first fruits borne by the tree you’ve been tasked to protect.
You will finally fulfill your duties.
(You dream of sunlight upon sweet oranges held in eager hands.)
The passage of time Nightfall recorded with grief.
Year four, dry-summer, four and one-half months after snowmelt. Day, waning crescent moon. Late afternoon, full sun, half clouds, warm. Trees all said it was hot.
Sunlight filtered down through the forest canopy, the dappled light falling around Nightfall. Behind him, the stream burbled, the birdsong sparse in the air.
That expression on your face.
Nightfall sat against the base of a tree. He was barebones and dripping water, the bathing session over. All that was left to do was wait until he was fully dried off, and then he could put on his clothes.
It was filled with desolation.
You kneeled before him, barebones as well. Tears dripped down your face, your teeth gritted shut. You were completely silent as you leaned in close, your trembling hands carefully unwrapping the bandage from around his neck.
Nightfall had seen everything of you. He had seen you happy, he had seen you enraged. He had seen you grumpy with irritation, distant with contemplation, bright with embarrassment. At your highest, at your lowest, he had seen it all. Even through the shattered glass of your delusions, he had grounded you when you were adrift, and held you when you fell apart.
An entire range of expressions displayed by you, made precious by the fact that you were free to express them in the first place.
Here, you were free to smile.
Here, you were free to scowl.
…And here, you were free to cry.
You never liked it when you cried. The tears were always sudden, and the bewildered frustration coming from you as you tried to pinpoint the reason why you were crying eventually settled into a tired acceptance that it was going to happen no matter what you did.
But this time, Nightfall suspected you understood.
Your eyelights wavered like torchlight in the heavy rain, your fingers tracing warmth down the column of his neck and over to his left collarbone. Your breathing hitched as you brushed your thumb at a spot along the junction of his neck.
There was nothing there.
No cracks, no scarring, no deformation. The bones in that area were perfectly intact. The only oddity was the discoloration staining the bones there, the base of his neck and left collarbone looking as if they were smudged with ash. You had noted that every time you changed his bandages.
There was no wound there.
But Nightfall knew that there must have been one, or something similar, right under where your thumb was at. His magic slowed precisely in that area, a bottleneck in his internal flow stifling his ability to quickly access his magic. His control over his aura was fine, but the slow responsiveness meant he always had to be patient with drawing out his magic first before he could actually use it.
His slowed internal flow and reduced aura was not debilitating. Nightfall could still work with that. However, the magic bandages he had woven had utterly no effect on him. Only recently when he had switched the source of magic for the bandages from himself to you had he finally seen some improvement, your woven positivity partially dissolving into his neck. The pinch in his internal flow had gradually eased up after that, his aura expanding out by another couple paces. But the bottleneck still remained, his magic more responsive but still slow.
His wound, invisible as it was, would heal in time. It had taken a long, long time, but Nightfall was finally beginning to recover with you.
You who wept before him, your hand trembling to cover the smudge on his neck.
You with multiple wounds scarred on your ribs, the deep cuts finally reduced to faint lines of silver.
You and your aura heavy with grief, your soul echoing his in the most bitter sorrow.
Here, Nightfall pulled you down and held you tight as you clung to him.
Here, his tears joined yours, falling, together, always.
And here, he mourned with you.
It is a humid day of foraging in the southern border forest when the wishing tree pings you the good news.
The wishing tree is ready to drop fruit.
“Oh?” Squatting at the riverbank, Nightfall wipes away some moisture from his forehead with his arm. In his other hand, he shakes away the water dripping from a dead pheasant, the pheasant skinned and gutted. “Let’s clean up and head back, then.”
“Sure thing, I’m almost done.” Squatting on the ground, you finish gutting your bunch of pheasants, before shoving the organs into your inventory and gathering up the bird carcasses. Nightfall only shakes his head at you as you join him at the riverbank to rinse everything off.
You've got quite the haul today. You and Nightfall had started the day foraging for supplies, and you had been fortunate to locate a bee nest full of honey tucked inside a gap in a tree. After dispatching the swarming bees to sleep with your aura, you had extracted the nest from the tree, then cut a section of the honeycomb open for Nightfall to sample.
He had practically swooned at the taste, before stuffing a honeycomb piece into your mouth. The warm sweetness of the honey had overloaded all of your senses, and only after you had come back down from the blissful taste had you realized just how indecent you had sounded. Nightfall had only grinned at your embarrassment, then offered you another piece of honeycomb, this time to savor slowly, a rare sweet treat.
You had meant to head back home before the day got too humid, but the flash of striped feathers catching Nightfall’s attention had turned the return trip into an impromptu hunt. Nightfall had taken the first shot at a group of pheasants with his bow, initiating a game of who-can-get-the-most as you and Nightfall took turns passing the bow to shoot at them with silver arrows, all the while pursuing the fleeing birds through the forest. The game had ended when the remaining pheasants had flown up and out of reach into the canopy, the score coming in a tie: three birds each for you and Nightfall.
