Chapter Text
The morning broke soft and golden over the edge of the forest, filtering sunlight in thin, syrupy beams through the thick boughs of pine and elder trees. Dew clung to the leaves like silver pearls, and the air carried the fresh, quiet chill of dawn—clean and earthy, tinged faintly with wildflowers and moss.
At the forest’s hem, where tree roots gave way to wild grass and meandering cobblestone, sat a crooked little cottage that looked like it had grown from the land itself. Its moss-covered roof was scalloped in thick green patches, and flowering vines curled lovingly around its stone walls, their blossoms open and reaching as if in worship of the sun. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, curling like a cat's tail against the pale blue sky.
Inside, Poppy hummed to herself.
Her voice was soft and lilting, no real song — just sound, something ancient and sweet that curled through the rafters and wrapped around the beams like ivy. The kettle hissed over a small hearth fire, fragrant steam rising from a pot filled with steeping calendula, rosemary, and chamomile. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the draft that rolled through the cracked windowpanes.
She moved with ease, barefoot as always, her feet nearly silent against the worn wooden floor. Her pink curls were pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, the ends tangled with dried lavender and tiny bell-shaped flowers that seemed to shimmer when they caught the light just right. She wore a simple, moss-colored dress cinched with a belt made of woven twine and leaves. Her hands were stained with green and gold from the morning’s harvest, nails darkened with crushed plant matter.
Kneeling beside a long wooden table, she crushed a handful of feverfew petals into a smooth paste with a mortar and pestle. Her movements were steady, practiced — not mechanical, but mindful. Each press and turn of the stone felt like a conversation with the plant. A communion.
“Just a touch more comfrey,” she murmured to herself, reaching for a jar filled with dried leaves.
The cottage around her was alive with sound — birdsong drifting through the open windows, the gentle rustle of leaves, the creaking of beams, the occasional clink of glass bottles. But it was the silence between those sounds that made up the rhythm of her mornings. A soft, contented quiet. The kind that often felt like loneliness if she thought about it too long.
She didn’t.
Instead, she dipped her finger into the salve, tested its texture, and gave a quiet little nod of approval. “That should ease the swelling,” she said, more to the room than herself. Her voice was always a little musical, even when she wasn’t trying to be.
A knock at the door interrupted the stillness.
She didn’t flinch — she rarely did. But the song in her throat stilled as she stood and wiped her hands on a cloth, crossing the room.
She opened the door.
A young boy stood there, no older than ten. Freckled, anxious. Holding his arm awkwardly against his chest.
“Miss Poppy,” he said, barely meeting her eyes. “Ma says I twisted my wrist.”
Poppy offered him a smile — gentle, warm, though tinged with something quieter. “Come in, sweetheart.”
He hesitated. They always did.
But he stepped across the threshold, careful not to look too long at her ears, or her hair, or the way her eyes shimmered faintly when the light caught them. Her beauty wasn’t something she wore — it was something that happened to her. A truth she couldn’t undo. That made it more dangerous somehow, especially to those who didn’t understand.
Poppy led the boy inside, her hand lightly resting on his uninjured shoulder. He smelled of hay and soot, of wood smoke and childhood, and his feet were muddy to the knees. She didn’t mind. The floor was already spattered with earth and herb dust, and she liked the honesty of dirt. It didn’t lie the way people did.
“Sit here,” she said, motioning to a small cushioned bench near the hearth. “Let me see.”
The boy sat stiffly, careful not to touch anything, his wide eyes flicking over the hanging herbs like he was expecting one to leap from the rafters and bite him.
Poppy knelt before him, delicate fingers moving with featherlight care as she cradled his wrist. It was slightly swollen, flushed, but not broken.
“It’s just a sprain,” she murmured, more to soothe than to explain. “You’ll be just fine.”
She released him only to move across the room, her steps light, unhurried. She retrieved a small ceramic pot of the balm she’d finished minutes earlier, a strip of linen, and a jar filled with dried willow bark.
Behind her, the boy watched her every move like a bird ready to take flight.
“How did it happen?” she asked gently as she returned, dabbing her fingers into the salve.
“I fell,” he said quickly.
Poppy glanced up at him. “From a tree?”
He flushed.
“I told Ma I could climb it better than my brother,” he admitted, mumbling into his shirt. “I couldn’t.”
Poppy smiled, warm and private. “That sounds like bravery to me.”
He blinked. “It does?”
“Trying something hard, even when you're not sure you’ll succeed? That’s one kind of bravery.” Her fingers gently applied the balm, working it into the tender skin with small, practiced motions.
He stared at her — truly stared now, like he was seeing her for the first time. Not the pointed ears or the glow beneath her skin. Just her.
She didn’t meet his gaze. She rarely did anymore.
“I’ll grind some willow bark for you to take home,” she said instead, wrapping his wrist in the clean linen. “Tell your Ma to steep a pinch in hot water and have you drink it twice a day. It’ll help with the ache.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Poppy.”
