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rel124c41 · 1 month

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PSILOCYBIN AND HONEYCOMB. jade leech

There is something terribly wrong with the queen bee. Gentle and kind. Out of her mind. inspired by @merakiui dabbles and @pathosprit asks about god!floyd/cultist!reader

tags: alternative universe - cults, implied/referenced drug use, old gods, falling in love, blood and gore, beekeeping, fluff and smut, unhealthy relationships, thought projection, gentleness, inspired by psilocybin and honeycomb by harley poe, murder

word count: 11,895

When you are ten, round-faced and small, you watch the Reverend heat up the branding iron. He twirls it in the fire like it is a marshmallow, making sure the iron is covered evenly with a brilliant scarlet red. Gold dances over the thick, ebony gloves that the Reverend wears and shadows jump across the stone creases of his aged face. You watch the sigil rotate in numerous circles.

A foreign hand pulls up your dress, exposing your stomach and underwear. You keep watching the circle of iron and fire; as the speed of the Reverend's hands pick up, the two materials blend together in a racing whirlpool of a red and gold comet. Beautiful.

“It won’t hurt will it, Mom?” Your small voice is full of terror; your wrists tremble in the hold of the two adults pinning you down to the table.

“No sweetie, no it won’t.” Your mother, the unmarried woman who got pregnant, presses a kiss to your forehead.

When the Reverend presses the branding iron down on the skin on your hypogastric skin, right under your belly-button, it is the last time you know fear.

By the stream, God – The Odd One – calls and beckons and sings.

Hands fall idle in surprise. You were not expecting a summon from Him today. Raising your head from your task, you listen closely. It could have just been the snapping branch under a rabbit’s foot or the breeze blowing too roughful in a bush. You wait patiently for that divine melody to resume itself.

In the pregnant pause, a white dress rustles through the current of the stream. Its arms wave helpless. Under the water, the fabric mimics a dead gray hue.

There is no secondary call or beckoning. Holding your breath long enough, you fall back into your task.

White dress in hand, you scrub it with a mixture of mammal fat and lye. The cleansing agent bubbles and carries down the stream. If the heart of your God resides anywhere on land, it is here, your favorite place; in His heart, you do your laundry, domestic.

The Reverend would be appalled at that thought. You think with a smile. Water collapses from the dress as you wring it out. But it is an entirely true thought. The deeper you venture in the forest, the more you can hear Him. It is only when you reach for the robin egg blue dress does He come back, voice oscillating through nature.

A testing call? Dropping the garment, you listen intently, waiting to see where you can jump into the melody. After a beat, you find your place in the song. The construction of the deut sounds like this:

A stream sweeping in a downward incline, splashing in playful, petite waves as it tickles lower. It is bordered by plentiful grass. Like boats caught in a fierce storm, a handful of pine-cones freckled in the water move across the stream. Rocks break apart the smoothness of the water. The song emphasizes that the rocks give it a fresh uniqueness rather than damage the serenity of the stream.

The chorus is a bumble bee landing on a black dahlia. Silk, ebony petals curl off the center like a hundred thumbnails in a bouquet. In the light of nature, the black of the flower shines a red-violet. Nestled in the middle like an arrow in a bullseye, the bumble bee robs and rapes the center of the black dahlia, stabbing at the nectar with their needle-thin legs.

Carrying your voice higher, you sing about the breeze. The breeze puppets the leaves to give a graceful, continuous wave to the visitors of the forest. The bridge focuses on an earthworm. It is alone, red with speckles of earth. You take your voice past its limit when you find yourself singing about a forest fire. The ballad continues under two watchful, olive-brown eyes.

Unnoticed, the son of the village’s livestock handler watches you break your vocal limit for God. So devoted to him. Piety works itself over the tendons of your throat, pushing and pressing too hard, like a violin’s bow. As the unknown, dueting voice, Jade watches and listens to your consecrating voice, peeved.

Around you, Jade finds that his inhibition has been escaping.

He has been alive for numerous generations, witnessing patterns of human speech, human practices, and most importantly human fears. Fear is older than Jade. Older than the sediment on the ground that you sing to. Thus, innate fears often stay with generations – the fear of death, thanatophobia, is a prominent recurrence.

As the God of nature, Jade knew. He had felt men press their heads into the crust of the earth, begging for the other men chasing him to let him live. Felt people rack up dirt with fingers, feverishly pleading for the resurrection of a sick son or sick daughter. Felt fists pound the trees in frustration for the souls he collected and ate.

Even still, they worshiped him. Thinking they would be allowed into a paradise, ignorant that the old door death opened was a door made of teeth and tongues. Even with the false promise of paradise, thanatophobia reigned supreme and trumped all other fears in humans. In all humans except you.