The pheasants are quickly washed and dried before you shove them into storage for later. Nightfall pauses in cleaning the knives to let out a sigh. “Seriously, we need someplace better to store the meat. Are you ever going to get rid of those entrails?”
You grin at him. “No? Why would I do that? They could be useful someday.”
Nightfall just groans and waves at you to wash your hands. “Nevermind. Come on, let’s not keep great grand-tree waiting.”
Upon your return to the wishing tree, Nightfall takes one look at the fruits in its branches and starts laughing.
His laugh begins as a sharp inhale, before his shoulders start shaking as he doubles over in poorly-suppressed chuckles. You stare at him in surprise, then turn to squint up at the wishing tree.
You see nothing particularly off with the tree, aside from the bountiful amount of yellow fruit waiting to be picked. There’s a bit of scorch spotting the leaves, but there’s not much else to note against the wispy blue sky. It’s becoming difficult to gauge how tall the tree is when it has become over twice, maybe even three times your height. Any conversation you will have with the tree will now be within its wide shade.
The tree is just as confused as you when you turn back to face Nightfall, his chuckles growing into full-blown laughter. “Night? What’s up? Is there something wrong?”
“N-n-no, not at all– it’s just–” Nightfall clutches your arm, barely reining in his laughter in order to breathe. “Great grand-tree, your fruit– they’re not apples! They’re apple-pears!”
The tree immediately bristles up in great offense. What?! No, they are not!
“Yes, they are!”
They are not!!
“Let me see, then!”
Here! The tree swiftly drops one fruit from its branch with a frustrated shake.
You catch it as it falls through the air, the fruit fitting snugly in your palm. The fruit is bigger than your fist and impressively round, perfect for rolling across the low table.
It does look like an apple, you think, if apples had white dots speckled across its sandy yellow skin. Turning the fruit around in your hands, you blink at the way the surface of the fruit almost seems to shimmer like silver in the dappled sunlight.
Nightfall leans in with a grin, his eyelights flaring brightly in satisfaction. “Hah! I knew it! It really is a pear! I was right– you’re a pear tree, great grand-pear!”
The wishing tree bristles harder, so hard that the fruits themselves are quivering threateningly on their stems. That cannot be right! I am an apple tree! I grow apple fruit!
“Well, there’s only one way to find out if it’s an apple or pear, right?” You drop down to sit in the tree’s shade, Nightfall smugly sitting down beside you. “Hey, grand-tree, can we eat this one?”
The tree sags at your question, before drooping over its stump, resigned. Of course you want to eat my fruit. Of course. A branch shoos at you from above, another fruit dropping down to the ground in front of you. Eat this fruit only, do not eat that fruit. That fruit is already bearing wishes.
Nodding, you pass the fruit in your hand over to Nightfall, before reaching for the one lying on the ground. Nightfall chuckles lowly, but his laughter cuts off into a gasp as the passed fruit abruptly turns black in his grasp. The silver dots speckled on its surface glimmer like stars during midnight, an entire night sky in the palm of his hand.
The fruit on the ground immediately forgotten, you stare transfixed at the now-blackened fruit, then reach out your hand to touch it.
Silver blooms across its black surface upon contact. The colors ripple and swirl when you trail your fingers around the fruit, the silver dissolving back into black when you fully lift your hand away. You pick up the black fruit from Nightfall’s hand, watching as it turns silver before your eyelights, then black again when you give it back to him. “Why is it changing colors like that?”
Your magic is you and yours. The tree pulses its aura toward Nightfall. At the pulse, the blackened fruit reverts back to its sandy yellow coloring, before slowly darkening again in his hand. My fruits are laden with emotions and wishes. Your magic brings to the forefront of the spectrum either positivity or negativity in primary display.
You take the fruit from Nightfall. Now that you’re holding it, you can see a tinge of gold coloring the silver fruit. You can sense it too, how the spectrum of magic held within the fruit shifts from negative to positive as the fruit changes colors. Not in a forceful override of emotions, like when Nightfall’s negativity had done before your breakdown— but something much simpler, like the flip of a coin.
One half of the emotional spectrum takes prominence, while the other half is held on standby.
You lift your head to meet Nightfall’s gaze, grinning when his eyelights flicker down to the fruit, a smirk growing wide on his face. You pass it over to him, then bark out a laugh when he passes it right back at you, the fruit turning silver and black and silver and black as you and Nightfall rapidly pass it to each other.
Please stop, I am right here. The tree can only lean back regretfully as the young trees in the fields start pinging, curious about why the very air is swinging from positive to negative so much. Lark and hawk are insufferable as always.
You cheerfully pay the tree no mind, too busy admiring the swirling black designs that Nightfall draws onto the fruit’s silver surface with his fingers.
Notes:
The concept of home: sanctuary; where family resides.
(You have come a long way home.)
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Last Edited Mon 19 Jun 2023 08:14PM UTC
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