Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’ll be honest with you, summer isn’t my favourite spell of the year.

Sure, the sun shines high and bright, the skies are free to flaunt their blue heavens. The breeze is calming and the hayflowers bask in it, dancing in rows hidden among the meadows. The waterfall at Moonhaven looks ever the utopian wonder with its marmoris and pristine clarity.

But the heat.

This is where I draw a thick line. Unbearable is an understatement, it is barbaric. The breeze, while a relief, is scarce while the sunlight is ruthless and relentless. 

And the armour isn’t a saving grace in the least. 

Built to be lightweight but preserve its protective nature, the cuirass and additional guards are crafted of fine layers of fragrant cinnamon bark, which are overlaid with resin and carefully curated teak leaves.
While it lives up to the role, it also retains heat.

That is fine, surely.

Until I inform you that I keep having to deal with the rather gross sensation of my bodily fluids dripping down the length of my naked body within.

I am, in the literal sense, raw meat roasting in a pot. 

Don’t get me wrong, I adore being a Leafman and in no way take the title for granted. When I first came to Moonhaven, I’d expected nothing but a repeat of the purgatory that is my past. Battered to an inch of my life, barely coherent, I’d wholeheartedly accepted the bittersweet embrace of death that these foreign lands were surely to offer me. To my utter surprise, these strangers, clad in green and gold, asked little and granted all I’d need for recovery; a kindness in its true nature. 

Offering me relief in a sense I’d never known before and asking nothing in return only begged one course of decisive action from me: be at one with them.

They have been my first real family; details of my original one have eluded me long before. 

So even when I am made to stand guard on the marmoreal precipice of the landing ground, sun rays effectively cooking me from above and under, I keep my cavils to myself.

I owe the cause that much, I remind myself.

Trust you me, I am usually more resilient.

It is just that today is a day of exceptional significance and the nerves are inclined to be more proactive.

Today is the day the Pod Ceremony takes place. Queen Tara, queen of sovereign Moonhaven, chooses a worthy heir to pass down her reign. Or rather, the criteria decreed for eligibility. This will is magically reserved in a lotus pod, which the queen selects herself. Should the Queen pass, the pod must bloom under a moonlit sky at the palace pavilion, selecting and bringing forth a future monarch.

The ceremony in itself is fascinating; I’ve heard verbal descriptions from many of the elder Leafmen here and it is enthralling to say the least.

The anxiety derives from the fact that today is the one day in a century that the Queen can go about this. The future of our world is at stake, over something as delicate as an unbloomed lotus. An untold number of things could go wrong today and simply thinking about it makes my head pound.

Or maybe it is simply the heat.

Either way, today is an auspicious day. The air is pleasantly heavy with hopeful zest and city bustle. I think I spotted a particularly enthusiastic flock of young Jinn hurdled just beside the plunge pool of the great waterfall, crafting kites. A part of me wishes to join them, the sheer spright of it tempting.
My daydream is abruptly interrupted by a burly hand decking on my shoulder.
Hacking in surprise, I turn to meet this contender.

Ravaedan, trusty second-in-command of our military regiment, grins down at me. I smile back politely, ignoring the jarring tickle of perspiration dribbling down my temple. 

“You seem particularly jovial.”

“It’s Pod Day, why wouldn’t I be?”

I squint, letting a lean smile crease my lips.

“You haven’t won yet.”

Ravaedan lets out a howl of triumph, belittling my speculations. I chortle, bemused.

“A whole hour, Pia. The longest streak of “misconduct” he’s hit, that too on Pod Day?” he whispers the last part to ingeminate the gravity of this scandal.

I shake my head, folding my arms on my chestplate. 

“How are you so sure something hasn’t happened on their way back? It could very well be a Boggan attack,” I ask, leaning down to peer over the precipice out to the moorlands.

Ravaedan snorts.

“A Boggan attack occupying General Ronin for a whole hour? I don’t think so,” he retorts, batting his sword through the air for theatrics.

I mull this over for a moment. Ravaedan strides over to stand beside me in attendance, eyeing me keenly. I glance sideways at his prodding frame, refusing to back down on my point.

“He wouldn’t just be late on a day like this, Ravaedan. Don’t get your feathers all fluffed.”

General Ronin is by far the most headstrong entity I have ever come across.

His responsibilities are the soul of his being. All he knows and cares to do is protect Moonhaven, no matter how high the cost. His swordsmanship is of rare finesse; it's as though the sword is an extension of his arm.
It’s stupendous to watch.

Discipline is a quality embedded into the sinews of his whole being and he demands as much from his troops. We try our darndest best to comply, of course. When in the hands of a leader this dedicated to the cause, the regiment is bound to naturally flourish.

You’d think a man of his status and competency would be an insufferable, conceited arsehole.

But no.

He is as kind as he is resilient, looking out for the feeble and empowering the hopeless. Not once has he denied a hand reaching out for help.
Not once has he demanded anything in return for the help granted.
He deems it as “simple courtesy.”

Now for a soul with little in the way of will and nothing tangible left to hold onto, his simple courtesy is, in the literal sense, divine.

And when you find a god, you don’t stray his path. Not for a fucking second.

I admire him, I do.

I only wish I’d noticed when this admiration crossed the line between itself and adoration. So I could reign myself in and cease it from happening.

Because his sentiments lie, indisputably, to the goddess he serves. The Queen herself.

Wincing with either and or both the intensity of midday’s scorching weather or the pangs of disappointment following my internal train of thoughts, I refocuses my gaze. It shifts immediately to a distinct green mass flying straight for us.

Hummingbirds.

Ravaedan and I spare one another half a glance before falling into formation for the reception. Standing side by side, we puff our chests and hold our breaths in anticipation.

You must be wondering what the fuss is all about. Let me enlighten you.

Earlier, General Ronin and a small platoon of soldiers had taken flight to scour the route Queen Tara will be taking to the Pod Den. The day before, Ravaedan and Nod had bet on something rather stupid. Ravaedan had proclaimed, with much confidence, that General Ronin would be late to return from this excursion because he wished to see the fortune-teller who lived somewhere along the route.

Now, General Ronin is plainly not one for such frivolities, so why would he seek out the augur?

“It’s obvious isn’t it?” he’d said, loud and proud.
“To ask if he has any future with the Queen.”

Nod had vehemently reproved of this mindless claim and the two had gambled right then and there.

Naturally, the discussion and its veracity had stung in some corner of my vain heart, so I too, am invested, if not participating in this idiosyncrasy.

The royal cavalry land in a graceful hover above the landing zone. General Ronin’s eyes are fixed to the palace entrance, invariably. Taking off and handing the helmet to Ravaedan, he trudges right forward to visit the Queen.

I catch a glimpse of his taut features mottled in perspiration, silently admiring them for the passing moment that he’s rushing by.

The moment he disappears behind the fern gates, I whip my head around to ask the mine-of-gold question. Ravaedan beats me to it.

“What stalled you?” he asks one of the younger troops, hiding his urgency well.
“Boggan brawl,” replies the beaming boy, almost immediately.

Aha.

It is now my turn to grin like a smug bastard. Ravaedan’s defeat is painted gloriously across his helmet-clad features like a ruined canvas. I pat his back backhandedly. 

“It’s alright, Rav. You’re helping a young boy improve his financial stature. Imagine how stable Nod’ll be now,” I tease, as he frowns to himself.

Both Rav and I can tell the boy isn’t finished, so we look back to him. It does alarm me slightly that his expression falters slightly before he speaks again.
“And… Nod.”
 

A simultaneous sigh of disappointment slips from everyone but Ravaedan, who seems to be slightly relieved.

Nod hasn’t been in the best of the General’s speculations as of late. He’s been slacking off, reporting late multiple times and forgetting various parts of his armour in the act. Before any of us can dig further, General Ronin reappears from beyond the gates.

We take our strict stance again. He strolls over to stand beside Ravaedan.

“Gather the troops,” he directs, accent heavy.

I feel a surge of excitement; this is it. The parade is about to begin.

My excitement dissolves to slight worry at Ravaedan’s next words.

“Here comes your star pupil,” he snarks, looking at the arrival keenly.

The star pupil in question has made appearance with… a wild sparrow. For cavalry.
His helmet is gone and so is one of his calve harnesses.

Good grief, Nod.

I can almost feel the General's exasperation from here. Again, the heat is acting as nothing but a catalyst for bad tidings.  

“Where have you been?” he demands, confronting the boy.

“What, you’re mad? You told me to get back and I’m back! On this,” he points triumphantly at the poor passerine, which hacks in discomfort. General Ronin’s face creases with further disapproval. I bite my lip, apprehended. Ravaedan stifles a laugh.

“And you want credit for that? You’re late. Find a real bird and get back to your group.”

He leaves it at that and the mass of us sighs in relief. Nod and I lock eyes for a millimoment, in which I practically beg him to comply. 

Fun fact: Nod is an inane brat sometimes.

“You know what? No,” he huffs, glancing at me again.

This draws a sharp bout of shock, from even the General himself. My eyes widen jarringly.

Did he just—

“What did you say?” General growls.

I watch with growing discomfort as Nod and his father-figure exchange a debacle, stunned. Most of the Leafmen pretend to mind their beeswax, but truly, when you’re in the military, mundane drama enkindles a certain spark of life within that we all crave. 

“Don’t walk away from me, I’m your commanding officer!” Ronin reprimands, the shock in his own tone unhidden.

This is getting out of ha—

“Not anymore!” Nod exclaims, giddy. My breath hitches slightly at the implications.

He wouldn’t.

“I quit!”

And with that, he flies away in his new carriage, free as the breeze that passes by.

... He just did. My jaw is on the floor. 

A stunned, grave silence reigns, undeterred for a few moments.

The awkwardness of the situation makes me cringe under my leafy suit. I elbow Ravaedan, who seems to be humoured by this too much for decency. He peers at Nod’s retreating figure, unbothered and almost triumphant. Ronin turns back, the befuddlement glistening on his face alongside his ever-present scowl. I avert my gaze, but Ravaedan doesn’t earning him a right glare from the commander. 

“What are you looking at?” he barks lowly.

Ravaedan shifts theatrically.

“Er— Nothing! I have no opinion of this. Everybody, huddle up!—”

I frown up at him, thwacking his armoured arm for the insensitivity.

Nod, with all his quirks and flaws, has a heart of gold. Youth is meant to come with its many reckless and hot-blooded decisions. That is no excuse, but it is a cause. 

“We have to get him back,” I hiss up at him, side-eyeing the General, who seems to be in quite the turmoil behind us.

Traces of this are lost momentarily as he steels himself, reminded of his duties. Always a wonder to see him battling with himself.

Ravaedan snorts, turning his head to regard me with what I believe is bemusement.
“One, him being gone'll give me the benefit of time, in which he'll hopefully forget about our little bet,” he mutters with a sly smirk. I scoff, thwacking him again. He doesn’t budge or take any preventive measures.

“And two, the world out there’s going to chew him up like hay. He’ll crawl back in here in three days time, I’m betting.”

Somewhat relieved, I let the tension drop from my shoulders and let out a teasing chortle.

“Are you sure you want to test your luck again, soldier? I’d say it’s quite rotten.”

“That was speculation. This is fact, little one...”

With a fond pat of my shoulder, he ambles forward, leading the royal troops towards the parade ship. I chuckle, shaking my head, the comfortable warmth of being regarded with the fatherly affection washing over me. My nerves are calmed for an instance.

An instance only.

“First parade, eh?” 

I whip my head around at the sudden query, stumbling on myself. 

“D— Yes, sir. I am honoured and prepared for duty,” I reaffirm, instinctively straightening up and making my frame fuller. General Ronin flashes me a lopsided smile and nods curtly.

I never quite caught his accent; is he originally from the countryside? Or is this the local dialect? Whichever the case, his voice is a phenomenal pairing to it.

I mirror his smile, eyeing my viridescent reflection in his herb-green eyes. He sighs.

“Don’t let your guard down today, Selpia. A lifetime of harmony is at stake.”

With this fair advice and a firm pat on my shoulder, he too ambles forth. I swallow a hurried gulp, trying to discern if it is the heat from the sun or the sparks of girlish joy within that have me so flushed.

Brushing it aside and steeling myself, I fall in line with my group to change into ceremonial armour. All the while, I let the General’s words echo in my head to drown out the vain aubades of my heart.

A lifetime of harmony is at stake.

And it is my duty to ensure it remains uncluttered. Our duty.

Many leaves, one tree.

The bustle prevails within the summer breeze as Moonhaven bears witness to a cardinal chapter of its history and the forest breathes in anticipation.

Chapter Text

It's unlike anything I've ever seen.

When we first arrived at the pool harbour, I was confused. There were saddled damselflies lined along the shore, being tended to by their stewards. The queen's guards, adorned in white and gold ensemble stood in formation by the royal cavalry, chatting calmly amongst one another with the civilian troops in conventional armour lingering behind them. Just a slight distance away, atop the pristine waters, lay a gargantuan white lily, surrounded by tendrils and circular lily pads of numerous sizes and varying viridescence. 

Where's the parade ship? I thought, swiveling my head around to peruse. Making my idle way beside Ravaedan and the other queen's guards, I'd been rather disconcerted by the prospect of the parade ship arriving late, or not at all. 

Never had I been so happy to be proven wrong.

General Ronin arrived shortly and sounded a sharp whistle from his mouth. The sound cut at my eardrums painfully, but I only felt a sense of marvel.

I never quite mastered how to achieve this; the sound he makes is so full and identical to that of a starling it's impressive. 

Anyhow, upon his whistle, the dragonflies took to their flights with a harmonious drone of their wings. As they did, I caught shimmering webs in their wake, acting undoubtedly as strings. Attached to what? I wondered, following the trail with my eyes.

To see the lily pads coming together like cloth sewn at the seams. 

Genius. Utterly. 

I couldn't help but peer in awe, watching as the components of scenery wove themselves into a mighty, sizeable parade ship fit for regal transportation.

The joy on my face was quite evident; I know this because I’d caught Ravaedan and a number of the elder Leafmen throwing smiles of acute fondness my way. 

It is a rather pleasantly peculiar feeling knowing the elder folk find me winsome.

I am, by unanimous decision, a shared daughter to all of them. They like to— no, insist upon pampering me and enabling me in my many shenanigans, going as far as letting me tag along with them whenever they visit the wonderspots of the city during their off-hours.

Perhaps their sentiments derive from consideration, since I am not originally from Moonhaven. Or pity, owing to their vague conception of my harrowing past. They’re there during my night terrors and it apparently tells them enough. 

Either way, the setting is somewhat funny, because I am quite close in age to some of them. Ravaedan and I are just three years apart and he refers to me as “little one.” As is Gayle, Haize and Raine, but they insist on the parent-figure role too. 

I don’t see reason to complain because they seem to know their limits; babytalking seldom morphs to belittlement.

We stand in tight formation as Queen Tara makes appearance in all her royal glory. Her caramel frame is bedecked in a comfortable leafy upper-piece and a gorgeous skirt composed of several hundred white orange jasmine petals. 

Upon her arrival there is a swift, cooling breeze and an almost immediate spike in our collective stamina.   

She is, in the literal sense, mother nature and her pulchritude represents as much. Her powers are spellbinding and ever mighty.

I can’t help but tear up, a sense of patriotic adoration welling within me. One by one, the flock of Queen’s guards follow behind and take their places. I happen to find myself right beside the Queen’s left shoulder and fawn internally.

And as if that weren’t a blessing enough, General Ronin takes his place right beside me.

This is an incredibly auspicious day.

With the crew onboard and a time constraint, the parade ship takes flight. I hold my breath as we take off, the scenery mesmerising me. Momentarily my childish joy dissolves to blade-sharp scrutiny.

I'm a soldier, not a spectator. I’m here on duty.

Queen Tara waves her hands at her people who cheer her on from below. The parade is progressing marvellously. Seeing his stoic diligence, Queen Tara taunts the General, asking him to smile. I don’t help one myself.

I wish I did, though, because the very next moment, the Queen’s sharp olive eyes fall on my sweltering face.

I try to play my smile off as a stretch of my jaw. 

Yes, I am as confused as you are trying to imagine how that played out.

The Queen chortles once again, quirking a brow at me.

“So this is Selpia, is it?” she asks, looking at Ronin on my side.

“Aye, it is,” he replies, regarding me with the same lopsided smile from before. My nerves twinge in self-conscious terror, but my frame is practised and full.

“It is an honour serving you, your Majesty. May your reign be ever long and prosperous,” I wish, bowing to her in martial reverence.

She chuckles, the sound euphonious.

“Ronin talks pretty highly of you. Considering he rarely ever talks of anything but his operations, I’m impressed."

I glance sideways at Ronin, keeping my joyful squeals entirely internal.

“It’s the least I can offer, being under his command. I may be a foreigner but my allegiance is pledged entirely to this military and you, your Majesty.”

Queen Tara beams at me and I haven’t quite seen a person glow like this.

“Well, he trusts you a good deal. I think that means something important,” she muses, clasping her hands together in delicate deliberation.

I draw a pause, trying to decipher the underlying subtext of this statement. Lost, I look up at the General. He quirks his brows and sticks his chin out. My otherwise pallid expression falters when my brows twitch in disconcertment.

What is the implication of this?

My gaze returns to the head of authority here.

“Forgive me, your Majesty, what does it mean?”

“It means you get to be stuck with him forever now.”

… What?

The utter confusion and disbelief on my face is apparently, once again, evident, because Queen Tara laughs a little too hard. I smile tightly up at General Ronin, who offers a simple half-smile and nothing more. Queen Tara turns on her heels, facing the frondescence and flora again.

This is a very vague verbal exchange. I have absolutely no idea what they’re implying save for the very obviously wrong and ridiculous prospect of being betrothed to him.

I don’t let the idea linger, lest it consume me entirely and opt to ask for clarification instead.