You. How strange you are, altering the rules of humanity, since your tenth birthday.

You focus on nature; he focuses on you.

As you two sing together, he feels that familiar retreat of inhibition. All of it dissolves into the color and shape of nature like a technicolor sea, blending together. Everything he thought he knew about humans changes with a tiny paint splosh, ruining the masterpiece he made.

“Oh, look at you. All alone,” a voice breaks the song.

Rounding around, you glare at the intruder as God falls silent. You look at Jade as if you two were hunters and he had just scared off a deer you had been tracking. God galloping away off on hooves. Vexation like a gleam in your eyes.

“What do you want, Jade?”

Jade Leech is perhaps the most annoying villager in your town, sticking to you like his surname suggests. He had shown up with his mother and father about three years ago when you were twelve. Usually, outsiders did not join the congregation, but the Reverend spoke positively of them. You trusted your Father’s judgment until the boy proved to hold great interest in you and all the things you did.

“I was just checking up on my dear friend, (Name).”

He is not even respectable about your status. The village calls you ‘One’ for Chosen One. At ten years old, you lose your name like one loses a sock. Not Jade; he likes to call you by the name your mother picked.

“How kind of you,” sarcasm drips from your throat, sore with singing.

“You’re most welcome. You’ve taken to changing the spot where you wash your clothes.”

“Yes, I was hoping someone wouldn’t find me here.”

“It is very nicely secluded so I am sure that they won’t be able to locate it.”

I thought so too, your inner thoughts mourn.

“Though it might be a bit dangerous. So far off from the ocean and village. Why, who knows what kind of coyotes or animals could be wandering around in the thicket.”

“I assure you, I’m quite alright in the wilderness.”

It is a true statement. You were particularly blessed when it came down to manners of the environment and the animals which it housed. Call it divine intervention, call it confidence. Whatever it is named, you are spared a lot of trouble that could potentially come from inhuman footprints.

“Who knows? That unwanted company might seize the opportunity and attack.” Jade’s olive-brown eyes watch your back. Your shoulders move with the pattern of your scrubbing. Sweat latches tight to the curvatures of your visible skin. “Like right now, going for your jugular.”

“Try it, Jade,” you challenge, smiling – not in a friendly way.

Accepting the challenge, Jade stands back and watches your shoulder fall still. The smile on his face is not shark-toothed but it beams with the animosity of such a creature. You have other teeth to worry over. Fangs full of venom, a water snake has wrapped itself around your arm, sneaking up from its hiding spot under the dress and soap.

A copperhead snake twines itself up your forearm like an orange-brown vine. Immediate, your hand falls comatose, not waiting to disturb it. Here. Here is where the human pattern of thanatophobia should come into play. Jade waits eagerly for a shriek; copperheads are venomous, he is certain you know this.

You do not tremble with your actions. You do not tremble with your voice. Irking Jade further, you reach a finger from your opposing arm over the copperhead’s head. The snake does not acknowledge your stroke, continuing to squeeze, as you move down and grasp the tail.

“Jade.”

“Hm?”

“You should step back. This is dangerous.”

A fire of anger ignities on Jade’s shoulders. Cheek twitching, he glares at the back of you. You were concerned for his safety? There is a venomous snake acting friendly with the veins in your arm, yet you told him to stand back. So caught up in disbelief, he misses you successfully unwrapping the copperhead from yourself.

Which you proceed to throw in a bush, just a foot or two away from Jade is standing. “Bravo,” Jade says, unflinching. He stalks towards you.

“Told you to move.” You pull your clean dress out of the water, wringing it out.

“I do not see how you can be so composed in the grip of death. It is perplexing.”

“Death is always at our sides.” In the water, Jade’s shadow oscillates like a match’s sparkling flame. A quarter of it folds over your shoulder. “Why would I have any reason to be afraid of it?”

“You are the sacrifice of this village.” Jade puts a hand to his heart, leering expression painting itself on his face. Waits patiently for you to get frustrated with him. “I think it is natural that you would think about it more often.”

You look up at Jade, trying to decipher why the thought causes him qualms. Into your wicker basket, you lay the slightly damp dress. Task finished, you bring the basket to your hip as you stand up from the stream.

“I have no qualms over it.” Then the conversation dies as you walk off, nobody’s buttercup.

The stream babbles as you walk alongside it. Like a puppy barking at your heels, you two move in sync. Somewhere in the bush, you think you can hear the sound of the copperhead rustling. A person disinclined towards the very thought of death, that is who you are. Embracing it, you jump upon the fallen, precarious log that hovers over the stream.