She smiled again. “You’re welcome, darling.”
He stood. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more — to ask a question, maybe, or offer something in return. But then the moment passed, and he only dipped his head and hurried toward the door.
“Be careful next time,” she called after him gently.
“I will,” he said without looking back.
The door shut softly behind him, and the cottage fell still once more.
Poppy stood there, hands still tinged with balm, staring at the door long after the boy had disappeared down the path. The silence now felt different. Heavier. Not lonely, exactly — she was long past calling it that.
Set apart. Always a little too much.
Too long-lived. Too beautiful. Too strange.
She remembered how his mother looked at her the last time she visited — eyes sharp and searching, like Poppy might twist her son into a toad if she weren’t careful. And yet, they always came. Always brought their sick and wounded and fevered. They needed her.
But they never stayed long.
Poppy turned back to her worktable, wiping her hands on a clean cloth. A strand of pink hair had fallen loose from her braid, curling along her cheek. She tucked it behind one pointed ear and glanced around the cottage.
There were no mirrors in her home. She hadn’t had one in centuries.
She didn’t need to see her reflection to know what it looked like — the bloom-petal skin, the luminous eyes, the sharp, delicate ears. People called her blessed when they were desperate, witch when they were afraid, and fae when they didn’t know what else to call her.
She supposed they were all right in their own ways.
She touched the place over her heart, feeling the thrum of her magic underneath her skin. It was gentle today, warm and steady, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. It always pulsed a little stronger after she’d helped someone. Healing made it sing.
Still, even that song had a lonely rhythm to it.
She moved to the small window that overlooked the trees. The forest stretched out like a green ocean beyond her garden, vast and quiet and full of secrets.
Something tugged at the edge of her senses.
Not danger.
Just… change.
The kind that comes on slow winds and begins with small things — a shadow in the trees, a ripple through the roots, the faintest pull in her bones.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her magic shivered beneath her skin.
Something was coming.
—
The knock came not long after the boy had gone, firm and rhythmic — three short raps, two quick ones, and a final thump that rattled the door on its hinges.
Poppy didn’t even flinch. She smiled.
Only one person knocked like that.
She walked over, brushing a bit of dried balm from her palms and unlatched the door.
“Morning, Smidge.”
Smidge practically burst through the doorway, brown boots thudding solidly against the wood floor. She was short — not just short, but tiny , barely over four feet tall — yet carried herself with the confidence of a towering knight. Her arms were muscled and bare beneath the rolled sleeves of her linen shirt, her chestnut hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid that whipped behind her as she moved.
She dropped a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table without ceremony and flopped into the nearest chair like she owned the place.
“I brought you the good bread,” she said, kicking her boots up onto the bench. “From that bakery two towns over. Don’t ask how I got it — just know it involved a flirtatious merchant and a questionable number of flexed biceps.”
Poppy laughed softly, closing the door behind her. “Did you flex your biceps or his ?”
“Mine, obviously. I practically lifted his cart.”
Poppy moved to the hearth, pouring two cups of steeped tea. “Remind me to send him a thank-you balm for his bruised ego.”
Smidge snorted. “Please do.”
She accepted the cup of tea with both hands, sniffed it, and blew on it like she had all the time in the world. Her energy was fire and stone — fast-moving, grounded, delightfully unbothered. She took a sip, then leaned forward suddenly, her whole body humming with anticipation.
“Okay. So. Listen. You know Milton?”
Poppy raised a brow over the rim of her cup. “The vampire who always wears gloves and quotes sad poetry at inappropriate moments?”
“Yes, that Milton,” Smidge said dreamily, setting her tea down with a clunk. “He requested me again last night.”
Poppy blinked. “Again?”
“Fourth time in two weeks.” Smidge practically vibrated in her seat. “And this time he brought me flowers . Actual, real flowers. Well, they were a little wilted — probably stolen from some rich guy’s windowsill — but still . That’s not nothing.”
Poppy couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “Are you sure he’s not just partial to your blood type?”
“Oh, hush,” Smidge waved her hand. “You know it’s more than that. He was gentle , Poppy. Like, asked before touching me. Warmed his hands first. Didn’t even go for the neck this time. Went for the wrist — soft as a sigh. I swear, I almost swooned. Like a maiden in a gothic romance.”
Poppy let out a soft chuckle and shook her head. “Smidge, you could bench-press Milton and everyone he’s ever fed on.”
“I know,” Smidge sighed dramatically. “Isn’t it tragic? He’s so delicate, and I’m over here like a brick house with legs.”
“You’re not a brick house,” Poppy said with quiet affection. “You’re… dependable. Strong. You anchor people.”
Smidge gave her a look. “Poppy. That’s code for sturdy like a tree trunk and we both know it.”
“You are my favorite tree trunk,” Poppy deadpanned.
Smidge burst into laughter.
It was moments like these Poppy cherished — where there was no fear, no careful half-glances, no whispers when she turned her back. Just warmth. Just a friend.