“I’m sorry, but y—”

“Take care of him, Selpia. He might look all mighty and manful but even he has his moments.”

I swallow my words once again, not wanting to interject with her own. And am momentarily even more bewildered.

What exactly is being asked of me here?

Knowing better than to look at Ronin or conjure up some refutable theory, I look behind me for a certain redhead who somehow always has answers to the unspoken questions I have.

When we lock eyes, he throws me a thumbs up and a giddy grin. 

Well, at least it’s something good? I’ll ask him for details later. 

We approach the Pod Keep soon enough.

As our ship descends to the murky green waters below, it delicately dissolves once again to the components of spellbinding scenery. Each of us guards float away on a Lily pad, keeping close behind the queen, who glides fluidly across the waters on a path paved with algal foliage.

I’d like to say we were prepared for the ambush. We thought we were. We were trained to be.

And yet.

When General Ronin let his first arrow loose, all of us followed suit with our arrows in hold, twisting in place.

I held my breath, eyes not daring to flicker elsewhere.

And then they spawned from beneath the bark in a progressive wave of rot and destruction.

Every single Leafman on duty took to a spontaneous battle frenzy. Us Queen’s guards focused primarily on shielding Queen Tara as she retreated and did a pretty decent job at it.

Until the Boggans began attacking civilians.

The Queen howled at us to protect the Jinn, bearing the pod herself as she charged forward. There was no division from that moment onwards; Only Leafmen and Boggans.

Rain and rot. 

As the rest of my group dispersed to evacuate innocent citizens, I swerved and fought my way through a mud patch with my urgency shifted immediately to the far edge of the murk. A herd of young Jinn were in the fire zone, cornered by a band of Boggans. With a wrathful cry, I hurled myself at them. Received my share of thrashing, dealt out equalparts of brutality myself.

And they just kept coming .

In a few moments the air exploded in cries of our own men perishing, paired with the constant rabid screeching of Boggans. I didn’t panic uptil then. Shaking under my armour, I carefully vacated the children before renavigating my way either to Queen Tara or the compromised troops on the battlefield.

I didn’t realise I was near the pond until one of the buggers grabbed me by the neck and slammed me into the pondwater. Swallowing mouthfuls of mudwater wasn’t pleasant, but the splash of cold wetness definitely was.

In fact, it did wonders for my agility, dealing miraculously with the bothersome heat.

After pummelling the gnarly bastard and a number of his following cronies to the depths of inferno, I bound towards the parade ship, which was going through a swifty formation for the Queen. Relief was only short-lived as the next moment Boggans skydived down and wrestled the damselflies flying it.

With little to do about that other than fume and cuss, I went back to dispatching the neverending hoard of Boggans approaching. This pursuit divagated me from the Queen and her consequent location.

So lost in the craze, goddamn, I had forgotten my own stamina had its limits. My arm refused to move with the same force and momentum as I deemed and I was falling short of the stick in my brawl.

I almost had my throat slit, missing impact by a hairsbreadth.

What I couldn’t dodge was the bastard that’d lunged from behind with a war-cry.

Before I could move, I was in the air.

Gayle had plucked me off mid-flight before I could be slain. Thanking him mentally, I readjusted myself on his bird behind him. Thoughtlessly, I grabbed his bow and a number of arrows. The rest of my moves were in practiced calculation.

I aimed, I shot, I re-aimed and shot again.

A crackle of thunder startled me out of my tranceful firing. The blue sky was nowhere to be seen, covered in thick foliage of dark clouds.

Before I could inspect anything, Gayle let out a blood-curdling cry, startling me once again. I checked him over in overdriven panic, thinking he’d been shot.

And instead saw something that’ll haunt me for the rest of my days.

Queen Tara, clutching onto the delicate pod in urgency.

Pummelling downwards.

I screamed out with Gayle, the sound I conjured shocking me. As our bird dived with her, so did General Ronin.

Everything went lightless for a stretched span of time, a thunderstorm raging overhead. The canopy trees bent their branches to shield the Queen in her descend, blocking our path.

That didn’t stop me; one leap and I was freefalling towards the leafy barrier. Grabbing a hold of one of the leaves, I climbed my way to a main branch, tunnel vision leading me to it fairly easily. I only realised many of my fellow Leafmen were right behind me when one of them caught me from an accidental slip. Together, we made our way to an amenable height, from which we lept once again to land.

Which led me to the present moment I’m in, wishing desperately I could somehow crawl my way out of it.

The sight before us is shattering.

The Queen of Moonhaven, giver of all forest life, flattened on the ground. Her breath is shallow; a long, gnarly arrow is lodged into her abdomen.
General Ronin clutches her dying frame in sickly desperation, forehead pressed against hers. 

A goddess slain on the battlefield, withering in the gentle cradle of her most devout pilgrim.

My heart sinks and deliquesces within my gut, sending chilling slashes down my anatomy.
The finality is… so compelling. My eyes well with tears and I let them fall freely. The Leafman beside me takes a shaking hold of my hand, undoubtedly sharing the sentiment of crushing grief.

“ So serious. ” 

These are the last words of Moonhaven’s sovereign monarch as she evanesces to beads of light, headed for the heavens above.

Leaving behind the wasted husk of her admirer to kneel and wallow.

Simultaneously, the Leafmen of her regiment fall to their knees, paying their respects. 

It’s odd. My grief renders me… numb . In a bitter way. I peruse the components of my current internal disblanace; there is the wrath of vengeance. They murdered the heart of our forest.

The weight of loss, or rather the void of it. She was kind as the skies that shroud us overhead, just as the tide that rises and falls. 

But there is something else heaving on my soul. Something... corrosive.

… Envy ?

I immediately shove the borderline blasphemous sentiment aside, letting the grieving part of me take hold of my consciousness.

Ravaedan, closest to the General, places a hand on his shoulder in condolence. I stifle a sob.

We lost a Queen. He lost a lover . 

The reality punctures through my liver, driving bile up my throat. In the same breath, I am reminded of a silver lining.

She didn’t leave us vain .

The heir.  Where’s the pod?  

Frantic, I turn my watering eyes to look, sighing in relief when I spot it.

The Lotus bud is safe in the arms of… 

Who? 

Chapter Text

As we all rise, the storm overhead slowly recedes. I eye the holder of the pod through my tear-glazed concern. 

A decided female, with hair the colour of cedar wood, dressed in an ensemble of black, grey and the same pink as the bud she clasps. She is adorned in attire I can’t pinpoint native to where. Her olive eyes hold a level of grief appropriate for a stranger. 

And yet I can’t seem to be able to trust her, my hand clutching at my sword. 

Movement makes my eyes dart cautiously fast; it’s the Pod. Its tendrils are haloing insistently around her pink-clad arm. 

It trusts her. 

While this beguiles me, I am in no position to question it. I let my chariness die away after further proof etched on the ground. 

The venomous arrow that claimed Queen Tara has corroded a frighteningly large portion of the moss bordering it. The extent of its toxicity tapers away where the young girl’s feet are planted. 

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles, face heavy.

Her voice further advocates for her presumed age and gender, although I’d rather not depend on these physiological variables from personal experience. The Leafmen thought I was a boy for the first three months of my stay, owing to my then short-slit hair and scratchy voice. 

I peer on, scrutinising her.

“What did she say to you?” General Ronin demands sombrely.

His back is turned to us, but it doesn’t take more than a ladle’s worth of emotional discernment to know he’s holding back tears. My heart cries out for the man, an unsolicited urge to embrace him tugging at me.

The girl’s answer picks me out of my lament. 

“Something about… glue ? Or… a canoe ?” 

… She’s definitely a foreigner.

“Nim Galuu,” he corrects half-heartedly.

“The scroll keeper,” Ravaedan huffs beside him. Everyone shifts on their feet expectantly. 

I bite my lip, anxious. My eyes are glued to the Pod and this mysterious girl.

Where does she come from? Is she a relative of the queen? Is that why it trusts her so?

Or is she the next heiress?

The theory is viable; the pod is the will of the queen. Maybe it sees something in her?

"Second-in-command. "

My mind shifts to my present state of perception with the gravelly firmness of the General's voice. Gaze focusing, I am met with two pairs of eyes boring into me; one pair regards me with earnest concern and the other pair burns holes through me with palpable irritation.

I blink back, not quite synched. Promptly look around myself and then to Ravaedan, the second-in-command.

General Ronin tacks his hands on his hips, brows knitting together tighter. His gaze on me hardens a degree greater at this while Ravaedan looks between him and I with a certain urgency.

I stare between them, beguiled.

His second-in-command is beside him, why are they looking at me like that? 

I swallow the growing lump in my throat to clear the clog.

"Sir, he—"

"Are you deaf ?"

I quirk my brows, taken aback. He purses his lips.

"N-No, of course not, sir."

"Then why don't you answer when I'm calling for you?"

My mouth twitches as I subconsciously look to Ravaedan for help. He mirrors my state of bewilderment.

... Did I miss something here?

"Forgive me, General," I begin timidly, eyes shifting from him to Ravaedan in turns. 

"When did you, if I may? I don't recall you saying my n—"

"Didn't you hear the Queen on the ship? Or were you too aloof with that childish wonder of yours?"

My eyes widen at this sudden reprimand, mouth running dry.

How does that correlate to—

Wait.

Queen Tara's mellifluous voice rings hauntingly in my ears.

"It means you get to be with him forever now."

Realisation jabs at my abdomen, making me straighten methodically. As I meet his gaze again, I sense the utter fury in it and stutter pathetically.

"I—I was not sure w-what she w-was referrin—"

"And you didn't think to ask ?"

He barks that sentence. I almost flinch under my armour and promptly pray I melt and disintegrate within its depths. Shame cuts through my chest dully.

"I—"

"What was the one thing I asked of you this morning?"

I gulp, not daring to meet his eyes.

"To... To not let my guard down, sir."

General Ronin scoffs and I can see him rubbing his forehead in aggravation through the corner of my grounded vision. I can also feel the additional weight of my fellow Leafmen's gaze on me.

Fuck, what did I get myself into?

"I can see what your deliberation is worth now. Your head's up in the clouds, eyes down on the darned ground when your commanding officer is right in front of you," he seethes, his words coming out in bristles of outrage.

His giant frame bulls its way over to plant him barely inches away from me. I draw a sharp breath and wonder how I'm still standing and not running. Ravaedan instinctively grabs his arm, fearing the unspeakable.

I quickly remedy what I can, looking up to meet his eyes against my better judgement. I do wish his expression would be unreadable as it is in norm; the clearly etched disdain on it is ripping me at the seams.

He doesn't need to raise a hand, his next words crush me to non-being. 

"You're lucky the Queen chose you. Because I wouldn't."


... Wow.

The words reverberate in my ears and stab needles through the back of my eyes.

He never really did, did he? In any way of the word?

Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I hold them back with all my might.

Now is not the time for silly girlish sentiments.

I back away, biting my tongue. 

General Ronin catches the glaze in my eyes and I don't know if I'm just delusional at this point, but almost immediately his expression falters to... something of remorse. 

Then conflict. Firm, heavy conflict. 

He turns away from me in the next breath, addressing Ravaedan instead. As they exchange words, his tone loses almost all of its jaggedness. 

I stand in the calm shade of the royal poinciana tree we’re under, yanking at my own threads to pull myself together. 

This is entirely idiosyncratic; he does not see me in that manner. Why I allowed myself to indulge in a reckless fantasy like this eludes me and I promptly feel the shame within sprout branches in tenfolds.

Stupid. Utterly.

As the blinding smog of my self-immolation dies down, a sense of retaliation wells up within me.

Logically, the comment seems entirely unsolicited, I think to myself, hurt.

That conversation was incredibly vague and I did my best on the field today. Why is it that he's questioning my faculty? I am well within my bounds of being a capable Leafman. What of the times he's apparently "talked" about me to the Queen? His sponsorship is what led me to this position in the first place.

My shame momentarily morphs to resentment. 

When I ground myself to reality once more, I'm ever conscious about myself and my standing. The resentment then rots away, overcome with a grave stroke of determination instead. My eyes lift to eye the General’s frame and linger on him.

I'll show him. I refuse to back down from just the one blunder.

Broken morsels of their discussion reach my ear.

"What about you?" Ravaedan asks, sounding exhausted, if not worried.

The man before him shifts, gears churning in his head.

"Mandrake will be looking for this pod, but he won't be looking for a Leafman travelling alone," Ronin muses, glancing at the young girl.

Before my impish heart can recommence its aubades of his ingenuity and masterful devising, I shift my attention to the frondescence surrounding me.

Earthy petrichor wafts idly through the air by courtesy of the impromptu summer rain. The leaves look cleansed but wilted, the source of their spright and fine fettle evidently gone. 

Reminded once again of the painful reality of losing a beloved monarch, I can't help but lower my head, which throbs painfully from within.


It’s never going to be the same without her.

I hear footsteps approaching towards me and the pace tells me exactly who it is. I chuckle bitterly, not meeting his gaze.

"Well that went keenly. "

"Could've gone worse."

I scoff and cross my arms indignantly, now looking daggers up at Ravaedan. He regards me calmly, as if welcoming my tantrum.

"How could it possibly have gone worse, Rav? He just humiliated me for no significant reason. How does one slip— not even slip, I was going to ask you about it— insinuate absolute failure ? Did I ask for the role?"

Ravaedan guffaws quietly and wraps an arm around my back. The action makes me wince and a hiss puffs through my busted lips.

I'd completely forgotten about my wounds. 

Seeing me in pain, he loosens the wrangle, but doesn't retract his arm.

"The man just lost the love of his life, Pia," he mumbles through his teeth, gesturing to the general with his eyes.

"He needs space he can’t afford right now. Cut him some slack. What’s the most he’ll do, lash out? You’ve parried blows harder than that."

I eye him through a glower, the silent plea in his words resonating within me. 

"Even he has his moments," Queen Tara whispers from the corners of my pounding head, as if to emphasise.

I grit my teeth and glance at the grieving man in question, watching him try to convince a rather panicking young girl to hand the pod over to him. His body language screams agitation.

I look back at Ravaedan, conflicted. 

I am admittedly a grudgy person, so this is… rather difficult. But between him and I, someone has to forfeit. 

And it obviously won’t be him.

With a forced sigh, I let the last of my resistance die away. Ravaedan smiles warmly, patting the small of my back.

"What's the next course of action?" I ask through a grumble, still cooling off.

"Eh, the norm. Fortify Moonhaven. Keep civilians protected. Didn't sound like he wanted to inform anyone of the Queen's passing."

I frown initially, but quirk my brows in consideration. The adrenaline wearing off is making me increasingly aware of the various casualties my body has suffered.

"Mm. Well, I don't have my bird, can I ride with you?"

"You could, if you were coming with me."

I gape at him, waiting for him to finish whatever sad excuse of a jape this is. Him not continuing implies it isn't, which is somehow worse. My eyes widen in silent plea.

Take me with you.

Again, Ravaedan knows my turmoil without me having to spell it out. He pats my shoulder consolingly.

"You'll be fine, little one. Just patch those gashes up with some clove and grass lint."

With a final tap (more like push) in the General's direction, he retreats back to mount his bird. 

All my fellow troops take flight headed for home as I peer longingly. 

It’s interesting; Just hours ago I’d have been on my knees bawling tears of gratitude for the opportunity.


And now.

Sullen and aching, I trudge over to attend to the General as his handy-dandy second second-in-command.

Butler, morelike.

I watch him try to peel the lotus bud from the girl as she rambles on about her demands of being "made big again." 

A curious young soul, this one, I think, listening to her. 

Ronin is blatantly interrupted in this pursuit when Grub, one of the Pod Keepers, lodges himself between him and the stranger.

"Woah, woah, woah! Not so fast, soldier boy!”

I have to physically turn away to hide my breaking laughter. I almost feel bad for enjoying the sugary taste of childish vindication that lingers on my tongue at him being scolded in turn for a change. 

No matter it doesn't stir him as much; nothing stirs him as much.

Except Queen Tara.

The sting in my chest irritates me and I distract myself by engaging further with my curiosity.

"Hello, there," I offer to the young girl, putting on my most amiable front. 

She swivels in spot, panic quaking her frame. I lift my hands up in peaceful surrender as Grub lambasts General Ronin in the background.

"Hi," she teeters back, eyeing the pod anxiously.

"What's your name?"

"I'm... Mary... Katherine? I just go by M.K. really."

I smile, a certain fondness taking over me. 

"I am Selpia, M.K. It's a pleasure to meet you. Where are you from?"

She seems disconcerted, scrutinising the grassery around her with unfocused eyes.

"Uh— the real world? H-How do you speak English? Why are you dressed like that? There's—"

I have more questions than answers from her response so I opt to ask, but she’s backing away from me as we speak. Inevitably, this leads to her bumping into Grub’s viscous frame. 

Squeaking, she swivels around to face him. I chortle, amused. My arms return to their comfortable perch on my chest.

“Talking snails,” she susurrates in disbelief. 

"Actually, he's a snail. I'm a slug," Mub explains, his tone lilted in uncharacteristic sultriness. 

I raise a brow at him, lips twitching on one side to something of a smirk. He continues undeterred, eyes and focus fixated entirely on M.K.

"No shell over here, baby. It just slooows meee dooown ."

The way he slides over to her recoiling figure almost throws me into laughter again. 

The scene is comedic, but rather endearing. He doesn't seem to mind her being a completely different species and still insists upon pursuing her. On the other hand, M.K. looks like she's almost befallen into sobs, so I gently shove his viscid face away, snorting.

"That's enough, Grub. Don't wanna overwhelm the poor th—"

My eyes fall on Mub behind him and I’m distracted. M.K. saunters over and stands behind me for shelter.

“We are the official Pod Keepers, sir!” he announces proudly, saluting General Ronin with his eyes. Grub rolls in, evidently still mad at him for the scuffle with the pod. 

Or rather the one holding it.