You glance at Jade who watches you. Then, wicker basket in hand, you step with a note on your tongue. Walking down the log to the other side, you say with each footfall, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” Your voice goes higher as your steps evolve into stomps.

You crash onto the other side, leaves crunching, as Jade asks, “What was that?”

“Something I’ve been orchestrating.” You challenge him with a look, separated by running water. “You should try it. You never sing at any of the entheogens.”

Before the village drinks the holy wine mixed with the holy mushroom of God, the entheogens ceremonies call for everyone to sing. You have never seen Jade’s mouth so much as twitch. Though, surprisingly, no one ever makes a fuss about it. The village turns it back on any of the blasphemous actions of Jade Leech.

“Unless you sing like a croaking toad … ah, then I suppose it all makes sense. It would be a disgrace to your parents if you sang. Unfortunate.”

Jade’s brows furrow. Got him. As he walks down the log, forgoing the stomping you did, he sings the rising scale, “do re mi fa sol la ti do.” He lands by your side, hopping off the behemoth log. There is a golden firecracker of satisfaction in his olive-brown eyes.

“I did not know you could sing like that.”

The firecracker sizzles out as Jade’s brows shoot up. He feels a light pink start to tiptoe up to his cheeks.

Your voice is soft like honey, full of awe. Your reticent inhibition around Jade melts at that moment. Like snow on spring ground, you warm up eternally – just a bit! – to the invading pest that is Jade Leech. Someone who has been like a mite in your otherwise well kept paradise. You take him in a different light: cropped black hair, slim face, and olive-brown eyes just a bit less obnoxious. You had only heard such a singing voice from –

“Come. Let us go unless that someone you want to avoid finds this spot.”

The thought disappears. Blinking, you watch Jade stalk off. When you regain yourself, basket in hand, you walk just a bit behind him. Like the stubborn child you are, you bite the inside of your cheek, thinking:

Jade sounds good when he sings.

You two continue silently back to the village, Jade leading. It is a content walk, not even many rocks or lifted ground to trouble the path. Nature sings around the two in a musique concrete of twigs, leaves, and dirt. It is only when you feel a small tug that you wander off.

Jade watches with knowing, incorrectly colored eyes.

Your eyes sparkle upon a holy sight. More than a dozen light brown and ivory white jellyfish caps stand up straight in grass off the path. Like toads in mud, they break through the dehydrated grass in poor camouflage. Psilocybin mushrooms. The mushrooms that your congregation holds in high regard; a mushroom on piety par with a cross or a clerical collar.

Like the winner of an Easter egg hunt, you go to collect the mushrooms. Prizes God had hidden from you so you could search and prove yourself. Carefully, you start to put them in your wicker basket, sprinkles of dirt landing on the top dress.

Shadow folding over you, Jade inquires, breaking the silent retreat, “How many more days until you die, (Name)?”

No one should ever smile at such an inquiry. Yet, here you do, proud of the psilocybin mushrooms in hand, you answer with a big grin, “1,746 days.”

“Jade Leech, you little thief! Get back here right now!”

You look up upon hearing those words. Four buildings away, you watch as a towel crack on the back of Jade’s spine as he walks out of the bakery. The head chef seems to be the one caterwauling at him, twisted towel weaponized like a claymore. A sly smile is plastered on Jade’s face despite the hit.

Idiot; no one steals from her and leaves without a tussle. She, the head chef, is caterwauling like a soaked cat. A smile still emerges on your face despite your previous trouble. Speaking of those troubles –

You turn back to your work. There are not many jobs for you to take in the village. As the ritual’s sacrifice, labor is something you do not need to concern yourself with as the Reverend says. Attending prayer services, purifying yourself, and connecting with nature are your top priorities. You stretched out the limitations on the last priority and managed to convince that soft-hearted Reverend to let you start beekeeping with two village elders.

If our God is in every mushroom, every flower, every faucet of nature, it must be alright for me to care for His holy insects too? : that pathos and ethos argument won you the rights to take up beekeeping.

Right now, you are troubled by your job. Hairy white sections are on the lower burr comb and cells. It festers on a block of the hive where the queen is. A sign of another pest within the hive. However, none of the other signs were present upon last inspection. Of course, the sign of incursion would be near the queen – the most sensitive and paramount part of the hive.

The queen bee eludes your gaze right now, worker bees swarming around. You go to see if you can get a few to walk on your hand when something breaks your line of sight. Your hand stills. Held out to you is a half-ripped piece of bread.

Not taking it, you look up at the smiling face of Jade. Far away, surprisingly not giving chase, the head chef shouts: “Little devil child! You pest!” The grin on Jade’s face widens, teeth flashing at you.

“If only she knew the half of it. Here.” Jade holds up the bread, trying to appear generous in his motives. “Freshly baked.”