“You really like him,” Poppy said softly.
Smidge shrugged, but her grin betrayed her. “I mean, yeah. I like him. He’s… I don’t know. Sad and soft and poetic. Makes me feel like I could wrap him in a blanket and carry him around in my pocket. Also, have you seen his cheekbones?”
“I have ,” Poppy said, sipping her tea. “They could cut glass.”
“Right? I mean. I’m just saying. If he wants to whisper more tragic sonnets to me while sipping gently at my wrist, I’m not complaining.”
Poppy laughed again, light and real.
But even in the joy, something tugged at her chest — a quiet ache that lingered beneath the surface.
Smidge caught it. She always did.
“You okay?” she asked, voice softer now.
Poppy nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. “It’s just… strange, sometimes. You can give people everything — healing, safety, kindness — and still they flinch when you reach out.”
Smidge’s gaze settled on her, steady and strong.
“They don’t know you,” she said. “They only know what they fear. That’s not your fault.”
“I know,” Poppy whispered.
“But it still hurts,” Smidge finished.
Poppy met her eyes. “Yeah. It does.”
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping tea. The window behind them let in a shaft of sunlight, warming the wooden floor. The scent of rosemary and smoke curled through the air.
Smidge leaned back with a sigh. “Well. Maybe one day Milton and I will run away together and raise goats in the mountains. You can come live in a yurt next door and make potions out of snow lilies.”
Poppy smiled faintly. “Sounds peaceful.”
“Peaceful and hot,” Smidge added with a wink. “I bet Milton looks great in wool.”
Smidge drained the last of her tea and set the empty cup down with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms behind her head like a cat in the sun.
“You know,” she said, watching the light flicker against the herbal jars lining the wall, “this place always smells like a dream. Like the woods after it rains. And… lemon balm?”
“Among other things,” Poppy replied, lips twitching in amusement.
Smidge grinned. “Bet Milton’s place smells like dusty books and regret. ”
Poppy burst into laughter again — honest, breathy, bright.
“You’re going to tease him into a flustered mess one of these days,” she said, rising to carry their cups to the washbasin.
“Ugh, I wish. He flusters so prettily. ”
Smidge stood too, brushing imaginary dirt from her pants, then gave Poppy a sidelong glance. “You sure you’re okay, though? Really?”
Poppy paused for a heartbeat.
“I am. Especially after seeing you.”
Smidge’s expression softened, sincere and open in a way that was rare around Poppy — most humans either worshipped or avoided her, but Smidge simply… saw her.
“You’re not alone, Poppy,” she said, tone low and grounding. “Not really. Not with me around.”
“I know,” Poppy murmured. “And I’m grateful. More than I say.”
Smidge reached up to squeeze her arm — a quick, firm squeeze that somehow said everything. Then she turned toward the door, pulling her cloak from a peg and slinging it over her shoulder in one fluid motion.
“I’ve got feeding duty again tomorrow,” she said. “If Milton asks for me again, I’ll be insufferable. Prepare yourself.”
“I look forward to it,” Poppy said with a small laugh.
“Good. Keep the bread safe,” Smidge added, pointing dramatically. “And don’t let the squirrels in again.”
“No promises.”
The door swung open, letting in the afternoon breeze — cool and scented faintly with pine. Smidge stepped out into the sunlight and down the path toward the village, whistling a jaunty, off-key tune that faded gradually into the trees.
And then the cottage was quiet again.
Not silent — not ever — but quiet.
The wind shifted.
Poppy turned slowly toward the open window. The herbs hanging in the rafters swayed gently, and the vines creeping along the outside walls rustled like fingers brushing a curtain. Her skin prickled.
She moved closer to the window, drawn by a feeling she couldn’t name — not fear, but awareness . Like something had turned its eyes toward her from deep within the forest.
The trees stood still, and yet… she could feel them shifting. Murmuring. Like breath held in the lungs of the world.
Something stirred in the magic beneath her feet. A thread of earth and energy and root, pulling gently at her bones.
She pressed her palm to the windowsill, grounding herself.
The forest was speaking to her.
Not in words, not exactly. But in sensation.
A wrongness, subtle but sharp. Like a note out of tune. Like a wounded thing in the underbrush — not crying out, but bleeding.
Come.
That was the feeling. Not a command. A call.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, listening deeper.
For centuries, the forest had whispered to her — soft, playful, familiar. But this was different. This was urgent.
Something unnatural had brushed against the heart of the wild.
Poppy opened her eyes.
Outside, the sun had dipped slightly, casting the trees in long slashes of shadow. The path leading into the woods looked darker than usual — but it didn’t frighten her.
Her hands moved on instinct — gathering her satchel, slipping a vial of healing balm into its pouch, tucking a sprig of protective sage behind her ear. She moved like someone returning to a place she’d left only moments ago. She didn’t even stop to ask why.
She just knew.
Something was waiting for her in the trees.
And it needed her.