“It can’t survive without us.” 

“We keep it moist!”

“Moist… Is what we do.”


M.K. and I simultaneously cringe at whatever uninviting imagery that conjures. 

But they’re quite right; they play a great role in making an amenable environment for the pod to grow in. So wherever it goes, they also need to follow suit. 

This reality doesn’t please the General. He stares at Grub, unsettled.


“You’re kidding,” he poses, exhausted. Mub and Grub eye him steadily. M.K. looks between them, anxious.


“You’re not kidding, fine.”


Shoulders laxing haplessly, the General goes on to haul the two Pod Keepers on his bird, which chirps uncomfortably. I croon sweetly at it, soothing it. General Ronin looks to young M.K., addressing her in his usual commanding tone.


“Word of the Queen’s passing will travel fast. We need to travel faster,” he gruffs. M.K. peers owlishly, holding the pod meticulously. Gulping hard, he suddenly looks to me.


“With all this extra weight, we’re going to need another bird.”   

I blink blankly at him, assuming the role of the obedient sidekick he's made it more than clear he needs me to be. I suppose this is my way of showing him how circumstances actually fare when I’m not cooperating to the best of my abilities. 

He eyes me back, face creased in... Vexation? Expectation? Age? 

I don't really know. And I don’t find the need to make an effort at the moment. The defined sinews of his jaw tighten, upon which his eyes do a very deliberate once over of me. A flush creeps up my cheeks.

Have I mentioned how grateful I am for my natural pigmentation?

Repulsed once again by my primitive reaction, I clear my throat and wipe the beading perspiration from my forehead.

General Ronin looks to his right, then lets his head hang loose with a vexed sigh.

"Don't do that," he rasps, shaking his head.

My mouth twitches slightly and I retort, almost immediately.

“Do what?”

“Hold out on me.”


I almost give away my surprise at how fast he catches on.


Rectification is in order: He does have tact.

Just not when he’s going through the second stage of grief. I only happened to be closest in the impact zone when he did. 

Pursing my lips, I realise that this is the closest to an apology I’ll probably get, so I loosen my stance.


“My bird is back in camp. Retrieving it will waste time. You could borrow someone else’s…”


“Who?”


This. Is the tricky part. I mould my teeth with the flesh of my lips, biting down lightly. His eyes never leave my face.


“I happen to have heard a racing rally gathering at the birch in Westward Meadow,” I begin rather inappositely.

He listens, his patience stretching thin with his creased brows. I gulp before continuing, hating the taste of salt from sudor in my mouth.  

“The birds that fly there are notoriously faster than most and… Nod happens to have a knack for racing contests.”
  

At first he looks entirely pejorative of the implications, but he draws a pause. The conflict on Ronin’s face returns and is etched tentatively on it. I tilt my head ever so slightly, appealing. His jaw tightens again.

“Fine,” he grits, mounting his bird. I take a relieved gulp of air, wiping the murky saltiness off my face.
 

Two birds in one stone. That’s enough victory for the day.

Now a tad less agitated, I let cool relief spread through me like ink in lukewarm water and soothe me of the several aches twinging from my anatomy.

The process makes me see bright stars in my vision and I almost pelt to the ground in the lapse. Striding over, I gently escort M.K. to the bird, a few moments of adjustment after which she’s nestled between Ronin and the Keeper duo.

General Ronin looks back at the cargo and I can almost hear him praying his bird doesn’t pummel to a crash midway. I opt to sate him.


“I’ll go get my bird too, in case Nod’s isn’t… complying.”


“How are you going to reach Moonhaven?”


Good question.

I flash him a half-hearted smile, fueling my will with self-loathing tendencies.


“Same way I reached it the first time,” I beam, crossing my arms over my chest. He doesn’t look like he approves, opens his mouth to say something. Decides against it, averting his gaze to pick his reins up. 
 

"I will report to you at the rally once I find my bird," I reaffirm, gently stroking the plumage of his passerine cavalry. It croons and chirps, enjoying the touch. I smile fondly at it.


"I may be late because I'm going there by foot. If I am, would you prefer to leave without m—"


"No, we'll stand ground until you arrive. Don't bring anyone else." 


His answer is swift and final; I nod in response. To let him gather momentum for flight, I take two steps back, smiling at M.K, Mub and Grub.

M.K. peers bashfully at me, flashing back a small, treacly smile. Grub winks lightheartedly at me and Mub, ever the aspiring Leafman, offers me a salute. I chucklingly return the honouring.

"Hey," the General calls back, tone losing some of its prior edge. I shift to meet his eyes. Another once over of me by him follows.

It somehow irks me that he doesn't say my name or at least refer to me in terms of ranking. He's deliberately refusing to acknowledge me, despite having been a right douche to me a few minutes ago. 

Stubbornness is a trait embedded into every breath he exhales. 

Prior to today I didn’t consider that this trait applies to both sides of the coin, not just pleasantries and important decisions. My exterior shows nothing to betray the disappointment this conclusion evokes.

Passive-aggressive politesse it is, then. 

"Yes, sir?"

"... Seek the healer out while you’re there. You… can’t be compromised like this right now."

Reaching for the satchel attached to his bird's harness, he hands me a minuscule bottle of antiseptic sap and a roll of grass lint. 

"Patch the worst of your wounds and tread carefully," he wares, herbaceous eyes boring unblinkingly into mine.  

… Well. I stand corrected.

He does care, evidently. He simply avoids direct confrontation, if not verbal. 


How curious.


Deciding I can live with that, I nod curtly and he mirrors the gesture.

With a croaky “Hya!” from him and they’re taking off— or rather tumbling off— on the bird. M.K. turns briefly back at me, waving a goodbye. Her simple courtesy warms me and I wave back, smiling.

"Good luck!" I wish in a howl as I watch the thriving greenery of the wooden canopy swallow their hovering frames above the pristine brook.

Once they're well out of peripheral vision, I slump down on the ground, exhaustion claiming me whole. With minimal time wasted, I take to disinfecting and dressing the gravest casualties of my physique. The lint bears his scent, having been inside his satchel for a time too long to define. 


It's... weirdly calming.


I don't like that I recognise the scent itself: Young pine and gently warmed mineral rock.


Before I fall into an intricate rumination on how much I’ve learned of General Ronin's raw nature in just one day and what exactly could be the fate of our— as of now— headless monarchy, I begin my painstaking track back to Moonhaven.


Hey, at least I now have a home to return to.

Chapter Text

M.K. has a lot of questions, most of which don’t sound like normal topics of colloquial conversation.

And Ronin, while not in a position to be entertaining them, complies by simple courtesy.

As they glide painfully slow over the babbling brook littered with algae clad rock slabs, he can’t help but clutch at his reins unnecessarily hard. 

This is taking forever.

While M.K. babbles on, he keeps tabs on the frondescence around. The summer heat is all the more amplified with the fugitive showers, the air so humid it’s almost palpable. Sunlight laps at his eyes every now and then, peeking through the crevices of foliage overhead.

He didn’t come to realise just how far the meadow really is until today, when his transport is compromised.

The realisation comes paired with a thought; Moonhaven is almost twice the distance from Poinciana Point as Poinciana Point is from Westward Meadow.

A twinge of guilt pricks at his chest for making his newly appointed second-in-command walk all the way there.

It dies down the next moment when he remembers her durability is considerable. He only hopes she reaches soon enough, seeing as his bird is well on the verge of perishing with the weight.

When they reach Westward Meadow, Ronin is unimpressed.

The racing contest in question is merely a setting for betting fanatics to go about their dirty business. He knows this because the audience is three-quarters smugglers, hoodlums and racketeers he recognises from raids both official and personal and only one-quarter general audience come to enjoy some rough sport.

He perches his bird a good distance away from the arena, near the cutaway canal of the brook. Dismounting his bird and unburdening it, he lets it drink from the cool water to quench its thirst.

“You know how to pick out ripe berries?” he asks, quite casually to no one in attendance in particular. Mub and Grub smile proudly and chime a harmonious “ yep ” in response. Ronin frisks his fingers through his buzzcut and looks to M.K.

“Keep an eye on them, will you?”

“I’ll… try? Um… What about the pod?”

He thinks for a moment, eyeing the delicate bud thoughtfully. M.K. dips the sole of one of her shoes in the water, balancing on the other.

“If it likes you this much, keep it with you. Just don’t stray too far from the drains.”

M.K. nods, but doesn’t look all too confident about the new onera on her. He tries giving her a vote of confidense with a half-hearted pat on the arm, spurring her on as if she were a bird too.

Yes, he is quite awkward with anyone younger than a quarter-century, if it wasn’t obvious

Leaving the trio to acquire food for the bird and themselves, he saunters his way over to the actual occasion; the race.

The meadow is tranquil with the sweet choir of summer birds sounding from the surrounding forestry. Grassflowers dance in small clusters along the rows of wild grass, green in the crisp sun. The brook sprouts into leaner canals, which run along in webs upon the marshy loam of the meadow. In the stark centre of this open ground stands a tall, ancient birch tree.

Neath its bountiful shade, gathered on its burly roots, are thousands of forest Jinns. They’re all spectating a terrific event.

Some eight birds are flitting around the trunk lap after lap, caught in a chase with one another. The air is heavy with excited hosanna and hollers of hawkers trying to attract wagers of bets. A distinguished gentleman is hosting it with commentary and subpar humour.

Ronin is crouched above the bustle, eyeing it in god perspective. While he doesn’t quite partake in the hustle, he finds the scene picturesque.

In other words: he’s rather desperate at the moment, willing to latch onto anything to distract himself from his internal anguish.

The eight riders competing seem well-versed; amateur fliers wouldn’t be able to drive their birds in a circle and maintain the speed that they are simultaneously. 

Although the mishap would indubitably entertain the mass of people here.

They’re flying so fast, they’re almost a smear of indiscernible colours through the air. Ronin doesn’t know whether to be vexed or relieved; Nod is leading. 

It is a peculiar feeling, wanting the best for someone but never knowing how exactly to bring it into being.

Ronin has always struggled with this when it came to Nod. The boy is gifted without a doubt, but impulsive.

Terribly so.

Going against anything Ronin demands comes as natural to him as walking on his two feet.

As his commanding officer, he’d be right to expel him from the regime, owing to his incompliance and indignance. So why hasn’t he done so? Why is he so hellbent on “leading him right” and “fixing him”?

All for a favour.

Asked from someone Ronin couldn’t deny in any way of the word.

Nod’s father Renzo and Ronin go back many long years. The two had joined the military together as fierce adolescents, trained their early years in one another’s company. The number of battles they fought together are countless; both physical and mental. He was a good man, better than any Ronin had ever had the honour of knowing. 

A heart of gold and a soul of liquid crystal.

Serving as a soldier isn’t a breeze; being subjected to unspeakable terrors in battle, enduring years of tedious physical taxation, having to commit gruesome acts over and over on command— it all boils a man down to nothing but a shallow husk. 

Soldiers are shaped to be machines of mass military execution. They are the invincible catalysts of glory and triumph.

What’s the catch?

When you become invincible, everything else becomes intangible.

Everything, including sentiments as care, empathy, love, vulnerability— everything that should come naturally becomes an unfathomable dream. 

And with their perception, their reciprocation follows: they give up attempts of connecting, push away anyone offering.


Renzo was the singular exception of this crushing reality that Ronin knows of. 

The man had his share of demons to daunt him forevermore, but not once did he lose the ability to care. Not just for those around him, but for himself too.

He saw his life as it was; witnessing death in all its finality only empowered him to relish it more. Sucking the marrow out of every instance while using it to play his role all the same.

He was what he wanted to be and what he needed to be all in the same breath. 

Ronin had cared greatly for him, deeming him a very close friend, if not the closest. The good man had his way with things and never hesitated to help Ronin find his own.

Renzo had been martyred during Mandrake’s rise to power, during one of the first attacks on Moonhaven. Ronin would never let himself forget that night.

They were out on the watch as per norm when the ambush had broken out. Within seconds, peaceful ambience was replaced with screams of agony ringing out from the bottom of the Queen’s precipice. The first line of defense had marched out hastily, meeting face first with an army of rot-infested creatures of the mire.

On the field, you have to be quick to act. But you can only act so quick when you have just the one pair of eyes, that too on the ventral side of your anatomy.

A Boggan had lunged for Ronin, aiming to impale him from the back. Too occupied with the threat to his fore, he had realised this a beat too late. When he’d finally turned to parry it, he had found his vision blocked and heaviness on his arms.

Renzo had thrown himself in the way to protect his friend, taking the hit for him.

The spear had pierced right through him and lodged itself shallowly on Ronin’s abdomen. The healer had been sent for on emergency basis, but Renzo didn’t survive the wait.  

The months following his death, Ronin had been devastated. He could only blame himself for the incident, lamenting over that one beat he’d missed. 

One beat, and his friend would’ve been here, japing his heart out.
One beat, and Nod would have his father to raise him into the fine heritage he owns.

One. Beat. 

When they found Renzo’s will tucked away in the confines of his trunk, Ronin had been informed that he’d been asked to look out for young Nod.

He owes Renzo his life and so swears to protect his kin’s.


If only Nod had gone after his father just a tad bit more. 

As if on cue, Nod’s bird swoops down straight into brambles of red thorn. The announcer babbles in the background.

“Oh, that’s a dirty trick— which, let’s face it— is exactly what we’re here to see!”


Sitting up from his crouch, Ronin glowers at the spot where Nod just crashed into and seemingly vanished from.


Sabotage the ride if the rider is adept. Classic.


“This is bird-racing, folks. Not a parade. Looks like Nod’s out of the race!” the host snarks, earning a bountiful reaction from his crowd. 

Ronin finds himself slightly irritated at the comment; parade birds are fast. Parades simply don’t progress at the maximum pace, they’re meant for theatrics and tribute. Idiot.


“Give him a moment,” he mutters as a retort lost to the air.


And a moment is what it takes. 

Nod flies forth unscathed from the crevice of a shiny rock and snatches a grand win, all for himself.


Great, now he’s going to be even more insufferable.


Even so, Ronin finds himself smiling, ever so slightly.

He certainly has his father’s spirit. 

Moments following Nod’s little victory, he catches a certain clique of crooks making their way over to the boy.

They don’t look like they’re there to offer hearty well-wishings.

Ronin squints, observing. A verbal exchange fares between them, getting progressively heated, until two of them seize Nod and drag him away.

Interesting.

It's viable to reckon they probably made a deal with him. A deal he didn’t meet his end of.

The General snorts to himself, laxly stepping off the branchlet he has held his stealth on all this while.


Maybe he’ll let them iron out the details with Nod first. It’s only fair.

The walk back is surprisingly not as onerous as I initially thought it would be. Either that or my grey matter is on overdrive and I have no accurate perception of myself anymore.

I tread through the overwhelming greenery, occasionally stopping to renavigate by asking a passing bumblebee or ant. Take a sip of water from the brook.

Soon enough, I spot a dual infestation of crimson bleeding hearts and purple touch-me-not blossoms lacing the path I'm following. These natural gardens mark the five hundred pace distance east to Moonhaven.

Almost there.

Winded, I gather myself and take to a light jog, eyeing a trail void of moss. This path has been paved solely by the feet that trample it daily.

A hundred paces in and I collapse unprovoked to the loam beneath me.

... Well fuck. Now what.

I wheeze pathetically into the grains of mineral, head spinning. My ears thrum with the course of blood which seems to corrode me from within.

The heat. It's getting to me.

Rolling onto my back, I hack, throat dry as the desert. My eyes fall on the uniform cloud of green overhead. The blue amity of the sky peeks back at me through the unshrouded spots. 

My hands snake up the length of my heaving chest and I don't think twice before pulling at the notches holding my chest plate in place. The plate slides off me, plopping to the side. My cuirass is off next.

Almost immediately I'm breathing easier.

It occurs to me that I haven't altered my armour once in the two decades that I've spent here in the camp.

No wonder it keeps needing patches at the tailor. One more late night knock and Mrs. Club might just ban me from her store altogether.

I mentally note this task for later, if there is a 'later' to begin with.

On the bright side, this indicates that I have in fact grown healthier through the years. It may not sound like much, but to the nineteen year old anorexic me that'd begin training for a defense force, this is the pinnacle of success.

I have no right to belittle her aspirations and neither do you.

My head throbs so hard I feel as though someone is nailing tapestries into the bone of my skull from within. Pitying me, the forest sends forth one of its calming breezes.

Before its magic fades, I crawl over to the pool of the brook, dabbling my overheated body in it. The waters methodically cool me down and the breeze accentuates the chill.

For a breath of time, I am at one with the dormant slabs of rock under me. My ears are underwater, drowning out any and all sound in babbles of its own. When the terrible ache subsides, I lift my head.

To hear footsteps approaching.

My body reacts faster than my ability to scrutinise the situation and with an unceremonious splash I am on my feet, baring my sword in warning.

... I know something is wrong when I have to look down to meet the source of my alarm.

I immediately retract my weapon, offering a soft, fond smile. A little herd of young Jinn peer up at me in stunned wonder. They look slightly frightful.

"I won't hurt you, little ones," I affirm, crouching to meet their height. In a moment, they're all clamouring me in a hug.

See, now, this is the kind of surprise I'd like to be pelted with on the daily , I grumble internally. 

To them, I chortle and coo pleasantly. The soft hairs of one of the Horseflower Jinns tickle at my face and I break into giggles. They giggle with me in simple harmony. 

Briefly, an epiphany strikes me: these are the same Jinn I'd rescued earlier today.

We break even eventually; these kind younglings escort me back to Moonhaven on the little toy sled they were apparently trying to test out in the open.

It works, evidently. Very well, that too.

Thanking them greatly for letting me be their specimen, I wave them all goodbye before rushing up the carved marble stairs.

Less than a quarter way up I bump into Haize.