“Freshly stolen,” you correct. You take it either way. Stealing is frowned upon by the congregation but you have no fear left to worry about consequences. A tiny bite leaves you pleasantly surprised. Sourdough. You go back in for a bigger bite.

Jade sits down beside you, eating his own share and looking into the broods. Glancing up from your piece, you say, “You did that on purpose.”

“Stealing is often a motivated task.”

“No. You got caught on purpose; you’re slippery enough to steal and not get noticed.”

“I assure you that I was trying my hardest to not get caught.”

“Ah I see,” you say, wholly unconvinced.

“Your mind is not at ease. Usually you smile more when attending to your bees.”

Like a chipmunk, you stuff your cheeks with sourdough to avoid answering. “It is unlike a person of your standing,” Jade continues. Your standing: your life’s merit as a sacrifice. The reason that everyone calls you One instead of (Name). The Chosen One connected to the Odd One through nature and, thus, nature’s creatures.

“Sumtin’ s ‘rong wit the quee.”

“Pardon?”

You swallow, “Something’s wrong with the queen.” You spear a crescent into the bread’s crust with your nail. Despondent, you explain, “There are signs of an infestation near her section. I also noticed the capped cells were full of holes and overall seemed frail. That’s a sign of Varroa but I haven’t seen a single mite or deformed wings.”

“Always the queen isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand why I can never raise a healthy queen. The cell caps of hers always appear healthy, but halfway through, she suffers from signs of unknown invasion.” Quarantining your bees is the most viable option but you would rather solve this matter before taking a drastic measure. If only you could locate her –

You jump when Jade presses his hand close to the honeycomb structures. “Hey, be careful! You need gloves!”

“You do not wear gloves.”

“That’s different!”

“Hush.”

At that word, you happily wait for him to get strung. With his inexperience, it should only take a short amount of time. Sourdough in hand, you sit back to watch the show. Bees crawl like pouring vinegar over his pallid hand, curious, and you huff at his gentleness. Any moment now. Any moment comes but it comes with Jade pulling hand away with the queen bee on his forefinger.

“How did you –”

“What, like it’s hard?”

“I hate you.”

Jade smiles wide at that. The queen on his finger flicks her wings as he moves his hand to hover between you two. She seems fairly healthy despite all the disturbance around her. “Trying to steal my job, Jade,” you ask when he passes her to you.

“Do not even entertain the thought. I do not particularly enjoy insects. They may be entertaining for an hour or so, but I am content with the thought of their entire colony going up in flames one day.”

“Monster.”

Jade smiles in his you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it way.

Jade stares up at the statue of himself, contemplative.

For five out of thousands of years, Jade has passed time wearing fake human skin. Fake pallid hands find themselves stroking his neck for gills no longer there. Those hands hesitate over touching his ears, feeling thick muscle and bone instead of a thin membrane of skin. His trepidation around looking-glasses has eroded over the half decade. But, Jade still finds himself not entirely accepting parts of the body he puppets.

Walking around in the wrong skin is like wearing clothes too small. It squeezes over him like latex, tightening when he moves a certain way and constricting when he looks at it too long.

His hands especially are wrong, lacking webbed structure and the correct hues. How his fingernails flush purple and his fingers red when it is cold … it disgusts him. How his veins are blue under sand toned skin … it is a sickening sight. The human body wrapped around his working brain and working heart, it is the most grotesque part of this trail. Sometimes, he wants nothing more to shed it off an amphibian.

Jade takes his vexed gaze off his hands and returns to staring at the monument. Cleaners are put on rotation to polish and scrub down the entirety of him, forbidding moss or dirt to lay upon him. They are quite meticulous about it too. Meticulous like how a mother bathes her child. They scrub behind his ears, over the ridges of his dorsal fin, under the extended points of his claws. He has seen real, palpable joy on the faces of those given the job.

The sculptor … died about 2,050 years ago if Jade’s memory is right.

Withstanding the test of time, here the effigy of his true form lies, propped up on a block of marble chiseled to look like a sweeping wave. His face is sculpted in a polite mien with the slightest hint of malice. Smiling with teeth yet not with all his teeth. Just the top row. In stone, his tail dips in backwards J and is hooked upward like the frozen neck of a screaming horse on a carousel.

If asked, Jade thinks he misses his tail most right alongside his hands. The only change that he does not mind is his hair. Living on a warm island with long hair would have been bothersome, especially on his neck. The cropped style is nice; his real hair would have made him sweat.

Then, staring down the effigy of himself, Jade realizes he made a mistake earlier. He knows he misses swimming the most. His tails and hands: they are mere tools to propel him when in the sea, so deep in his plunge that it feels like he is moving universe to universe with each wide stroke.

