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And the rift expanded from my chest to the edges of my being. Yet I allowed the yearning to overtake me, as it had for the past three months. I surrendered to every vivid sensation that accompanied thoughts of him.
I miss you. I need you.
I cannot control it. I do not wish to.
Come to me. But please stay away.
For him, I would feel the anguish, as much as the desire. For him, I would endure every dark and brilliant emotion in existence. For him, I would wear a thousand scars.
A breeze filtered through the underbrush and rustled a strand of my hair, which had come loose from my braid. Along with rich woodland spices, I inhaled amber and vetiver. The scents that clung to his wardrobe. The masculine essences of sin and wit. Seasons, I drew in those fragrances.
At last, my eyes opened. With renewed spirits, I reinspected my surroundings. Mist weaved through the gnarled branches of oaks and tupelo trees, the columns rising as high as towers, some of them spearing through the clouds. Olive moss filigreed the trunks, and dense awnings of orange, burgundy, and jade leaves shivered overhead.
History claimed that fairytales and fables were first conceived here. Every such ominous or mystical story had its origins in this place. From the grisly to the enchanting, it all began in this woodland. Around every corner, the wild could either be stunning or brutal, trustworthy or conniving.
The Almighty Seasons were the deities of our continent, they had their own inexplicable power and mysterious divinity, and this landscape was no exception. It had a mind of its own, deciding who was allowed to stay and who must be exterminated.
So far, so good. The point was no one ventured to this enclave anymore. Not for centuries, aside from desperate souls or fortune hunters seeking lost magic. I belonged in the former category.
The compact thicket enclosed me in a nest of hedges, with only a small gap to squeeze through. Not ideal, but this patch yielded precious edible stalks—filling, nourishing, and delicious. I’d recognized them during my initial quest here. But while superstition held less sway on me, I kept faith in books, which had stressed one crucial rule about this environment: Nothing appeared as it seemed. Taking heed, I had tested the stalks before deeming them safe.
A basket rested beside me. Muck caked my fingers as I resumed harvesting.
Later, a breeze whistled through the canopy. Umbrellas of leaves shuddered from the treetops, and dampness permeated the air. I glanced toward the sky, making out a few restless clouds. By eventide, it was going to rain.
My fingers reached out, then froze instinctively, arrested millimeters from the next stem. With my pulse skipping, I recognized the plant I’d almost touched. An herb with a fuzzy head that curled inward.
Willow Dime.
Across the continent, few plants were universal natural resources. This one was among those few and acted as a sleeping draught, particularly helpful during painful medical procedures, during which one was better off unconscious.
The problem was, Willow Dime wasn’t a remedy for everyone. In fact, this had been made clear when I met Jinny, having arrived at her cottage with a leenix wound. The woman had nursed the injury until I’d fainted. Although she had suggested Willow Dime to blunt the pain, that option would have killed me quicker than the leenix gash. In my case, merely touching the herb would have fatal consequences.
My wrist shook. Cautiously, I pulled away and swerved toward the edible stalks, knowing that if I turned back, the plant would be gone.
Again, nothing was as it seemed. I doubted the Willow Dime stem had turned up here randomly, however universal. This forest liked to play, to test, and to reward. Only those who earned their place, who could see past the wild’s trickery, could stay long enough to discover the beauty.
Although my basket was full, I contemplated reaping a few more stalks. I’d hiked three miles to reach this location, and we could use as many rations as possible in case the weather turned. With that in mind, I prepared to extract another stem from the ground.
Something groaned from behind, the sound reminiscent of splitting bark. I wheeled around, my fingers already poised on the thorn quill stashed in my braid. My eyes jumped across the contorted mesh of branches, seeing neither fauna, nor any humanlike figures. Yet another groan passed through the thicket, this time like wood stretching.
I swiveled the opposite way, trailing the commotion. Trepidation set my heart to racing as my fingers switched from the thorn in my hair to the one strapped around my ankle.
Again nothing. Yet something …
A shadow swayed across the grass, long and bent at a crooked angle. My eyes swelled wide. I swung my gaze toward the nearest trunk just as the soil broke apart in chucks, and a root heaved itself from the earth. Before me, the oak’s branches cracked and snapped like the limbs of a wizened creature bristling in offense.
Leaves darkened to a sooty hue, the tips gleaming. The groaning increased in volume. By Seasons, the visual would have mesmerized me if I hadn’t been its objective.
It did not take an expert to guess the brunt of this tree would shatter a human skeleton. The roots alone could bury an army. Yet the oak waited, sizing me up and making its wishes known.
My mind rushed back to everything I’d read and studied about Autumn trees. Never had I witnessed one come to life, but I’d known it was possible. Suddenly, my gaze skittered toward the basket of stalks, and a thought hastened into my mind about cautionary tales and the sovereignty of nature.
This oak was not evil. It was upset.
Humbly suspecting why, I let my hands fall to my sides. Abandoning the stalk I’d been about to harvest, I extended my arms and bowed my head. My chest thumped, heavy pants spewing from my mouth. “I beg your pardon. And I am at your behest.”
The roots stalled. The groaning ceased. The oak’s majestic size overshadowed me.