No questions posed, not even a " hello ", he simply hauls me onto his shoulder as if I were a sack of ground lentils and climbs the rest of the way up.

I don't complain or resist; I know when to take the help I’m offered. What bothers me is that he’s also bound in lint here and there and is still bearing my weight all the way up the steep cliff.

Fathers really are the pillars upon which one’s delicate internal stability stands, huh?

He takes me straight to the healer's, all the while jabbering (probably chastising me and swearing vengeance) in his infamous native dialect that no one can decipher.

Laying me down on one of the resting mattresses as if I were a capricious ornament, he takes a seat beside me and begins his interrogation.

"Where is he?"

"He's going to get Nod."

Haize frowns, picking at a fresh scab on his face. Unsettled, I smack his hand away.

"I thought he quit?"

"We're working on that."

He quirks his brows, ridiculing the flamboyance of it all. I sniffle. 

"Why did he send you away?"

"We needed extra birds."

"For?"

"Company. The Pod Keepers are coming with us to Nim Galuu's."

Haize cracks his knuckles and sighs gravely, simply listening to me draining him of all life. I sit still, reveling in the comfort of company and calm.

Both of us jump in our skins when the door to the infirmary slams open with a groan and crash.

"Whe— Oh, for the love of— How many times have I told you, no visitors until I'm done. Out. Now."

Catching his breath, Haize squeezes my wrist in parting and leaves as ordered. He isn't above receiving a light smack up his head on his way out for misconduct and simply takes the hit with a muffled yelp, rubbing at the infliction.

Now, if you knew Haize for as long as I do, you'd know that such an offense would earn this contender a right beating. If you piss him off, you had better start counting your days, if not expect the invitation of a duel on your doorstep. So why did hotheaded Haize simply take it with a grain of salt?

If Haize is the father, this man is the grandfather.

Gurchhuld Virentro Thames, or simply “Gurch”, has been the head surgeon and the pioneer of health and recuperation for Moonhaven's military regime for the past forty-seven years of his life. He has, in a way, raised the mass of the elder, experienced Leafmen in our regime. So you can imagine the filial obligation most of them have towards him.

I gloat; I don’t have to meet him as often, earning severe injuries quite rarely. But the times I did, I surely gave him a challenge.

So when he stalks towards me in all his height and expert glory, I can’t help but smile stupidly up at him. He doesn’t return the gesture, but hands me a warm mug of what I recognise is marrow broth.

My stomach growls and I disgorge the contents of the mug into my stomach within moments. Gurch snorts and plucks it off my hand, opting to refill it from the sizeable cauldron bubbling out in the terrace.

“You’ve got appetite, that’s good news,” he remarks, filling the mug up with more broth using a ladle. He’s almost always got something impeccable cooking. I’ll ask him why one day.

“Yeah uh… Gurch, do you mind making it quick? I need to be somewhere after this,” I request, taking the warm mug in my hands again. He nods, getting most naturally to work. It strikes me that his wife, the head nurse, usually treats women troops under his supervision. 

“Byerda isn’t here?”

“She’s visiting my sister.”

I ask because against it all, I’m uncomfortable flashing anyone my actual frame void of clothing.

Men even moreso.

I know he’s a surgeon and it’s his job, but if insecurities could be reasoned with, I’d be a real happy woman.

Sensing my discomfort easily, he offers me a quilt.

“Wrap it around yourself and try to breath through it,” he instructs, cleaning one of the gashes on my foreleg.

I find something interesting to distract myself with: this quilt. I’ve heard of it. Gurch brings these from his hometown. They’re infused with a certain nepenthe, which is essentially a volatile liquid capable of relieving all forms of pain when ingested or inhaled. Unlike alcohol, it isn’t addictive and so can’t be abused.

There’s a catch though; Raine once told me that overdosing on it leads to permanent emotional and physical paralysis. Also, many are allergic to it and get terrible inflammations that snuff their flames in minutes.

Yikes.

I take a long whiff of the quilt, its minty magic paired with its cotton texture soothing me instantly. Gurch goes about coating my open wounds in sap and wraps them up in papery grass lint. He smears my welts and bruises with a balm.

I watch him work, taking small sips of my broth and enjoying being cocooned in the physical incarnation of what I like to think is happiness and fulfilment.

Within a quarter of an hour I’m good to go.

Gurch pets my head and to my befuddlement, hands me a taffy from a jar on the small table beside me. I look up at him, dumbfounded.

“What’s this for?”

“Ah, I forgot you aren’t a tot.”

I burst into hearty laughter as he grumbles, abashed by the blunder. When he tries to take the taffy back, I recoil.

“Taffy is for everyone. I’ve been a brave girl today,” I advocate, plopping the sticky treat in my mouth. Considering this for a motionless moment, he shrugs. Grinning ear-to-ear, I spring up from the bed and bow reverently to him.

Younger Jinn do this when in the presence of their elder kin, mostly great grandparents. He grumbles and shoves me out, the gesture affectionate for the most part. 

Now back in the game primped and polished, I immediately strut over to the back of the infirmary where soldiers gather at night to share drinks and make merry. It's empty during the day, mostly occupied by patients and medical personnel who wish to change into normal clothes or meet loved ones.

I opt to put my armour on, but am interrupted when Haize barges in to check on me. Now, while I appreciate the concern, it gets slightly chimerical when this happens thrice.  

Gayle follows Haize, who is in turn followed by Raine. Where the trio goes, Ravaedan goes.

So now I have four overly distressed parent-figures pelting me with dire questions and musing about the terrible fate of our land while I try in vain to fit my out-of-size panoply.

At one point I get so overwhelmed I have to drag them out manually to actually just get dressed.

Once I’m back, I address all of them at once.


“Yes, I’m fine. No, we don’t need troops at the moment. No, I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” I announce, eyeing them all in exasperation. They peer back, clearly aggrieved.


The loss of Queen Tara has taken firm roots in those that know of it.


Sighing, I clear my throat.


“But I do know this— the Pod is our last chance at restoring balance. Mandrake knows this, and he's gonna stop at nothing until he has it with him. Boggans know Moonhaven isn’t safe right now— the last thing we want is them harming our people.”

The men nod in unison, backs straightening in purpose. Each of them hold a hand to their hearts, muttering our oath. 

"Many leaves, one tree."

Ravaedan flashes me a small smile; I think he’s a little proud to see me act the part I share with him. Nodding to him, I give them all individual hugs before making my way over to my bird.

When she sees me, she chirps in recognition, immediately craning her neck for head scratches. I give her plentiful.

“There’s a long journey ahead, Sween. Stay strong for me,” I murmur against her, kissing her beak. She croons and chirps in return, fluttering her feathers.

Next, I stack sufficient bushels of grains and dry fruit for the journey along with quilts and lightweight weaponry. Before I mount, Ravaedan calls out for me.

“Hey, kid!”

“What?” I bellow, turning back to look at him. He grins, folding his arms on his chestplate.

“Break a leg. Preferably not your own.”

I roll my eyes playfully, saluting him. He returns the gesture, grin ever present.

I check the time with the position of the sun, it’s been about two and a half hours. Without wasting another breath, I take off for Westward Meadow.

Chapter Text

You would think being a soldier of the biggest military force in the vast woodlands and moors would make you just a little more resistant to physical casualties. You would be correct. All Leafmen have considerably above average solidity in all forms of their existence. 

Young Nod is no different; the impediment is elsewhere. He can take a hit, he just can’t deal with it afterwards.

So when these goons dragged him away, he didn’t fight. He's learned that it's imperative to preserve energy for the actual challenge: the thrashing itself.

It begins with verbal humiliation and rolls into roughhousing. Of course, Nod being Nod, his first line of defence is humour.

Which is, unfortunately, counterproductive, because his tomfoolery fuels murderous intent in his adversaries. Two jabs into the abdomen and he’s already waving surrender.

Ronin hears the ordeal go about, silent and unmoving. Thugs like these typically have a set way of operating, which makes it quite easy to predict their moves. So he waits patiently as Nod gets his guts knocked in. Listens in for the inevitable ultimatum that the head of these hooligans would set on the young boy’s head.

“I admire your independent spirit, Nod. I’m gonna miss that,” he hears the croaky voice remark. His jaw tightens.

A snap of a finger, a snicker and dull thud, followed by a grunt from Nod.

“Feed him to something. A snake would be good.” 

There it is.


Smiling briefly to himself, Ronin rolls over to make his rather grand reveal. He isn't usually one for the theatrics, but charisma comes with its perks.

“Nah, snakes just swallow you whole,” he cuts in, striding in laxly. 

If he had looked just a millimoment later, he would have missed the hopeful exuberance sparkling in Nod’s eyes. A spit of relief flushes through him at having found Nod before this horrid fate is met. Ronin’s mien does nothing to convey this, though.

He doesn’t know why, but he feels the need to counter this (and most) homely feeling with something more… jagged. As if the emotion itself would make him fulminate on spot. 

“Now, if you put him in a hornet’s nest … that’s a show.” 

Everyone in attendance collectively groans.


“Ah, look, it’s Ronin . Defender of the weak, pooper of parties ,” the same croaky voice snarks. Ronin mulls this contender over, ignoring the pathetic jibe.

Silken blue suit and pants with glitter highlights, creased and worn callously over a yellow vest of double-layered cotton. A chain of faux gold hanging from his thick neck, skin mottled in blisters.

He recognises the amphibian not from memory, but from verbal descriptions in a voice he can’t quite place at the moment.

Whoever it was, Ronin has once been informed of this frog's existence. This is a radix of alarm.

His clothing paired with his lack of regard says enough about his class and standing. He isn’t just the leader of some local gang. This frog has someone powerful backing him up. More reason to heed him with special attention.

He stores the name to the confines of his memory for future reference a nd continues an ultimately useless facade.

“I didn’t ruin all of it. I let you hit him,” he snarks. Nod scoffs, rubbing at his aching shoulder. 

“ Twice ,” he reminds, outraged. Ronin rolls his eyes, looking to the gangster.

“Hop along now, little froggy,” he taunts methodically. The cronies retreat upon Bufo’s gesture. He doesn’t look pleased with this loss. The hilarity of the situation is that Ronin doesn't look particularly gruntled with the gain either. 

“ Easy , Ronin. It’s a big forest out there,” he snarls back, backing off. The rest of them punch their fists into their hands in metaphorical threat. 

Promising the consequences of a deal unsettled.

“Even leafmen gotta sleep .”

With this ominous statement, the band of roughnecks vanish into the chambers of the tree. A quiet sigh puffs through Ronin's lips as he now regards Nod with a sense of subtle disappointment and no surprise. Wordlessly, he turns away from the young boy. Nod is ever the carefree cocksure youngster.

“You’re wasting your time, I’m not coming back,” he sings, ruffling his brown ringlets.

“I’m not asking,” Ronin gruffs, almost immediately. His eyes idly drift to the poor sparrow Nod has saddled for a ride. Bufo’s goons had securely fastened it in place.

He can see the passerine is having trouble respiring and reaches for a little dagger from his armour pouch. The creature cranes its neck and chirps gratefully as he takes to cutting off the tight restraints on it.

“Oh, I see. The old reverse psychology ,” Nod snarks, trailing lankily behind him. Ronin’s thoughts shift to what he’s actually here for and he feels his pace falter. Nod babbles on behind him, while the commander straightens, as if bolstering himself for the heartache oncoming. Bufo's closing statement seems entirely risible now because h e’s not sleeping for a good long time.

“Make me feel guilty, get me to beg y—”

“I didn’t come for you.”

Nod draws a pause at this, quirking his brows. Ronin finally turns to face him, features creased in receding signs of grief and fury.

“The Queen is dead ,” he announces.


Much to his dismay, Nod isn’t shocked, he’s… confused. So he’s going to ask questions , answers to which Ronin doesn’t have the pneuma to conjure.


“What? How?”

“... Boggan ambush.”

For the first time in a while, both the men see real emotions etched clearly across one another’s disposition. Nod sees a man ashamed and vain. Ronin sees a boy apprehended and aggrieved.


“R-Ronin, I… I don’t know what to say… She was your—”


Ronin’s gaze is unfaltering, but it seems to have surpassed Nod to a place much more distant.


His? His what? Really, what was Tara to him? 

The Queen he served, if not a childhood friend. For the longest time he’d believed she meant nothing but. He couldn’t allow anything more.

It didn’t matter that she saw clean through this pathetic excuse of a front he’d built for himself, or that she’d known exactly what to say in any given situation. It also didn’t matter that she had freely expressed her romantic expectations towards him despite his blatant rejections, as if she knew it was to simply mask his inexorable yet forbidden desire to accept them wholeheartedly.

And it definitely didn’t matter that she had almost convinced that it was alright to feel once in a while, just like Renzo had once tried.

Because she, just like Renzo, is dead .

Because of him .


When he’s shaken from his bitter introspection, Nod is still talking.


“What’s going to happen to us? To the forest?”


Turning away once again, Ronin decides to shove these thoughts away for when he’s laying in bed. There are more important affairs at hand.


“If we don’t take the Pod to Nim Galuu’s, the forest will die,” he states calmly, as if this doesn’t spark a wildfire of internal panic in him. Nod gulps once again.


“I’ll get my saddle.”


As always, Ronin does nothing to give away his relief at this response. He’s a commanding officer. He’s not just about to let Nod tag along as if this were a field trip.

“What? No. I didn’t ask for your help,” he gruffs, taking a hold of his own saddle to readjust it.

Reverse psychology or whatever.

“Really? Because it sounds like you could use a rider with my—”


“Ability to absorb punches?”


He feels a tad bit remorse for making the remark, but finds the sentiment rooting from nothing but emotional attachment. From an objective point of view, he’s correct. Nod may fly well, but he’s demonstrated very little promise in the way of other skills.

Ronin wouldn’t be wrong to expect him to prove himself to the cause just this once.

“The situation’s desperate . Let’s not make it hopeless ,” he snarks, challenging Nod. The young boy takes the bait in an act of trying to convince his commanding officer that he isn’t , in fact, taking the bait .

“Alright, well, who’s with you? Who’s riding point?” he retorts, shrugging his shoulders.

Rowdy laughter from behind him bars Ronin from answering.

His bird hops into view from behind a thick wooden root. Atop it sits the Pod Keepers, and…

Who is that?

Nod can’t help but stare at the pink clad stranger bouncing between Mub and Grub. Not for long; she rebounds between their viscous masses and ends up hanging upside down from Ronin’s bird.

The two men peer with varying degrees of despondence and disappointment.

The General's previous remark of the situation being desperate does reign true now. Nod sighs. Ronin clenches his jaw. They speak together.

“Get your saddle.”
“I’ll get my saddle.”

She giggles awkwardly at them, holding onto the Pod. Nod flashes her an indiscernible smile before turning to retrieve the extra seat.

“Rav’s not coming?” he asks, tugging at the fastenings. Ronin moves to crack his knuckles, wincing lightly at the battered state of them.

“Someone needs to be in charge of fortifying Moonhaven. We can’t let civilians pass as collateral.”

“Does that make me your second second-in-command?”

Nod is quite enthused by the idea. Ronin isn’t though and is about to hand his cocky ass straight to him, but is beaten to it by a familiar voice behind him. 

“When I’m dead, sure .”

Sween flies me over quite hastily. Aided by tunnel vision, I land exactly where I need to be.

The race is about to begin again, apparently, so there's a good crowd down in the meadow. Perching Sween behind one of the grassflower tufts, I try treading in stealth as I look around for the big bossman.

It’s not a very feasible goal since I’m in uniform, but I still try.

I instead find his bird, strayed near one of the cutaway canals with the saddle and pairing satchel still on. The scene looks a tad bit suspicious but I’m sure he was merely trying to avoid the crowd too. I wait by the little feathered darling for him (and Nod, hopefully), admiring the scenery.

Ah, yes. My infamous childlike wonder.

It stings to admire the bounties of nature now, all because a big man yelled at me. I steel myself, heeding his otherwise hurtful advice in subtext.

An earth-shattering scream makes me unthinkingly clench for the hilt of my sword. My head swivels around toward the sound and I promptly recognise the owner.

M.K. … and company.

Mub and Grub are a few paces behind her, also screaming for their dear lives. They’re all headed straight for me and the bird, taken to a frantic sprint.

I momentarily realise why and feel my blood water. The group are being chased down by a very gargantuan, very disgruntled squirrel.

But why?

My eyes drift to M.K.’s busy hands. She’s clutching onto a few nuts and seeds.


Indubitably from the squirrel’s personal store.


“M.K.! THE SEEDS! GIVE THEM BACK!” I howl at her, drawing my sword and bounding through the marshy ground towards it. M.K. whimpers and lets out a howling squeal.

“BUT WE NEED FOOD FOR THE BIRD! GRUB SAID—”

“ME? IT WAS MUB’S IDEA!—”

“I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS A SQUIRREL’S DEN! RONIN SAID—”

This is getting close to nowhere. I bound past them in a whirr and yowl back again.

“THROW THEM NOW—”

I am unceremoniously thrown out of my track when something heavy slams into me from the side. Flying across the patch of marsh, I skid across the waters and am stunned for a moment. M.K.’s screeches and admonishments ring in my ear as I recover for three seconds. Jumping to my feet, I look around for what it is that hit me exactly.

It’s a pebble.

But one side of it has suspicious ripples of rainbow, indicating the coating of something oily. 

Realisation strikes me quite hard, startling me. 

Boggan rot.

Damn, that was close.

Without a second thought spared, I aim to bolt back towards the splotch of pink in my vision.

And have to stop in my tracks to view the mayhem unfolding.

M.K. is screaming incoherently and throwing the seeds at the damned beast. The creature pays no heed to her, galloping towards poor Grub.
Instead of retrieving what it lost, it is apparently more intent on wrathful compensation: devouring Grub.

Mub is trying in vain to pull Ronin’s bird out of the way and in the act, has tripped M.K. over.