Only less than three years remain until your death. 819 days if his memory serves correct. And this time it does; he is as certain as stone is hard. But such a long time in fake skin feels like the lifespan of a human, dragging day by day. Each inhale of the sun and exhale of the moon feeds the bugs crawling on his skin, uncomfortable in this fake skin.

Jade wonders, scratching his forearm, if he should speed this sacrificial ritual as he watches you race across the field towards him. He glances down at your nude human feet. Quadriceps, sinew tendons, and bone propelling you forward until you skid to a stop in front of him – with a jar in your hands?

“Look what I have!” There is a big, prideful grin on your face. With a flourish, you raise up said jar. And Jade responses –

“Wow. A jar. How marvelous.”

Your expression flattens at that. As if retreating, you pull the jar to your ribcage, protective arms around it. “It’s not just any jar. It’s my – Itchy? I think we have some medicine in –”

Jade pauses his scratching to interrupt. “No, I’m quite alright.” The marks running up his skin are angry and red, yet miraculously not bleeding. “So,” leaning in, he grins with all his teeth and says, “what’s in the jar? Must be revolutionary with how fast you ran over here.”

“It is!” Pride relights your body. You unscrew the jar with flying fingers. Then, you hold out the open mouth of the jar towards Jade, waiting for praise.

“Ah, honey.”

“Not just any honey; it is the last flow of honey.”

“I see. There is no more honey after that. So we will eat pancakes without honey soon, correct?”

“You’re not getting it, are you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Hmph.” You bring the jar back to your chest as Jade ponders on why humans are so sensitive. “The best months to harvest honey are from July to mid-September, right? And it is mid-September, right?” Jade nods at both your inane questions. Still not getting it. “Honey is the sweetest and best when you collect the last honey flow. The nectar flow from this is the one they make in the summer! It is going to taste Godly!”

“Careful what words you use, (Name).”

You two glance up at the company you keep. Though his gray left eye and yellow right eye are the same hue of stone, they seem to shine. Something fierce and glowing breaking through inert expression. You smile mischievously. “I’ll make it up to him when I’m dead. Now. Taste this.”

With a roll of olive-brown eyes, Jade leans in to observe the jar which you are once more offering him. Inside, the yellow honey tilts like a slow avalanche with the degree you hold it at. Gold gleams like the surface of the ocean under sunlight, almost sparkling. I almost miss home, Jade thinks as he dips his index finger in.

Oh.

Finger in mouth, Jade does not want to admit it but you are right. This is perhaps the best honey he has sampled before. The nectar slides down his tongue, touches his throat, and slugs down to his stomach. It is almost an addictive taste.

It is an uncleaned sweetness that melts down his throat. Like blasphemous scripture.

Jade really should not show you his enthusiasm for it; your pride will only increase knowing he enjoys it and you will grow more annoying. Yet, as if pulled by strings, he sticks his finger back into the jar. Before tasting, he asks, “What did you say the difference with this flow is?”

“It is the last flow of the season. With the bees hibernating soon, you can maximize the honey you are collecting by being patient. But there’s really an entire system to it, making sure you don’t strike too early or late.”

“Would it not be the sweetest during summer when the bees are most active?”

“Nope. Patience is the key; beekeeping is a waiting game.”

A waiting game? He watches you stick your own finger in, feasting on the rewards of your patience. The later harvest yields a richer taste. How splendid of his sacrifice to say just the words he needs to hear to understand himself and motives.

Eventually, almost telepathically as if both of you know what your companion is thinking, you and Jade stare up at the statue. Your saliva-coated finger and dry fingers place the cap back on the jar, leaving it unscrewed yet lidded. Jade waits until you are enraptured with the sculpture before he turns his attention to you.

You stare, contemplative. The sun is three hours off from its peak. Thus piscine shadows of the statue fall onto awaiting blades of grass. The silhouette of his dorsal fin like a knife and the silhouette of his hunched shoulders, leaning in like he is going to burst to life any moment. He has this hardly contained enmity is his expression, upturned eyes too sharp and smile too tiny.

“Can’t you just see me and him, together in paradise?”

“You two will make a lovely couple.”

“Heh, that’s what they all say.”

Jade studies your profile. There is just a tiny droplet of animosity in your worshiping eyes that he is desperate to uncover the truth about. You are bitter about something. However, whenever Jade tries to peek into that hate circuit rivering itself through your cortex, he gets nothing.

He supposed he could ask; if he is going to bid his time in other realms, he has more time to analyze the ecosystem of your brain. You startle when he speaks. “(Name). If you were not the chosen one, what would you do with the rest of your life?”

The expression you give Jade is easy to read: confusion. “If I wasn’t the – why, I couldn’t imagine my life any other way.”