As if all this weren’t enough, a band of Boggans are also charging from behind, pelting their spears and waving their weapons with murderous warcries.

I literally just got here too. How welcoming.

Time's ticking. I map out a quick strategy in my head. Too many calculated risks for my liking, but it'll have to do.

Nodding to myself, I bound first towards the bird. I saddle it myself and then quickly haul M.K. from the ground and drop behind me.

“Hold onto that pod—” I warn before taking to a quick flight. M.K. screams in horror, gripping onto my armour plate for leverage. Taking note to apologise for this later, I hover above the Boggan army to direct their attention, open for targeting.

Very tricky move, but if I can pull this off, it’ll be worth it.

They see the pod and hurl their spears at the bird with all the rage in the world. I let the fountain of advancing attacks gain enough momentum, trying my best to ignore M.K.’s constant screeching.

The split moment before the turning point of this death wave hits our bird, I swoop down right to where Mub is flailing aimlessly to pluck him off the ground.

“HANG TIGHT!—” I yell, now flying full thrust at the squirrel. It has evidently caught upto Grub and is just a pace away from snatching him into the confines of its gut. The slug shrieks and averts his gaze, accepting of his demise. The beast lunges.

“GRUUUUUUUUUB—” M.K. and Mub squeal in unison. I reach out, gritting my teeth.

One beat.

Just before Grub is lunch, I yank him out of the ground and plop him behind me. The squirrel squeaks, discombobulated by this turn of events and then promptly growls at us. 

I don’t need to look behind to know it's turned on the Boggans instead. Because the spears they’re throwing my way are now in the direction of it. 

I think we all know what happens when one provokes a rabid, hungry beast.

It got lunch, I got cargo safe. We both win.

Luckily, I spy a certain smear of lime green from the air that tells me where my commanding officer is. I perch his bird at a safe enough distance and call over mine to stall with it.

A thought passes by and I unthinkingly give M.K. a spare taffy, hoping it'll calm her down. Poor thing, she's clearly unacquainted with the infernal rampage of it all. To my pleasant surprise, she reverts from her state of devastation almost as easily as I adjust my elbow guards. That worked like a charm.

… In retrospect, it probably is.

Anyhow, leaving them to recover in the shade of the birch, I make my way over to where I’d spotted General Ronin.

Taking my helmet off, I’m about to announce my presence, when I notice the General and Nod having something of a touchy conversation.
I hold my tongue and hide myself away, trying to determine a proper cue to reveal myself.

When Nod says something that catches at my trachea and yanks at it.


“Ronin, I don’t know what to say. She was your— I’m sorry—”

It’s not so much of what he says, more of how he says it that cuts my airways.
I don’t know why it’s as shocking as it is. Everyone knew they were close in the ways of the heart. I knew too.

Why am I so devastated?

The confirmation was necessary. But was I ready for it? Would I ever be?

Guess not.

Today proved to me he’s not what I thought he was. There’s a whole lot more to him. This childish admiration doesn’t bode well for me at all, I shouldn’t be meddling with affairs I can’t fathom.

Swallowing air through my parched throat, I am once again reminded of my injuries after the adrenaline within dies. The next sentence I hear, however, brings back the zest in me.

“Does that make me your second second-in-command?” 

It hasn’t even been an hour and Nod’s already trying to sabotage my newfound title.

All in playful banter, I reveal myself.

“When I’m dead, sure,” I retort, rolling over with my arms folded comfortably on my chestplate, shoulder tacked against the wooden root.

There’s something about the Leafmen I’m closest to: they’ll do everything but actually just say “hello” in greeting when they see me.

A blink and Nod has tackled me to the ground like a rolling boulder hurled right for me. I don’t resist too much, simply letting out something of a chuckled grunt, lightheaded with the sting in my back. He babbles incoherently into the crook of my neck, unmoving on his own accord.

This boy.

I chuckle and pat his back, bemused.

“You’re the second second-in-command?”

“Won’t be for long if you don’t get off me, Nod. You’re so much heavier than you look—”

“What? I’m perfect what are you talking ab—”

Not exactly having any of this, General Ronin yanks him to his feet by the collar.

“Go mind your bird,” he barks, shoving Nod towards it. Chastised but uncluttered, Nod obliges, skipping along. Laughing quietly at him, I look up from my place on the ground at Ronin’s proflie. His features are mottled in perspiration and unrelenting agitation as he nags at Nod.

“A sparrow? Out of every bird out there?”

“They’re small, fast and available, give me a break.”

“Sparrows are wild birds. They won’t eat what we give to the hummingbirds.”

“They’re both birds, Ronin.”

Exasperated by Nod’s juvenility, the General rolls his eyes and instead turns to me. I swear his eyes lose a bit of the fire they had, as if expecting me to have some form of salvation for him out of this.

I really need to know if I’m in delirium.

Assuming decorum, I tack myself up on my elbows. Pursing his lips, he holds out a hand for me to take. I take it for support to stand, but he simply yanks me up to my feet without hindrance.

If he’s so tight-lipped why does he need to be so kissable?
 

Trying not to make a fool of myself, I brush the dust off my uniform and begin naturally.

“I came as fast as I could. My bird is perched just behind this root. I’ve packed rations and—”

“Are you alright?”

I lose my train of thought, taken slightly aback by the concern. He inches on an answer, unblinking.

“D— Y-Yes, I’m fine,” I say, hating that my voice tapers off towards the end. I clear my throat and make up for the falter by standing straighter. He’s unconvinced, I can tell, but nods curtly and pats my arm as he always does.

Except he just has to pat the one battered by that pebble from earlier.

I wince and stifle a grunt. His gaze hardens.

Wow, I've been had.

“You didn’t seek out the healer?”

“I did, but— there was a minor setback after.”

This shifts something in him; his brows crease harder through a demanding glare. I sigh and point at M.K. and the Pod Keepers in the distance.

“That lot had the inspired idea of taking seeds from a squirrel’s den to feed your bird and weren’t entirely discreet about it. The clamour probably alarmed Boggans and they joined the onslaught,” I explain, careful with my tone.

My hands subconsciously plant themselves on top of one another on my back as I watch him lose perhaps another year of his span just listening. I can’t help but feel bad.

“But well, it’s been dealt with.”

“For now. ”

Addressing the elephant in the room, General Ronin turns to the rest.

“Boggans are closing in fast. We need to head out now. Nod, you ride with the pod. I’ll ride ahead with the snails.”

“ Still a slug, soldier boy.”

Ronin's eyes roll back and he rubs at his face tiredly. I resist a smile and whistle for Sween. 

And against it all, offer him a handkerchief from my own handy pouch drenched in the pristine canal water. He takes it after a few rounds of looking between the cloth and my face, hesitant with befuddlement. I gesture wiping at my face to hint him.

"We'll get there, General. I know this is challenging, but we're a tough lot," I affirm, patting his arm. He tentatively brushes the wet fabric across his face, as if disapproving of soiling it. 

"I'll ride vedette." 

With that and another pat on his arm, I stride over to Sween. On the way, I catch Nod cheesing at something. Follow his gaze to find myself pitying M.K.'s lack of expertise in mounting a bird.
A soft smirk creases my lips.

Oh, so he's got a bit of a craving for this sugarcube.

As I devise drama by myself, General Ronin passes by me to station at his bird. The darling chirps in recognition and promptly chastises him for straying her. He takes the blame, soothing her with caresses to her soft plumage. I glance sideways at him to find him folding my handkerchief neatly, before holding it up and looking to me. 

"I'll return this once I've washed it." 

"You don't have to. It's just a handkerchief." 

"You embroidered your initials on it for a reason. I won't keep what isn't mine." 

I want to retort, but find myself defenceless, so my mouth simply hangs open for a moment before returning to its usual tight line. He offers me a half-smile and pats the small of my back.

I thank my stars he turns away the next moment to haul his passengers onto his bird, because my face is flushed.

This infatuation will be the death of me, I realise. He doesn't even know the effect he has on me. Or does he know and simply chooses to torment me like this? 

Of course not, I remind myself.
 
Queen Tara.

The road to losing feelings for this man is long and gravelled. But I'm used to thorns under my foot. 

We take flight in a triangle formation with the scorching sun overhead and looming threat everywhere else.

Chapter Text

If I tried to tell you just how smug I feel right now, I would fail spectacularly because no amount of words in the dictionary can express the feeling. 

Us soldiers live simple lives. We wake up, we train, we feast, we train some more. Occasionally escort royalty, run raids, arrest, slaughter. The only time we aren’t mechanical machines of military intent is the routined off-days we get in shifts. Most of us come from faraway villages and find the city too costly to live in, so tend to stay in the dorms anyway.

There isn’t much we do; just drink and converse mainly. Catch up. Tend to one another’s wounds, in acts of trying to reconnect. It works. While these acts may sound the part, our topics of conversation aren’t mundane.

Some share their many escapades and shenanigans that they’ve managed, many offer news from back home or the city. Elder Leafmen reminisce their olden days of glory, lament lost opportunities. Sometimes Gurch joins in with Byerda for a walk down memory lane.

A favourite topic is love and its fickle quirks; we all enjoy dabbling in the dramatics that gossip of this sort offers.

All, but Nod.

In the whole decade that I’ve known Nod, he has always condemned and ridiculed its divinity, calling it a “game.” And by the looks of it, he wholeheartedly believes this.

Nod’s been very popular among the city girls of his age ever since he hit adolescence. How could he not? Wide set shoulders offering a pair of leanly built arms, adorable freckles, hair that looks constantly disheveled but never salubrious or frazzled, eyes brown as the scented loam he treads so confidently on and a devil-may-care attitude— you have yourself a proper heartthrob.

And this boy has broken every single heart that has cried out to him. What for? 

“It’s pointless.” 

We’ve collectively decided to ignore this lovesick fool, but some few years ago, I’d warned Nod. Someday, someone was going to come into his life and make it all about them. He wouldn’t have a thing to say about it and pushing them away would make him crumble like a tower of pebbles. 

Obviously, he’d gagged and denied dramatically, going on elaborately as to why I’m very much wrong.

And now. 

“Hey, I’m Nod by the way.” 

“Hi. M.K.. Yeah… Could you just face the way the bird’s driving?”

“No, don’t worry, she practically flies herself.” 

Even from the very back of the troupe, I can hear the flirtatious intent. He’s purposefully making his voice deeper. And don’t even get me started on the “she practically flies herself”; oldest trick in the book. 

I refrain from grinning too hard because General Ronin is riding parallel to me. While I’m heavily gruntled, he looks rather miserable, if not irritated by Nod’s advancements. Almost as if he’s having secondhand embarrassment from it. 

Grub has been glaring holes through Nod the entire ride too. I feel his murderous intent and the General’s judgement solidate and weigh down on the air around us with every passing moment, but don’t dare say anything. After a long while of just observing, my commanding officer blurts, unable to take it anymore.

“What is he doing?” he huffs, eyeing Nod with a frown of genuine disappointment. 

I puff a laugh through my nose and carefully swerve Sween a little closer to him.  

“His best,” I retort for Nod’s sake. 

The moment I do, he swoops his bird down in a deadly spiralling dive as M.K.’s screech of horror rings through the air. The irony makes me cringe.

Nod, I can’t keep defending you if you carry this on.

Ronin rolls his eyes and I sigh vainly. 

“A lot of good it’s doing him,” he mutters gruffly before flying forward to bark at Nod. He’s told to perch his bird and I follow suit. The sight ahead makes me gulp and lose my humour to the depths of my gut.

What used to be dense forestry of thriving greenery is now a wasteland of rot and desiccated life. 

I perch Sween on a branch and stare dreadfully at the span of rotten trees and withered shrubs. Something cold wells up in the pit of my belly. 

“What did that?” M.K. asks, equally horrified. 

“Mandrake,” Ronin replies. 

I wince at the mention of this name, blinking fast to avoid the flashes of my past.

Not now, demons.

“Tara’s power always kept him in check. Now nothing can heal what he destroys,” he explains, eyeing the rot with disdain. 

“Except that pod.”

The gravity of the situation hits me once again. That pod holds the fate of the forest in its fragile tendrils and petals. 

“How do we get across?” I think aloud, following a descending crow with my eyes.  

“We have to go around,” the General decides, pulling at his reins. Nod scoffs. 

“Just for one scout?”

“Ever see just one Boggan?”

Before this turns into another argument, I intervene. 

“We should ride low, then. There’re probably ba—”

I can’t even finish what I want to say; Nod’s flown his bird headfirst into the carnage. 

“NOD, WAIT!” Ronin bellows from behind us.

I don’t think, I simply follow. 

The pod.

Sure enough, there isn’t, in fact, one scout but maybe a thousand, which rise from the depths of rot in a black screeching ball of menace.

All fiending for him. I swerve Sween to the fore to block their way out of impulse. General Ronin drones above us urgently.

“GET TO THE GROUND!” he yells, diving down. We follow swiftly, me maintaining the vedette position. The ferns shelter us some, but it’s hardly enough as arrows rain down on us and leave them withering in our wake.  

Holy fuck.

Taken to a fast landing, we drag our birds along in frantic hurry. I dodge a dash of three arrows with a strangled yowl. 

The sound echoes in my ear and it takes me a shameful long moment to realise it’s not my voice rebounding, but M.K.’s. I look around just in time to watch her and Nod pummel into a ditch, missing an arrow by a hairsbreadth. 

“M.K.!—” 

“LEFT—” 

The bellowed command from Ronin fires a reflex arc in me. My hand automatically grabs for the hilt of my sword and swings to parry a deadly blow to my left that I’d almost missed. Before I can move any further, I’m contended with a pair of gnarly Boggans and a gathering pile of more behind them. 

There’s been a good deal of emotional repression on my part today. Best outlet, if you ask me. 

In mere moments I’m slashing through rotten flesh, my screams at one with what I’m slaughtering. 

Through the clamour, I hear Nod yelling. 

“Out! Jump out!” 

Swordsmanship is the likeness of mastering a certain order of dance. Distracted and panicking, I miss a beat. 

We all know what happens next. 

I’m jabbed, punched, flung across the log we’re sheltered under and hit its hard wooden wall face-first. 

Thick liquid dribbles down my nose and splotches my chestplate red. When I recover from the mind numbing sting of a fractured nose, my moves are mindless with wrath.

Hack. Hack. Thwack. Slash. Rip. Crunch.

As the last one in my peripheral vision goes down with a gurgled grunt, I opt to redirect my flailing frame towards Nod to help him. 

Pressure on my shoulder draws me back.

The nerve of this bastard—

Apoplectic with rage, I twirl in place and throw a sound kick behind me.

So lost in hateful trance, I don’t realise it’s the General’s hand that stopped me in my advancement. By the time I realise my blunder, he’s already dealt with it. 

His arm wrangles around my thigh and jerks at it, sending me propelling towards his hard frame. Before I register the closeness of this move, he (miraculously gently) manoeuvres me over and plants me on the ground beside him like a hay ragdoll. 

Internally, I am squealing at the shallowly imprinted warmth of his arm and hand on my clothed thigh. Dazed, I peer up at him, expecting another earful for not being mindful of who I’m fighting. 

To find him with arms akimbo, already expecting my gaze. Chortling down at me.

He found it funny? 

Shaking his head at me, he takes to a jog towards the pit M.K. and Nod disappeared into. Embarrassed, I take to my feet after a few moments and lag behind him. From a distance, I hear Nod again. 

“Ah— HELP!—” 

My eyes widen and I take to a sprint instead.
 
Did something happen to the bud?—

General Ronin jumps in gracefully to that demand, swinging his sword. When I finally reach the mouth of the ditch, I glower into the darkness expecting to see something harrowing. 

It’s… a mouse. Scuttling away after losing a whisker. 

Nod is sitting on the ground, arguing with Ronin again. Just at the foot of the ditch is M.K.’s seemingly unscathed but unconscious body, pod safely lodged between her side and arm. 

A relieved sigh cuts through me in a puff and I drop down to land beside M.K., drawing their attention. Nod grimaces at the look of me in all my bloody glory and I shake my head at him. Regarding the young girl now, I kneel beside her. The others walk over to huddle her in a circle.

“Are you alright?” the General enquires, sheathing his sword and peering down at her. She stirs and mumbles up sottishly as her limbs stretch out to shake the languor off. 

“Dad? I had the most messed up dream. There were talking slugs and tiny little soldiers and—”

When her grassy eyes open again, she gasps. I hold back a chuckle as she realises these elements aren’t a figment of her nightly endeavours, smiling warmly down at her. 

“Hello!” Mub greets from above. Nod peers at her in what I identify as moonstruck wonder. 

Oh, he’s definitely got a crush on her. 

“Ah, man!” she exclaims. Chuckling, I help her up. She gasps again, cheesing at the state of my face. 

“Shouldn’t you take care of that?”

 
“I will, don’t worry. Are you alright?”


“Yeah, yeah. I didn’t know mice were this… scary.” 

I pat her back. Nod’s eyes are glued to my face and he looks horrified. M.K. also seems quite uneasy. I’d like to lighten the mood, but I don’t find a lot of incentive, exhausted myself. 

“Now, let’s move,” General Ronin gruffs, having enough of the aimless lingering. 

“Where there’s mice, there’s bound to be… chipmunks.” 

Oh. Fuck no.

The Pod Keepers overhead clutch each other, daunted by the impending horror of Ronin’s admonishment.

“I can’t deal with another rodent today,” I chide lightheartedly. M.K. smiles at me guiltily and I smile back before looking to the General. He looks momentarily unsettled, but brushes it off.  

“New seating arrangement,” he announces, whistling for his bird next. 

How does he do that? I wonder, a little envious. It’d be quite convenient if I could summon Sween from a distance like this. As his bird flits over obediently, he strides over to M.K., eyeing the pod on her hand.

“You’re riding with me,” he decides and reaches over to escort her with a hand planted on the small of her back. M.K. sighs in relief.

And I feel a certain wrench in my chest that has been bothering me a concerning amount today.

He’s just being polite. She is less than half his age, what are you thinking?

Which inversely proposes that he also considers me with the same passing thought as he does her. My heart sinks.

Oh, for fuck’s sake— I know his loyalties lie elsewhere so why am I so unsettled by everything he does that proves so? This fanciful maudlin nonsense is getting on my nerves, when will the anagapesis hit?—

I feel blood dribbling down the length of my face, gathering on the hollow of my neck. Simultaneously, I discover one of my nasal airways is blocked.
 

Fun.

Shuddering at the gross feeling, I reach down for my handkerchief and… promptly remember it’s with the Gene—

“Is it broken?” 

I don’t look at him, retracting my arms onto my chest. 

My heart? Very much so, I grumble internally.

Nod looks disconcerted behind him, looking between M.K. and I. 

“Maybe fractured. It stings like it,” I answer, the bitterness somewhat expressive in my tone as I stroll towards the cliff of the ditch to get Sween. 

“Let me see,” he calls back. 

I stop, unnerved and yet gratified.  

This is so childish. 

Turning on my heel, I flinch and swallow a yelp, not expecting him to be right behind me as I do. He blinks down at me with a light frown, before taking a firm yet gentle hold of my jaw and tilting my head up. 

His hands are big, wow. 


I'm praying to whatever deity listens he doesn't feel my pulse because my heart is clattering at the cage of my ribs.

I can’t help but gaze into his herbaceous eyes as they scrutinise the degree of damage done. His brows are creased, lips tight with… I’m hoping concern. After a while of consideration, his eyes lock on mine. I gulp.

“It’s fractured. You should… tuck it in place,” he gruffs.  

I stare owlishly. 

“How?”


“Like a displaced shoulder.” 


“I’ve never had one.”


“... Someone had a happy career.” 

I chortle. He flashes a quiet, momentary smile too. 

“Here, look at me,” he mumbles, holding my jaw with both his hands now. My eyes widen slightly, but I tentatively oblige. I can see my reflection in his green orbs and… yes, I understand why Nod was imploding on himself now. 

My nose is splotched in murky cakes of blood, both fresh and clotted. One side seems obtruding, like a broken log, dark around the infliction.


Ah, yes. Feminine grace.


General Ronin clears his throat, palms now cupping my cheeks as two of his fingers hold my jaw in place.

“I’m going to pop it in place at the count of five, alright?” 


“Wh— pop?” 


“Breathe through your mouth.”


“But—”

His gaze on me hardens and I fall silent, taking a mouthed breath as told. He nods, placing his thumbs on either side of my displaced nose bridge.

“One, two—”


I can’t brace myself, because he presses before he finishes his count. Classic; I should’ve seen it coming. 

“SON OF A— aAUUUUGH—”

The pain.

Is blinding, deafening, crippling.

I crumple in on myself, howling and even tearing up with the intensity of it.


Somewhere, Nod laughs and Ronin lambasts him for the insincerity. 

He was right, I did have a happy career. 

When I finally come to, there’s more blood draining through my nose and I’m struggling to stand my ground. Ronin hasn’t moved an inch from his place, watching me flail about like this.

Probably feeling pitiful, he grabs my shoulders and holds me steady. After grunting like a pig for a few more moments, I forgetfully reach down once again for a handkerchief. General Ronin sighs gravely and picks out a length of grass lint from his satchel. 

“You’ll be fine,” he huffs as I receive it, patting between my shoulder blades to spur me on again. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or grateful. For now I’m just miserable, stuffing the lint up my nostrils to prevent further bleeding. 

“I’ll get my bird,” I croak, before jumping out to pick my sweet little bird from her latibule in the log. 

I return to Grub and Nod having a face-off about who gets to woo M.K.. 

“You trying to jump in?” he growls.


“... What are we talking about?” Nod asks, confused.

Grub glares daggers up at Nod as I quietly pass by. 


“There's a code amongst men. It goes something like this: I saw her first.”

My eyes roll over to peer at the love interest being fought over. She is trying to mount the General’s bird by jumping on it; unsuccessfully lands on the dirt in front of it and receives a pin-poke on her ass. 

She’s adorable.

I watch on, intrigued.

“You're a slug,” Nod poses, outraged. 


“So? You think she'd want you?” Grub retorts, disdain etched on his viscid face.


“Look at yourself! Oh, that's right, you can't… because your eyeballs are stuck aaaall the way inside your head.” 

I have to look up to Grub for his confidence, honestly. What a maverick. He’d go against the laws of nature to be by her side. 

“What's wrong, flatface? Are you gonna cry? Do you want me to call your flat face mooommy?” 

He completes his degradation by somehow coiling and fitting his eyes into his face and mimicking a blink.


I bust out into laughter, helping M.K. onto the bird. 

“You know you're not insulting me, right? You're just grossing me out,” Nod backs away, grimacing. 

What’s striking is that he’s not denying it. He could say “I don’t want her” and brush it off as easily as dust on his shoulder pad. But he’s only posing reasons why Grub can’t be with her. 

Inversely proposing that he himself can. 

They glower at one another for a few tense moments, fighting a war of nerves. The air is palpable with animosity.

Invested, I mount my own bird, inching on Grub’s reply. 

“You've been warned,” he seethes.

Then jabs Nod’s eye with his own.


Stifling laughter, I focus on tying my reins. General Ronin hurries them along with a bark. 

“Nod, quit fooling around.” 


“Are you serious? He started it—”


“I don’t care who started it, I’ll finish it.” 

Chastised, Nod stomps over to his sparrow and hauls his two other passengers aboard. Grunting with the effort of flinging them, he sighs, hands tacked on his waist. His eyes flicker to me, and I offer my kindest smile. 

He has none of it. 

“Why does she get to ride alone?” he nags, mounting himself. His sparrow sneezes, blowing specks of dust in picturesque patterns across the air. 

“She’s injured,” Ronin states nonchalantly.


I gulp back a retort, realising the comment is just to sate Nod and not belittle me or my resilience. Nod scoffs, flailing his arms about.

“I’m injured too.” 


“Then patch yourself up.” 

Chortling, I intervene before this turns into yet another contretemps. Goodness, I’ve lost count.

“Nod, I’m already carrying cargo. It’s a short way, just hold on. I’m sure the Pod Keepers are terrific company,” I console.

Said Pod Keepers then proceed to make Nod’s life for this span of time a burning, propelling mess. 

Mub is perched on his bird’s head, Grub insistently against his back. On top of that, General Ronin regularly stops at points for a thorough inspection, in case scouts are on the patrol.

Every single time he stops, Nod rebounds between the gelatinous bodies of his two passengers and subsequently coats himself with their mucus. All he can do is squirm, grunt, yowl and shift positions. 

Watching him suffer like this, I don’t have the heart to fuss over my lint-stuffed nose. 

“Why is he even with us? He's not helping,” M.K. mumbles on our some-teenth-stop. 

I glance at General Ronin, anticipating his answer. He does a once-over of Nod and tightens his jaw.


“Well, when he's not being an idiot… he's a pretty decent flier,” he commends, quirking his brows in acknowledgement. 


“Could be one of the best.”

In the meantime, Nod is one push too hard away from committing homicide. I sigh. 

“He’s also got strength of will. I’ve never seen him fail at anything he actually cares about,” I add, sneakily wingmanning for him. M.K. blinks at me, then glances at him with momentary intrigue. I consider this the telltale of a small inclination: curiosity. 


And as we know, curiosity is quick to blossom into care, if the object of interest is captivating enough. 

I’m such a good friend.

“Plus his father was my friend, so I do what I can,” Ronin mumbles, expression morphing to something of grief. I ignore the violent cingulomania welling in me and dip my head in solemn reverence for the lost. 

“Many leaves, one tree."

We take to flight again, one after the other. Another crash and Nod slams into Mub’s back, yowling with the bump on his chest from his shell. 

“Can you just sit at the back?—” he yaps at them, getting off again. Thus, falling into another argument with the Pod Keepers.


“What does that mean?” M.K. asks on. General Ronin takes a moment to devise an answer, brows creasing slightly. I swoon just slightly at the man; momentarily reprimand myself for it.

“We're all individuals, but we're still connected. It's what we live by,” he explains, glancing sideways at me with a tight smile. I smile back, reminiscing the first time he’d said the words to me. 

I’d developed a habit of training into the night during my first few years preceding becoming a Leafman.

One night, I'd overexerted myself, trying to learn a rather complicated move. All my insecurities came raining down on me like boulders; I was weak due to undernourishment, a foreigner so I'd known very little of the customs and linguistics and I'd avoided answering any and all questions regarding my origin and the circumstances of me ending up in Moonhaven, earning understandable suspicion from higher authorities and peers.

Frustrated with myself for it all, I’d flung my training sword aside harshly, not noticing the General there. I remember how cleanly he caught it, how plainly he regarded me; not a speck of judgement.

Polite as always, he’d asked what the malady with me was. When I confided in him how alone I felt here, always being the least eligible and the runt of the pack, he’d offered me those exact words. 

“Many leaves, one tree.” 

Our oath. 

It means everything to me now; a mantra I’ve embedded in the very sinews of my own being. And it's lit rushlights of hope in my darkest hours thenceforth.

M.K.’s treacly voice breaks me from my nostalgia. 

“Maybe you're connected, but I'm kinda on my own,” she mimps, running her fingers along the delicately folded petals of the pod she’s holding. Ronin and I simultaneously retort. 

“No one's on their own.” 

M.K. blinks in surprise at the strong disaccord she receives.


I’d say more but I’m thrown into a coughing fit and end up gagging with the metallic tang of fresh blood lingering in the back of my throat. This makes the young girl cringe and she tries very sweetly to reach a hand out to pat me, despite the distance between our birds. 

“Not even him,” Ronin mumbles, eyeing me with pained concern before gesturing to Nod with his head. 

When we perch again, I lift up my head to catch M.K. peering at Nod once again with that curiosity from before as he inevitably slams face-first into Grub’s posterior.
 

“Hey, Nod, how's the view?” Grub teases, wiggling his rear. Nod looks like he could strangle Grub but he’s far too exhausted for the feat.

His dire situation works somewhat to his advantage, because in M.K.’s profile, I catch her flashing a small, fond smile his way.

I grin knowingly. 

This is going great.

My face drops when I feel eyes on me. I look around and lock gazes with a pair of familiar green eyes.


General Ronin is looking in my direction with that face— the one where I can’t discern his internal emotions. But his gaze is unfocused, as if considering all of me at once and none of me at all at the same time.

A tingling down my spine makes me scringe; blood is trickling from the lint in my nose down the length of my neck and into the crevice of my cleavage within.


I can't wait to shower.


Despite it all, I offer him a most ludic smile. The spectacle should be uncanny, but it’s all I can offer.

Unexpectedly, it makes his lips part and eyes widen for a slight moment. He then averts his gaze. 

I stare at the back of his head, baffled. His ears have turned pretty red too. 

He's flustered. As if he’s been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

... What did I do this time?

I don’t let it trouble me too much and fly onwards with the company that I have, quietly enjoying the vast green surrounding me at times and the ability to blend right in with its serenity. 

Chapter Text

The viridescent heaven shrouding us should be comforting, but it only uneases me further. All these towering trees flaunting their leafy branches, trunks clad lavishly in ferns, moss, orchids and lichens— this forest teems with life at its most primitive and essential form. To think all this could be lost to blight and pestilence if this pod doesn’t bloom— I shudder on my saddle.

Finally, as we soar through the cleanly scented air, I spot the incandescent glow of Nim’s tree tavern. We perch a little distance away from the entrance because it is swarmed by forest Jinns already making their way in.

“Well, here we are,” General Ronin states, voice ridden in exhaustion. I stretch lightly, twisting my axial body to reset my disks. There is a gruntling series of crackles, which makes me sigh reposefully.

When I notice a small canalway of fresh brookwater.

Immediately I look to my commanding officer, eyes purposely more round and glimmery, lips rounded.

One well-meant detour to lave myself is alI I ask for.

He blinks back deadpan and glances once at the canal. Letting out a debilitated sigh, he offers a tight-lipped smile and nods. 

I prance over before he can even finish the gesture properly, gather a puddle of water in the candera of my hands and splash my face with hasty care. I scuff the congealed blood off the crevices of my face and bordering my wound. The carnage falls into the water and is washed away with the strong flow, leaving trails of red in its pristine wake. The sight is akin to seeing ribbons fluttering about in the city festivals. I smile at the selcouth nature of this truth.

Taking more than I perhaps bargained for, I take my chestplate off to clean the blood that made its way into the depths of my anatomy.

My fingers reach for the pebble buttons holding my shirt together.

To find the first three ones missing altogether.

Not only that, but the notches holding my chestplate to my body are torn.

In conclusion: I have been flashing everyone the enticing part of my chest this entire time.

A furious blush creeps up my cheeks as I freeze in place.

How long has this been like this ? Why did no one tell me?

Cussing under my breath, I quickly clear out whatever amount of the sanguine I can and devise a makeshift fastener with a stretch of climber I find thriving along the bank. I keep my chestplate off altogether. With only the cuirass on, it looks as though I am wearing an outward corset.

Why must such situations befall me?

I stagger back up, pretending absolutely nothing has happened. Everyone simply rejoices at my freshened state. General Ronin only eyes me silently, stance slightly more relaxed.

This situation and his disposition bring to life a curious thought in my mind.

Was he flustered then because he couldn’t help but ogle my feminine bounties?

This idea should make my blood boil in rage and insides swell in utter abhorrence. I should be grabbing him by the throat and demanding the truth.

And instead of that, I let it feed my delusions further. I let the feeling warm through me, glorify me. Shamelessly.

Suppressing it isn’t doing me any good, might as well succumb to the unassailable power of my imagination.


“I thought this was a secret Leafman mission,” Mub grumbles, eyeing the mass of Jinn. I chortle.

“How many people did the Queen tell about this?”

“They’re here looking for answers,” General Ronin informs, taking to a lax stroll. We follow naturally. His answer incites another bout of anxiety among us.

“Nobody knows that the queen is gone, only that blight is spreading.”

“So, this Nim-guy can tell them?” M.K. teeters.

As we stroll in a proper line, we seamlessly become at one with the moving mass of Jinn. I curiously regard Nod, finding that he is seemingly lost in a stream of his own thoughts. I nudge his rib for subtle acknowledgment, to find that he snubs me.

The nerve of kids these days.

“He's the keeper of our history, but even he may not know about the queen,” General Ronin says in the time that Nod and I take to a spontaneous spar.

“He's not always up to speed.”

“But he'll help, right? He's like, the wise old man of the forest.”

People are staring at us, which makes me a tad bit self-conscious. The prickling sensation at the back of my head bothers me, so I subdue Nod with a jab under his chin. He grunts theatrically and jerks his head to look at the pink-clad wonder beside him.

“Uh, he's more like the crazy uncle,” he chides, making M.K. chuckle.

We make our way into Nim’s tree in line with the rest of the Jinn. The moment I enter, it’s as though I’ve just entered an interdimensional portal of sorts. The ordinary exterior of the tree hides a harlequin heaven of high spirits.

Light jazz thumps at my eardrums from indiscernible corners, doing wonders to dissolve the pebble that hasn’t left the pit of my stomach since the moment I opened my eyes today. The moment we’re past the archway, something whirrs past me in a feathery rush. I don’t have time to be discombobulated as the next moment I am ceremoniously offered a glass of liquid refreshment by a waiter who is thoroughly eesome to look at.

Dazed, I receive the kindness with a mirrored smile of politesse and a hint of casual charm. The other members of my trusty dusty crew are met with the same hospitality. My eyes stretch over the interior of this dance hall with slight awe. Stained pellucid resin decorates the roof and ornaments the sunshine shining through in dazzling colours to illuminate the busy dance floor beneath.

To the fore stands an upraised stage, either side of which has a trio of backing vocals who are belting out harmonics with musical excelsior and diligence. A considerable distance away from the stage sits the infamous Marmalade Bar, guaranteed to serve satisfaction in the form of succulent spirits in decorative demitasses.

Even from this distance, I can tell the paramount prestige of this dramshop is the one tending to it. I’d take a closer look at this candor but I’m distracted by phantoms of passing conversations flitting by. 

“The whole meadow just died!”

“Everything was green and now it's gone.”

“I grew up in that meadow.”

My eyes shift to the two elder Jinn discussing their tribulations. Discomfort wells up in the hollow of my chest.
“Why isn't the queen doing anything?”

“If anything happened to her, everything's going to rot!”

“We're doomed! We're doomed! ”

The words echo in my head and unsettle me further in my skin. I don’t realise my pacing is disoriented until I bump into a hard frame beside me. A pinecone Jinn throws me a dirty look for a split moment, but upon realising who— or rather what I am— his irritation dissolves to something of an entirely different nature.

I watch as it blossoms on his face like the first bud of spring: hope.

Powerful, unyielding.

Once again the pangs of responsibility cut at my chest.

These people trust Nim to have an answer and us to preserve what they know as peace. The air seems to congeal around me like stale blood.

I’m going to throw up—


“Friends!”


The apparent buzzing in my head dies down with the sudden exclamation. Shortly I realise the crowd has fallen silent as well. I glance at my troupe before following their eyes to the stage and the conspicuously dressed centre of collective attention.

Nim Galuu, the Keeper of Scrolls.
Many describe what he does as refined magic, but truly, the magic lies in this haven he built and the guaranteed enjoyment it brings to the people that visit this fortress. He and his team of moths document every morsel of the march of time and preserve it in a fortified den beneath the grandeur of his musical bar.

“Neighbours! Friends! ”

The varicolour lights around us dim to rest and a gilded spotlight falls on the stage instead. And from the depths of the scroll den emerges a stage with its revered star upon it. A kaleidoscope of butterflies flutter about majestically, paving his arrival with theatrics.