“But try to. Try to imagine your twenty-first birthday.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Jade.”

“I am as serious as death.”

You shake your head furiously. “There is no other choice to make, but I am using my choice and have chosen to be there. As the chosen one.”

Jade, with all his immortal life wisdom goes huh? at your verbal affirmation.

“Such a boy,” you mourn, frowning up at his statue. You shuffle your bare toes on the ground, feeling the dirt cling onto them and tune into the radio of nature for a bit. After a contemplative moment, you say, “I am nobody’s buttercup. But I must do something so I will do that.”

“I see.”

Taking your words as a challenge, Jade leans in. Your nose scrunches, thinking he is going to do something odious and ruin this perfect, honey-coated day. If you were built in the image of your God, you would want his teeth so you could snap at Jade’s nose. The sentiment grows when Jade flicks the lid off the jar — it frisbees through the air — and scoops up a handful of honey. Some of it doesn’t even make it into his mouth!

“Hey! No stealing from the chosen one!”

“You never said there was a time limit on the honey you offered.”

“Well, there is one now! We have to make this last until next September! I have only two Septembers left!”

Jade laughs, licking the honey off his wrist. He makes another grab at the jar as you rush away from him, trying to retrieve the lid. “Back! Back, you heathen!” And the smile Jade makes as he chases you around the field is a perfect copy of the expression that is carved into stone.

Time passes like it always does. Life is a constant stream that connects in the ocean of death, making itself the estuary of mortality.

Those two Septembers pass and twice more you successfully harvest the perfect honey flow. Even when Jade jokes all sinister that you should enjoy these last moments of good food, dipping sourdough into honey, you never even shake. At the apiary, all the jars are empty, trails of gold stubbornly clinging onto the glassware. You and Jade make the effort to scrub all the ones you used clean until they shine.

“You’re not afraid at all,” Jade asks, watching you scrub the remains of your presence from the world. All you are: congealing honey on a rag which you will dip into the nearby stream, which will carry you away to a water funeral.

“Not at all.” It must be true. Because under the winter’s sun, your hands are steady and determined. Because when Jade asks how many days are left, you respond with an unshakable voice. Because Jade thinks with some sort of thrill unlike any he has known, you have been waiting as patiently as he has.

It is only when the number of days decrease and shrink down to the number seven does Jade’s patience break.

There is no sunshine shining down on you but you are still as bright as ever. Under the silver moonlight, you twirl and run and even cartwheel in the open field. You have been forgoing any sort of sleep, utilizing all the hours in a twenty-four hour day until you pass out from exhaustion, nature as your mattress. No one in the village disapproves of it, seeing it as you embracing your God. Jade wishes someone would though. He has unfortunately been dragged out for the past seven nights by you, wanting his company.

And I still have seven more to go, Jade thinks, leaning against his statue. He never thought he would grow tired but even a human body has limits. Sleep addles Jade’s brain as his neck bends as if he is caught in prayer.

He snaps back up when you shout. “Jade! Jade look!”

Seeing that you have his attention, you launch right into it. You take a running start, hands up in the air. Cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, ending with a front flip. Supernaturally energetic, you raise your arms up in your success, dress billowing around you, ready to accept the claps.

Jade manages a few light ones and says, “Well done, (Name).”

You smile happily. “Praise me more; this is the last week I’ll be alive to hear any sort of praise.” You twirl and watch the white of your summer dress puff up in a jellyfish shell. “Make sure they do not neglect to make mention of how good I was at cartwheels in the legends and stories.”

“I won’t, (Name).”

You fall back into it. Among the tall grass, you do a wide variety of different exercises and a variety of different dances. You move with the ease of an autumn leaf, trusting the wind. To the unheard and unsung song of nature and God, you gyrate around. Like God’s personal instrument, you bend yourself to the symphony that no one in your village has ever heard.

I’ll miss dirt, you think just as you blindly twirl into a patch of fireflies.

Fireflies explode around you like a firework. Wide-eyed and gasping, you pause with your hands raised up. Buzzing and rapid, the tiny comets of gold lift up from the flora and paint the night with tinier stars. Gripping the train of your dress, you rotate yourself to make room for the fireflies launching up to the west, laughing all the while.

Eventually, they dissolve into the sky, leaving your eyes chasing after them. They dissolve in dying breaths and dying heartbeats. You watch the last of them flicker out, finding a new patch to lie on or traveling too far for you to see them.

Oddly, an invisible bruise on your chest starts to ache.

Dirt encrusted feet carry your body before you comprehend what you are doing. Wildly, like something monstrous is at your heels, you run into the nearby thicket of trees, determined to reach the deepest part of the forest which surrounds the village.