For a caterpillar, this gentleman does possess a good deal of charm and charisma. I confirm this the moment he speaks into the microphone. Everyone falls silent almost simultaneously, attention drawn and rooted firmly to his chimerical tone. I follow their gaze to Nim and don’t help a slight tilt of my pounding head.

The only piece of apparel he has is a silken coat dyed a regal violet with iridescent arabesque designs littered all over it. His ripe age is given away by the patches of white fuzz on the extremities of his face. The lime complexion of his skin burns at my retinal cells and yet I can’t look away from the three pairs of hands he possesses.

What I’d give to be this physically enabled for multitasking.

“Prepare to see your worries… disappear .”

For the sheer charm of it, Nim makes a butterfly perch on one of his hands concurrently vanish. M.K. and I stare, spellbound. The Pod Keepers howl in awe.

“I know rumours have been flying!” he enounces, seemingly mystically releasing another kaleidoscope of milky white butterflies from the depths of his coat.

“But the truth is never as bad as it seems .”

I can feel the dread that cringes through my troupe and I’s bodies.

Oh, Nim. If only you knew.

Undeterred by the hidden irony of his statement, Nim babbles on, spurred by the delighted feedback of his crowd.

“I have just returned from deep inside this tree from the Rings of Knowledge, where every memory, every event that ever happens in the fo—”

The rest of his announcement is cut off for me, because I am propelled forward with impetuous force. I’d jerk my head back to give this rude contender a piece of my mind, but am further thrown off when there is a sudden orchestral display around me.

Lyrics are thrown my way, the lights blinding me to a standstill. I try to shield my eyes with my hand, but they’re already occupied.

With what?

My answer is a singing caterpillar who is a dab hand at dancing, and has chosen me as his partner.

“So you don't have to worry about a dog gone thing, the Rings of Knowledge know everything!” Nim rhymes melodically, twirling me around.

Now, I can dance well, I swear it. I love dancing.

This is just quite sudden for my unstable temperaments.

So all I do is stumble and judder around like a ball bound to a string, discombobulated and flustered.

The lyrics all reverberate in my head in a shrill cacophony that almost throws me to my knees. Nim wiggles his brows in theatrical sultriness at me and I glower back at him disturbed, eyes bulging and urgent.

He can’t keep lying to the people, they’ll know. They’ll find out about the queen and all boughs of hope will wither and rot—

I am yanked with exceptional tenacity towards a direction away from the spotlight and music and momentarily hit a sturdy wall.


No, not a wall.


Walls wish they could have a pair of eyes the colour of ripe green muscat grapes and a gaze the intensity of the sun outside.

Our gazes lock and tear briefly and in that singular moment, I can tell the general is making sure I’m still grounded firmly to reality. As he would, if one of his troops were making a bumbling bulkhead out of themselves in front of perhaps all of Moonhaven.

But his hold on my waist tells an entirely separate reasoning altogether. He’s not holding, he’s clutching onto me. Firmly enough to be piercing my senses, but gently enough not to be bruising them and agitating me. The very next moment he veers his eyes elsewhere and his hand returns to its rightful stance by his own body.

No, don’t let go.

I rein my haywire thoughts in at once and blatantly ignore the remnants of his heat there to follow his gaze to the stage. Nim is reaching the crescendo of his musical number, his hands holding a bright parchment of a scroll, ready to read out the recent events that befell the forest.

We peer forebodingly on, dreading the outcome.

“It says right here that the queen– That the queen is--”

And there it is.

What shoots bile up my throat is that the designated word even rhymes with its previous pairing.

Dead.

How grotesquely admirable.
 
It starts as a murmur of a handful of voices and then turns into a sea of rumbling thunderous demands.

“What’s it say?!”

“Just tell us what it says!”

“He doesn’t know anything! Boo!”

“Fraud!”


As Nim is pelted by accusations of his fraudulence and of being fair weather, he frantically goes through more of his scrolls, as if that will somehow change the finality of this misfortune. I feel a tap on my shoulder next to me.

“That’s our cue,” the general mutters down at me, eyes never leaving Nim’s progressively retreating figure as he wanes through the crowd.

I nod once and lead our small troupe through it, arriving backstage. Having asked his background vocalists to try and do some minimal damage control, Nim momentarily appears before us, head turned apprehensively to the stage.

Not expecting us but an angry mob, he yelps at the sight, startled when he turns. And then falls into aggrieved hysterics before Ronin.

“Ronin! Did you hear about the queen? This is terrible !”

“I know, but—”

“We gotta keep everyone from freaking out!”

I peer at the displeased crowd outside, nerves pulsating with anxiety. Nim paces in place, panicking almost thrice as much. Ronin is trying to calm him with direct answers but the poor caterpillar won’t let him finish in all his trepidation.

“Yes, that’s why we—” he tries, voice faltering.

Ronin steps aside to reveal the pink priority we were asked to deliver here. But Nim doesn’t even seem to notice it, despite changing the topic of his exclaims right to it. I return to my place beside M.K., regarding Nim with the compassion I would a bereaving relative as he rambles on.

“And the Pod ! We gotta make sure the Royal Pod is safety hidden far away and—”

The second his eyes fall on it, he screams. Nod and I simultaneously hold our hands out to him, perhaps meaning to catch him should he faint right here. M.K. frowns slightly. 

“What'd you bring it here for?!” he explodes, wringing his wrists. 

“The queen's last words were ‘Bring the Pod to Nim Galuu,’” I answer calmly as M.K. holds it out to him.

At this, Nim loses the frantic horror and instead develops a… visible confusion.

Which doesn’t exactly bode well for us.

Carefully, he receives the fragile bud and mulls it over like it were a rare gem he is trying to confirm the veracity of. 

“She say anything else? Specific instructions? Maybe a note?”


What? 

Nod and I exchange bombastic glances at one another.

“Those were her last words,” M.K. affirms, patience wearing thinner.

“I thought you were magic.”

Nim’s cheeks flush pink against the lime of his skin.

“Magic might be stretching it; I'm charismatic. Possibly charmin',” he mutters, rubbing his cheek girlishly. 

As if to add emphasis, he throws a wayward wink at me.

I have to do everything in my capacity not to implode in on myself, offering something of an uncomfortable smile in return. I feel Nod stifling laughter beside me. Meanwhile, poor Ronin seems to be flickering out like a rushlight beside us, confidence dwindling rapidly by the tick.

Hey, at least we’re still alive?  

“Do you know what to do with the Pod or not?” M.K. demands, holding her hands out to snatch the pod back from Nim. Nim pulls it out of her reach and opts to scratch at his bald head thoughtfully.

“Not a clue,” Nim admits quite daintily.

I feel a year of my lifespan diminish into dust, but he continues.

“But I do know where to look it up. Follow me!”


With this, he turns to face his audience again. I try to warn him.

“Nim, wa—”

Unhearing, he waddles out to be pelted once again by insults from the angry audience. We peer on uncomfortably, feeling pitiful for the poor Scroll keeper. 

“Um, no, it's this way,” he teeters, waddling along in the opposite direction.

The disconcertment and hesitance in the air is so palpable, I have to let out a rushed, timid chuckle just to feel some of the weight off.

“Well, you guys go on ahead, I’ll patrol down here.”

Everyone non-verbally agrees, but one lingers. I dutifully step forward towards my commander and peer up at him expectantly. His face loses some of its firmness as he mumbles gruffly down at me.

“It’s easy to lose your way here, so just stay here.”
“Actually, I was thinking of staying by the bar. It’s the highest ground here after the stage. I can monitor anyone from there.”

I can tell he isn’t exactly on board, because his jaw does that thing where it flinches and hardens his facial features. I don’t back down.


“I won’t drink on duty, sir—”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”


He eyes me tentatively, brows slightly crunched. I ogle, expecting an answer. He decides to grace me instead with a sigh and a vague shake of his head, before turning on his heels.

Now hold on just a cotton-picking minute.


“General?”

“Go man the bar. And…”


He speaks the next bit over his shoulder with baffling gravity.

“Deflect any and all attempts of and at flirting.”

He then walks away like this is a completely normal side-instruction to give to me with no amount of subtext.

… Woah.


I don’t know whether I should be offended, flattered or undeterred. 

His tone seemed a strange amalgamation of grave and neutral but his comment obviously suggests I’m something of a mingler, i.e., I might get distracted flirting or something of the sort.

This is an outrageous accusation and it prickles at my pride; I am a woman of modest character and earnest diligence.

On the other hand the comment also suggests that I am a prime target for mingling.
Which is to say, he claims I’m attractive.

Backhanded compliment? Frontlegged insult?

Overthinking this is making me feel like a lovesick airhead again, so I simply drop the matter and make my staggering way to the bar as told.

Marmalade bar is quite literally a library if the books were replaced with liquor bottles. Each and every row and column of the shelves is labeled with neat, golden printed letters, stacked methodically in bottles of alcohol.


The sight alone is enough to intoxicate, really, I think to myself as I take an empty seat and hike it up to the highest height it can get. My eyes mull over the faces in the crowd. So different yet all etched with the same emotions in varying degrees.

Trepidation. Anger. Tension.

My guts churn and bubble as beads of cold sweat mottle my forehead.

Have we failed them? What if Nim can’t help? What if the scrolls simply provide a riddle and we can’t solve it? Or worse, we’re too late by the time we’ve figured it out?

A lucent, feminine voice tugs my attention to it.


“Fancy a fill, love?”


I turn my head over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld in my entire life.
So much so that I have to turn around to actually look at her, respectfully.

Crisp brown waist-length hair bound tightly in a fleshy braid, decorated with shiny little mirrors and cotton flowers. Her eyes are rotund and akin to that of a doe’s, her lips a sheen of red easily caught by a wandering gaze just below a cute button nose. There is a tint of rosy delight on her clubbable cheeks and all these eesome features sit atop a very soft, defined canvas for a face.

Her body is on the curvaceous side, dappled in a simple yet classy aquamarine gown secured to the waist by an acorn corset. Everything about her caterwauls "feminine grace" and I cannot help but feel the slightest bit of envy for her natural beauty. Momentarily, envy turns to enamoured awe.

Perhaps the most striking feature of this pretty lady is her stature.

She is tall. And by tall, I mean, head-looking-over-the-shelves-behind-her tall. I can only meet her in the eyes because my seat is hoisted to its maximum height.

The shaker on her hands tells me she’s the barkeep and I am immediately enthused, too fast for my own good. This is the woman I caught a glimpse of earlier while entering Nim's fortress. 

Trust, if I were a simple man with simple needs, I’d visit this place daily like a shrine.


“Ah, no can do, madam.”

“You sure? It’s on the house.”

“I… I’m on duty. I’m a Leafman”


Her lips part in gentle surprise before pursing together decidedly. I can’t seem to look away, the thought of it seeming rude. She's being a dutiful host to the torn rucksack that is me. I take another moment to mull her over.

Pretty is an understatement, she's amaranthine. 

Shying away from my gaze, she smiles to herself before reaching back for a glass and pouring me something nevertheless. I’m about to protest politely, but she cuts me off.


“Citrus Slurry. Helps keep the mind acute and the senses blade-sharp. It’s a military favourite,” she chats, sliding the mini glass to me.


At first glance, the amount seems entirely too insufficient for that kind of an effect but I nod gratefully and down it in one go.

Instantaneous regret hits and I hiss like a kettle, face scrunching in shock.

Now she did say “citrus” but I didn’t expect it to be this intensely sour. It’s as though the shot didn’t roll down my throat, rather shot up my brain and burned my nerves clean.

“Holy mother of— fuck— ”

She laughs melodically at my imbecility and pats my hand gently as I recover from the sting and initial discombobulation. My vision swirls in a blurr of colours for a few indecipherable moments, my ears ringing against me. When I regain my sensibilities, I feel twice as awake as I was. Almost as if I were an old decrpit painting now revarnished to its original glory.

I cough, peering in awe at her through it. She bats her lashes sweetly at me.


“That… worked like a charm, ” I rasp, jerking my head.

“I’d say it just triggered the charm you already hold,” she replies, smile stretching wider.


 Heat creeps up my cheeks, making me cough again. She shakes her head, amused thoroughly.


“Tough day, love?” she purrs, laughter tapering off to a warm smile. I offer her a wry one back.


“You have no idea…”

“I have ears, though.”


A rushed chuckle leaves my lips. I now get what and why my commander threw at me back there. It was advice. 


She’s respite and I can’t afford it right now.


Before I can politely deny the tender hand of repose stretched out to me, my eyes catch a face I wouldn’t have expected to see here.


“Byerda?” I call, baffled.


Byerda’s white hair is loose and free, different from its usual tight prison of elegant hairstyles. She’s bedazzled in a long, flowy dress embroidered in flowers and birds; also different from her usual pick of practical and loose-fitting. 

Let it be noted that Byerda loathes bars with a passion so heated, it could burn down every store there is in Moonhaven if brought to a physical manifestation. 

She looks around aimlessly for a bit to deduce the source of the voice that just called for her. When her eyes fall on me, they widen bombastically. Her lips purse together tightly, her frame freezing in place. I stare unblinkingly, the sight of her in a setting like so unnatural. 

She looks… frightened. 


I don’t mean to assume anything, and it’s hardly any of my concern, but the getup, the premise and her initial reaction to seeing me here is begging a very obvious conclusion.

A conclusion that slashes my chest open in painful coldness.


She’s cheating on Gurch with someone here and avoided his suspicions by lying to him about visiting his sister.


The very thought makes me want to throw up whatever the contents of my stomach are right now. A few moments pass in painful awkwardness as we simply eye one another in mirrored emotion.

Byerda moves first, padding over to me hastily.  Her expression is entirely different now; intense and urgent. I gulp, unequipped for whatever this is.


Fuck, I should’ve just patrolled.


When she reaches where I am, she towers over me, arms akimbo. This would usually mean she seeks an explanation, which is strange because she’s the one who has some serious explaining to do.


“Well?” she demands.

I gape, dumbstruck.
 
“... What?”

“Why are you here?”


A scoff puffs through me as I take Byerda’s face in, my own hardening with hurt.


Not an ounce of remorse?


“I should be asking you that, Byerda,” I hiss up, eyeing the stage momentarily.


Byerda gasps in sheer offended outrage and before I even comprehend it, my ear is in her hand being wrung as if I were a naughty five-year-old. I cry out in pain, flailing.


“Ow! Let go, what are you—”


“Oh, don’t mind me, just trying to pinpoint the nerve that allowed you to give me attitude when it is you who is loitering in this dingy bar during work hours— ”



I smack her hand away, standing up. Now I have to tilt my head up to meet her gaze, which doesn’t do much for my “intimidating” factor, but my eyes are fiery and my tone demanding enough.


“I’m here with the general, worry about your own loyalties.”

“Excuse me?”


I scoff again, gesturing the bar. She glowers at me like an infuriated ostrich.


“Shouldn’t you be visiting Gurch’s sister ?” I bark. 


“And whatever gave you the idea that I am not, you feisty little rodent?” she snarls back, teeth gritting threateningly. 


I’m thrown off for a second, sputtering for words. I realise a little too late that the conclusion was assumed, not corroborated.

“In a bar ?” I pose in a feeble attempt at redemption.


Before Byerda can answer (or rather, yell), the pretty barkeep chimes sweetly.


“It is hardly her fault his sister is the barkeeper, lovely.”

Chapter Text

Mumchance, I gape up, eyes a pair of full-moons.
And momentarily throw a wayward, sardonic chuckle.

“Good one,” I comment, licking the salt rim of my slurry.

Yeah, no.

She might be someone’s sister, but not Gurch’s sister.
Gurch’s admirable self is waltzing with death on a tightrope. This breathtaking vale of velvety feminine delight looks about as old as Nod.

The pair of pointed gazes from the ladies in my attendance tells me this isn’t, in fact, a jape on their end. Self-conscious, I clear my throat. The disbelief is evident in my features, albeit humbled; mostly because I am slightly apprehended by Byerda’s glowering.

“You can’t possibly be his sister ,” I mimp stubbornly. Byerda rolls her eyes at me and smacks me upside the head. The barkeep giggles girlishly.

“You’ve regrettably been fooled, love,” she chimes, using a towel to wipe at the counter. 

“I’m riper than I look.”

I consider her choice of words and blush furiously.

She’s a barkeep, of course she’s mastered the art of coquetry.

Our eyes meet for a brief moment and I consider disobeying direct orders from my commander. The fact that such a daring thought crosses my mind at all suggests she’s absolutely worth the consequences.

Maybe just a line or two.

“Fool that I am,” I try, leaning on the counter with one elbow (a gesture I’ve seen the other Leafmen pull every time they mean to “just talk” to someone indisputably out of their league).

“I never caught your name.”

“I didn’t throw it, love.”

“You could, I got… sturdy arms.”

“That shoulder enough cargo as it is. How’s about you don’t try this hard and I give you exactly what you need?”


My brows quirk up in mild intrigue. 

Oh, she’s ripe alright. 

She analysed the kind of person I expect on the other end of this conversation and molded herself into it. I don’t know if this is just a quirk of becoming a barkeeper, but it’s hypnotising.

Impressive.

Glancing around warily, I play along just a bit more.

“And what is it that I need, exactly?” I mumble, eyes trained on her tinted lips. Watch as a mischievous grin spreads across her lucent features. Before she can answer, I feel another smack on my nape and grunt.

“A reality check,” Byerda scolds, gripping the back of my neck and juddering it chastisingly. My vision sways as I protest vehemently up at her.

“Oh, bite someone else , will you?”

“She is twice your age. ”

“Wine is finer with years.”

“She has children .”

I purse my lips and go limp, struck into consideration.
Now this. This is where I draw the line. Or where I should, at least.

Byerda lets me go and huffs in absolute disbelief of my tomfoolery as I curl into an arch of shame. Seeing me this miserable, the pretty woman rolls into charming laughter.

“Oh, dearie, don’t look so sullen. Look around and flash those gems you’ve got for eyes, it’ll steal a few gazes,” she teases, taking my glass from my grasp to clean it. I huff and turn on my seat, facing the sea of apprehended Jinns.

“What’s the point if it isn’t the one I want?” I grumble to myself, admittedly a little disheartened. I straighten the next moment, the distress in the crowd humbling me sheer and fast. My eyes fleet over faces in glum scrutiny, heart burning within the enclosure of my heavy lungs.

What is taking them so long?

I peer warily in the direction my troupe is meant to emerge from, distress gnawing away at the tail of my grey matter.

Something searingly pink flutters by in a whirr and makes me jerk my head in surprise. I follow it to realise it’s a person, like me. A youthful girl bedazzled head to toe in all shades of conspicuous pink has perched herself beside me and is speaking to the barkeep. She shares the same crisp bough hair as her, and bears, in essence, a slightly scaled-down version of the soft canvas the fetching barkeep possesses for a face. The resemblance in their features is striking; I gather insightfully that this is one of her children. I look to my fore again, manning my sentry post. Laxly, their conversation beats at my eardrums.

“Ma, the blight’s spreading really fast,” the pretty girl teeters, her feet kicking at the wood of the counter. Her mother sighs woefully.

“What if it reaches our town?”

“I’m sure it won’t get to that, lovie. Queen Tara must be looking into it as we speak.”


Blood shoots up my brain yet again as I am overcome by the crippling urge to vanish into thin air.

They’re all so blindly certain of her powers, the truth may just crush them irrevocably.


“But she’s never held back this long,” she moans, voice edged in clarified panic. I hear her mother tut.

“Her Majesty has her reasons, my little Fennapine. Blight and rot have existed far before our Queen’s reign, and have tried to overthrow her countless times to no avail.”

“I know! But…”

I hear the barkeep tsst at her daughter, reprimanding her for suggesting anything but, should it be treasonous. I pretend I am not interested in the slightest, idly yawning.

“Did they ever get this close?” Fennapine teeters on, drumming her fingers on the counter. Her mother draws a calming breath beside me and I swear it’s perfumed in ravelberries.

“Once… a few decades ago,” she answers, tone distant and dismayed. I throw another wayward glance at the entrance, and jump in my skin. Promptly I relax again, realising I mistook a wooden Jinn to be a Boggan simply strolling in unprovoked. That slurry might just be a little too effective. The giantess’s silvery voice trills on in the background.

“It was a dark, dangerous time. Meadows once full of grassery and bloom shriveled to wastelands overnight. Entire villages teeming with life just dwindled to silent, barren graveyards,” she laments, serious. 

“Day or night, you’d have to be on guard, because people were going missing , every single day. No one knew where they went, or what happened, they were just… here one moment, gone the next, unseen thenceforth. Poof .”

The discussion is unsettling me, I realise, because I am biting down far too hard on my teeth, something I do when I am agitated by something extraneous and inexorable. Unwinding my jaw and slipping my tongue between my teeth to avoid this next, I listen on. Something about this conversation, while eerie, is entrancing. Something fateful and… oddly foreboding.

“Were they ever found?” Fennapine mimps, reading my mind word to word. Her mother sighs behind me again and I hear a quiet tap of glass on the counter.

“For a very, very long time, no. Leafmen were sent on countless raids and search parties after search parties took rounds of the forest to little avail,” she recalls, voice heavy.

“We’d almost given up hope, until…”

I draw my breath, invested. My eyes roll over the masses endlessly but it’s clear my mind is occupied by this piece of past the barkeep is sharing with her little girl. It’s hard not to; her voice has that silvery tint that makes her a keen raconteur.

“A Leafman patrolling this area one night found a trail of fresh blood. Naturally, he followed it, and found it leading up to the bottom of this very tree. But he noticed it’d ended abruptly from then on. So he inspected the shrubbery around it…”

“And?”

There is silence on the barkeep’s end and I know it isn’t pretty. Dread adds to my heightened senses.

What did he find?

Before I can voluntarily egg her on, she resumes on her own accord. I feel my heart freeze and stumble on its beats.

“He found his toddler tied up and unconscious beside a bush.”

“Oh, goddess. What happened to her?”

“I wish that were the only casualty. She wasn’t bleeding, so he looked a bit further to see if he could find out who or what was. To f-find…”

“To find?”

“H-He…”

It’s getting hard for her to say it and I feel terrible for her, but I need to know too. My breath is rotting in the chambers of my lungs unawares so I opt to let it out slowly as I swirl the empty glass on my hand. Byerda’s voice cracks through the air and cuts it in half with grotesque truth.

“He found a Boggan feasting and rutting on the deceased, rot-infested body of a villager. More specifically his wife .”

Fennapine retches beside me and I still in shock. My throat is parched but I still gulp it down, the imagery conjured making my insides swell in terror and disgust.

“Boggans are not born female, and so they must procreate by means of hosts most compatible with their own genetic build. Us Jinn fit the bill too well, and Mandrake’s grandfather wished to reign over all life,” Byerda continues, voice thick with experience, but void of nonchalance. My whole body is tense, mind reeling.

"So they decided to convert some of our stronger men into their own kind, wipe out the rest and breed our women to proliferate their numbers."

It can’t be.

Is this the answer to my unresolved past? Is this why I was where I was all this time?

Is this what happened to my mother?

While a hundred thousand theories spawn and die momentarily in my head like a boiling pot of nightmares, the barkeep hums and consoles her petrified daughter in a foreign tongue. Byerda drones on, emotional herself.

“Unfortunately for them, the toxins in their fluids only led to gangrene and death in the female Jinns they abused. They simply putrefied and perished with no heir to deliver. Once they realised this, they began kidnapping female children from households. Doused them with practised doses of the venom over the years of their growth so when they matured, they’d make for proper hosts. And it worked. ”

“But how did you know of all this? Were there… survivors?”

“Hardly call them survivors, the ones I tended to. Raped, poisoned, emaciated beyond recovery… None of them survived past a week. Children, Memita, they were children. Barely blossomed, just green from the g—”

The rest of this morbid conversation is drowned out by static buzzing in my head.

It makes sense. It finally makes sense.

My past is an obscure painting that, when beheld, makes the viewer question its integrity and essence thoroughly. Parts of it are etched so very clearly, details down to a T. Hues of red pain, blue grief and yellow shame, bordered clearly with black despair. No matter what I do, I can’t erase these stains from the crevices of my memory and they keep recurring in my dreams to taunt and torment me.

Other parts are blurred, a smear of emotions and faces I can’t discern or recall to exactitude. I often try to shape something out, perhaps a voice, or a face. It feels like something of great importance that I’m missing. I’ve never succeeded thus far and it leaves me bitter and paranoid.

And a majority rest are bleached a clueless white. I cannot, no matter how earnestly I try, recall the circumstances. All I can do is lament.

There is a very real, very specific reason why I have refused to share my origins with the rest of the Leafmen and the faculty of Moonhaven.

And it is because I come from the wastelands of rot and desiccation they are trying to eradicate.


It makes sense now.

I am one of the survivors Byerda is speaking of. And not just any survivor.

The one they needed the most, the one reserved for their king to ruin to his whim’s delight.

I hadn’t even matured then, and still.

The unnecessary beatings, all those nights spent starving in isolation and frost, the constant humiliation of roaming nude for the simple pleasure of baleful gazes.

His ruthless ravagings whenever he so pleased—

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

The words rip through my eardrums and shock me out of my introspection. Stunned, I find my throat rippling in dry pain, my breath puffing.

Why am I panting?

It takes me a few moments to realise it’s because I howled those words out. My tongue burns bitter with the rancour and vigour I wish I had the gall to conjure all those years ago.

Promptly the ambience of my reality floods my senses and I opt to look around, dazed.

Three pairs of baffled, startled eyes peer at me.

Oh.

Fumbling for words, I clear my throat and grapple to devise something of an explanation or even excuse for this outburst.

“E-Enough drinking, Byerda,” I mimp awkwardly, putting my glass on the counter.
“You need to be back, Gurch’s gonna worry.”

Byerda’s stare is unblinking, the shock on her face etched so clearly it makes my chest ache. I glance at Fennapine, and she is clutching her mother’s hand, shoulders tense in defence.

The only pair of eyes that doesn’t alienate me, despite the lack of context, are the barkeep’s.

Memita, I recall from a speck of conversation Byerda offered.

My eyes sting with the onslaught of tears.

Don’t you dare.

I throw a flushed chortle and wave my hands.

“That slurry really does awaken something of a beast, huh?” I commend, throwing a wink at Memita again. She flashes a tight-lipped smile and glances at Byerda, who gulps lightly and defeatedly places her glass down on the counter with a clack.

In silent warning, no doubt.

She then turns on her heels and walks away wordlessly.
My eyes shut close in remorse as I feel the gravity of this exchange sink in.

I upset her.

That was disrespectful, indubitably, given that she doesn’t know why I yowled like that. My hand flings out to grab at her too late.

Someone else entirely grabs it.

“Did we offend you, dearie?” Memita offers in low consolation, holding my hand in hers. I gulp, not finding the gall to meet her kind eyes.

I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t.

I get teary again and in my panic, shoot my head to the ceiling with a trembly chuckle.

“No, of course not, gorgeous,” I gruff, gently squeezing her hand. She pats her daughter to run along and holds my hand with both of hers now.

And then she says absolutely nothing. She doesn’t ask, or expect.

She simply holds my hand.

I don’t even know anymore, the briny rivers gush out of my eyes. I can’t really stop them, I’d like to, trust, I would.

But I’ve burned my last candle and now all is dark and lost.

My head tumbles down to shade me from prying eyes as I mumble to myself in an endless chant.

“All those years, all those years—”

“You were just a child, love.”

I reel my gaze to meet hers, shaken. She glowers at me, firm and magnanimous.

“No more. You are safe now,” she mumbles, enshrouding my hand in her warmth. 

How did she—

There is no time to ask, because Nim has returned to the stage and stirred his audience up once again.

Swiftly, I straighten and wipe my face clean, because I know I’ll shortly be met with—

“You still sober?”

The trip down to where the Scrolls are kept is underwhelming to say the least. Ronin is distracted with dreadful thoughts of failure which draw him closer and closer to exhaustive shutdown. The Pod Keepers are in their own world of enjoyment, and Nim is simply coping through rattled humour.

When they find the scroll of interest, the commander finally lets out a breath he’s been holding since they walked into the fortress. His head is pounding, the back of his eyes searing with the efforts of the day and the recurring pangs of dread.

“Let’s see, hm. Pod, 'care of'. Must keep moist,” Nim reads, tapping a lime finger on his chin thoughtfully. Ronin ignores the sharp glares from the Pod Keepers at this reminder and shakes it off.

Get to the point, he chastises internally, brows furrowing slightly.

He’s impatient, if not unsettled.

Moist? Really? Of all the comments to be made, moist?

Idly, his thoughts roam and splay about for a moment, and he pictures something of a caramel hill mottled in gentle dew. It valleys in the middle, sheened a rose red along the sides as a crimson red river courses down the middle.

He’s slightly confused by the imagery, and scrutinises his thought through a trance.

What is he looking at?

The realisation hits him like a boulder and makes his green orbs widen.

Breasts. He’s imagining breasts.

Not just any pair, his second-in-command’s . From that singular moment on the bird. 

Ronin jerks his head physically by instinct as if trying to fling the thought right out, appalled by his perversion.

Exhaustion really digs a man fathoms beneath his dignity, doesn’t it? 

He gulps hard, guilt clamping his quiddity tight. All blame taken, he is but a simple man. He looked away as soon as he realised he’d been leering. Realising he’s defending himself, he fulminates with outrage at his own audacity.

What would she think if she ever knew of this? A woman of her right and acumen, she’d detest him for all eternity. Any woman would. 

Conversely, his inner self shoots back.

Oh, as if she already doesn’t wish to bash his face in, after their exchanges of the day.

He’s fully aware she didn’t deserve half of the earfuls that she did receive today. More guilt douses him, ready to catch fire like fuel.

So aggrieved and drowning in bereavement, he’s been dealing out blows at himself constantly, the withering eyes of his Queen flashing before his eyes and stabbing at his heart.

And Selpia, not unlike herself, took the hits for him. He’d apologise for the brashness, but he knows it’s too late for the damage to be undone.


He’s always too late.

Oh, Tara.

He now feels as though he’s betraying her too, by thinking of someone else the very day he’s lost her. How could he?

But what betrayal? They were never a pair.

Ronin is sure he’s about to lose consciousness with this amount of self-battering, so he fights his way back to ground himself into reality.

Cheeks flushed a furious red, he looks to Nim again, trying to make out what he’s saying about the Pod to distract himself.

“This calls for a celebration!” Nim cheers, hands in the air. Ronin blinks, lagging behind on context.

Struggling for a few more moments, he promptly recalls specks of conversations to piece together that the Pod will bloom either way. Relief floods his anatomy in cool flushes and he sighs out another few handfuls of evanesced stones from the pit of his chest.

Not thinking any further, he turns on his heels to resurface to the main grounds once again. All he has to do now is protect the Pod until nightfall, so it blooms safely under the moonlit sky’s grace.

And so he will.

The last remains of his Queen, her legacy.

Fate of the forest.

Tunnel-vision leads him right up to the bar where he knows his counterpart is on duty. He wanes through the crowd as Nim rises to his pedestal once again, undoubtedly meaning to break the doleful news to all forest Jinn present. He sighs once again, preparing himself for the crackdown that’ll follow.

Tara was the mantelpiece upon which of all that lives within this arboreal sanctuary thrived. With her gone, hope will be lost to the air as easily as a thoughtless breath.

Soon enough, he’s approaching the lengthy drinking deck.

He may be exhausted, but his previous moment of weakness makes him excessively self-conscious as he approaches his perched sentinel. When Ronin’s eyes fall on Selpia’s rounded back and hunched shoulders, he immediately knows something has gone terribly awry.

His build tenses with alarm and he opts to walk faster towards her. But in a blur and whirr, Nod’s beaten him to it, wrangling an arm around her shoulder.

Ronin doesn’t help just the slightest pang of irritation at this, and again , is baffled by his own natural response.

He just needs this Pod to bloom soon.

Convincing himself of this, he swerves in place, heading towards a small opening to patrol and look out for stray fireflies. He'd do well to let the troops know they should be expecting the troupe.

I feel a strong arm bounding my shoulder, the touch familiar. Letting this happen, I scoff up at Nod, shaking my head.

“I’ve been clean for months, boy.”

“No wonder, you’ve been looking like you need a swig or two.”

“Hilarious. Did you find anything about the Pod?”

“Oh, yeah, loads! Turns out it’ll bloom either way, so we just have to take it back to Moonhaven and keep it safe till tonight’s full moon.”

I sniffle and nod, relieved. Memita smiles at the pair of us, slipping away elegantly after handing me over to this smartmouthed Casanova. Nod lets me go and stretches, groaning animatedly.

“Where’s the boss?” I ask, looking around. He stands tall again, yawning. His hair is fluffed and adorable at this, making me chuckle subconsciously. Nod cracks his knuckles and laxly peers around.

“Dunno, does it matter? I’m out of here soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not a Leafman anymore, Selps.”

The words dig something blunt and painful through my diaphragm. I’d argue back, but I honestly don’t know if I’d make a difference here. So I just nod once and with pursed lips, offer him a parting handshake. Nod chortles and takes my hand, giving it a firm shake.

“Don’t look so defeated, come on.”
“Don’t go, then.”

Nod stills in place, meeting my eyes. I search his tawny orbs, looking for even a slight bit of hesitation in there.

And I do find a good amount of it, to my quiet relief.

“Once a Leafman, always a Leafman,” I mumble up at him appealingly. Nod purses his lips and groans, letting my hand go to scratch at his nape. I sit back, eyes trained on him in a manner akin to a very sad little honeybee. Nod guffaws and punches at the air twice.

“ Fine , I’ll think about it,” he grumbles and jabs my arm, walking away lankily to scour for Ronin. I follow his back until it’s drowned out by the crowd of Jinn. For a few untold moments, I simply sit there with myself.

The gravity of the earlier revelation is devastating. My heart is heavy as a pebble of sins, and my soul is aching and caterwauling within my vessel. 

I was just a child.

Miserable isn’t the term, I feel destitute. Forlorn and robbed of all will and might. Just a slab of sentient flesh.

He took everything from me.

My vision is smeared in hurtful tears once again as I realise how alone I truly am at this very moment.

I can’t even tell anyone.

Nim has announced the news of the Pod and now forest Jinn are celebrating the prospect of a salvaged future. Couples waltz about around me, children zoom about freely and everyone mingles.

Through my pained sobbing, I find myself smiling at this.

They’re not so easy to break after all.

Devastated as I am, I know I can’t do anything about what’s happened. The most I can do is not let it dictate what I do in the foreseeable future. I’m stronger than I was, safer still.

I’m a Leafman.

There’s more to me than just an unfortunate beginning. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.

Feeling a sliver of the warm hope hanging heavily in the air seep into and bloom within me, I stand to my feet. My eyes roll over the masses once again, looking for that familiar tint of green.

It doesn’t seem to be around, neither does the splotch of pink. So I dive into the mingling crowd, meandering my slow way through it.

Where did everyone go?

After being trammeled between joyous, cavorting citizens for a good few moments, I think I catch a glimpse of my commander’s salt-and-pepper buzzcut. Enthused, I swerve, reaching a hand out to lead myself bodily there. The next step I take is unstable and makes my body quake oddly.

Surprised, I settle in place, worrying the fatigue is kicking in again.

No.

It’s the ground that’s rumbling under me and making me judder in place. Alarmed, I look around and subconsciously reach for my hilted sword.

There’s something digging upwards from the bottom of the tree.