“(Name)?” Jade squints at your fast-retreating form. “(Name)!” He picks himself off the statue as you rush into the forest, almost like you are in a panic.

“Catch me!”

The chase prematurely begins.

Jade dives into the forest after you. Pushing branches out of his way and jumping over protruding vegetation. Hundred elements of nature flicker across his vision as he runs and runs. Shadows elongate and distort under the occluding moon. He elbows his weight on a tree so it pushes him faster. Blanketed under nebulous black, the world beats with a thousand different songs.

All the while you are hollering and screaming. Screams evolve into frantic giggles and hollering matures into singing. Do Re Me Fa Sol La Ti Do, your feet race down the cliff slide in the pattern of the musical scale.

Your body is an instrument, Jade. Listen to it and you will be closer to God. Narcotic words you once said, deranged out of your mind. Narcotic words that you said while certain that patches of grass were growing from the planes of your skin. Narcotic words he had not paid much mind to. Closer to God, hm?

The crunch of leaves as you two run are like lyrics, right? Yet, the soles of his feet are like the percussion too? Guitar strings tendons pull with different frets and notes. Piano key fingers reach out and crush the branches in his way. His most powerful instrument is acting strangely though. His voice. That particular instrument is doing something it has never done before: laughing.

Is this what being human is, always running? He thinks this might be the faintest sniff of what it means to be a human: always running away from time. The epiphany is not about being human through sweet acceptance or love. His first taste of humanity is in the sweat of running and running while chasing.

Closer to God. Closer to humans.

At times, your aptitude is unreadable to Jade … that aptitude that guides you to never fear death. He wonders why there is such a wide gap between you and others when it comes to the terms of death. Closing in, he thinks: This Is The One. His fingers reach out, A0 from C8 scale running across phalanges. He could push you. With the momentum doubled with the rocks –

Still running, you turn to laugh at Jade. The pure joy on your face is blinding, hands up your shoulders and dress swaying. Your smiling face brightens at the sight of him (one close-eyed, titanic grin directed at him) before it winks away, flickering behind a tree. Jade watches as he loses you as you gather speed and sprint harder. Miraculously, you disappear from his sight, breaking the distance Jade had attempted to close.

God and human, you two run frantically through the forest. You throw out insults about his speed and he throws out his laughter in your duet. When the ground starts to decline, Jade finally figures out where you are heading to. He pumps his legs faster as the thickness of nature decreases gradually.

He breaks into the clearing by the stream, hoping to beat you, only to be confronted with the sight of you crouched by the water, twirling something between your fingers.

“Th-The forest is teething. I can feel it.” You pant like a dog. Jade watches the process of deflate and inflate; with each behemoth breath you take, exhausted and spent, your shoulder and ribs move with the hard work of your lungs. “It –” You choke around the salvia in your mouth, breathless. “It is the start of something here.”

“Teething?”

“Yes. Like babies do.”

I’m teething, Jade contemplates, unsure of what that word really entails. He knows little of human babies. It is only until you show Jade what is in your hand that he thinks he gets it.

“Look at this.”

From your hand, you present a black dahlia flower with a bright sunny center to him. The sunny center squeezes into a tiny circle then widens out in the average size. It is like a nostril, flickering and changing shape with each inhale and exhale. It is trying to breathe but as a flower it does not understand how to do that with a lineage of photosynthesis written in its body.

That flickering feeling of the beginning is so thick in the air. The start of something is here. It permeates in your bones. All through your skin, it permeates.

“It is certainly …” Jade trails off, not really used to seeing this side of himself.

“Beautiful,” you supply. There is a warmth in the space as Jade sits down besides you. The space between you is bright despite the midnight. “Can I tell you something? And you must keep it a secret.”

“Go ahead. I am as quiet as a church mouse.”

“I had this vision during the last entheogen.”

You still remember it. Swallowing the wine and, from within, bringing out the divine. Psilocybin on your tongue, you laid in a technicolor sea, holding up the receiver of your brain and waiting for that connection with God. You had a vision about the sacrament that is less than a week away. You look up to the sky as you speak. The moon is past the peak of midnight noon.

“I was at the ceremony. The sky was completely cloudless so you could feel the warmth of the sun. I was walking down to the slab bed. Dressed and ready.

“But when the Reverend told me to say my final prayers, I couldn’t.”

The black dahlia gives a sneezing breath at that. “Why couldn’t you?”

“My mouth was full of bees. I opened my mouth.” You look at Jade and decide to demonstrate. A fist moves up to your face before stretching fingers out like you are cupping a ball. “And blaaah, a hundred or so bees flew from my mouth.”

“The singer’s last ballad.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it is your mind rationalizing with the fear of your impending death.”

“Do not make me laugh.”

You are smiling, secondary to laughter. Returning attention to the black dahlia, you see the breaths have dwindled down to delicate stutters. It only stops breathing when you set it into the stream, watching it float and spin once. A dance in water, the revelation makes you grin softer. Your little theater show is only interrupted by Jade.

“What are your opinions on the ceremony? Now that it is so close, realer almost.”

You contemplate for a moment on the navel of the world, or as others call it ceremony. “I’m quite content with it.”

A picture paints itself: the stone rock, the slab bed, the omphalos alone in a field of psilocybin mushrooms, devoid of life beyond yourself. It is a bed you will eventually rest down upon and let the Father of your religion cut out the heart in your chest.

“I’m not going to die,” you whisper. Rejuvenate with that fact, you shuffle your body until your knees are tilted towards Jade. You lean in with flame eyes, a whirlpool of heat in them. Your next words cause the black dahlia in the stream to go breathless in surprise. “I’m going to find out if I’m really alive.”

“Th –” Jades breathes out a tiny laugh. “That is quite contradictory, (Name). Such an event would not inspire such a thought.”

“Well, it’s true so you have to deal with it.”

“I will burden myself with knowing it and trying to understand it.” He puts a hand to his heart in promise.

“Good. Agonize over it.”

You take to putting your feet in the stream as you reposition yourself. Spreading out your legs, you draw up your dress to your thighs. Dirt floats up and follows the path the black dahlia is being pushed away to as water cleanses your soles. The percussion of your heart beats through your toes as you wiggle them, trying to gather warmth under cold water.

You look like a high renaissance painting: ideal and perfect in Jade’s eyes. You blink your own eyes when your body is slowly moved. “I waited.” Before you question Jade’s harsh words, his hand on your chin, the start of something new blossoms and the forest sings.

You pull away from the kiss first. Eyelashes butterflying open, you gaze upon Jade with a fondness he has never seen. “How do I taste?”

If Jade will be your only kiss, he thinks it makes sense that you want to know what you taste like. He will not allow you to kiss another in the next six days. Considering it, his focus narrows to his mouth. Your bacterial corpse rests on his taste-buds, measuring and remembering the taste of you. Floral notes are encrusted with a sort of raw grime.

“Earthy and sweet.”

Giggling, you dive back in for another kiss.

You think this has been a long time coming which is why you can fall into it so easily. Your amygdala – once a ripe grape – is dried up like a sun-kissed raisin.

Cupping Jade’s face, you feel no indication that is the wrong course of action. Grass and dirt tickles your flesh, teasingly happy. Nature reaches slippery hands into your brain, infecting you with dopamine. This all feels so unnaturally right.

It takes about seven kisses in total before Jade’s hand starts to run itself up and down your thigh. Across a field of goosebumps, he draws his hand from the ankle freckled with water to the midpoint of your upper thigh. It is only when he moves up to the barricade of where you placed your dress that you grab his wrist. Partially in his lap, you squeeze the bones of his wrist.

“You’re not here for too long so what could go wrong,” Jade, eyes closed, asks the question towards your hesitation.

“Only two things are required of me in six days,” you kiss Jade to appease and because you want to. “That I die in six days on my twentieth birthday and that I remain a virgin.”

“Surely we can negate one of these constricting restrictions. I say that God is being a bit selfish.” Jade seethers inside, hiding it well with his returning saccharine kiss. Hoping to persuade and because he wants to. There is no possible way that his own rules are going to leave him with a painful stiff, is there?

“I think the man can handle one lapse of judgment from His prized singer. He knows you well. Say ‘oh dear God’” He vocalizes a facade of your frightful feminine voice, nipping at your ear. You giggle at the foreign sensation. “‘There is this awful, stealing, odious man down there and I. Fell. From. Grace.” Jade punctuates each word with a kiss. He moves down the musician’s scale of your throat, returning to his own deep timbre.

You shiver and, against better judgment, relax the hold on his wrist. “I do not fear the wrath of any man or God.”

The tune of acceptance, Jade thinks as he kisses down to your breasts. When he cultivated from the ceremony, it was only the human hearts he ate. This meal will be a new experience for both you and him. “Good. If you started being frightened, I would find you weak.”

“Is that so? I thought you were always veering for me to be more,” you gasp, toes frozen in the stream, as Jade cups over your sex. He lies his hand over it but does nothing more. “-- Veering for me to fear death?”

“Is this your death?”

“It could certainly be close to that.”

“Well, let this be the sweetest death you could ever know.”

With skillful fingers, he unties the back of your dress with only one hand. Though it comes undone quite quickly as if he has taken scissors to it. Strange. You do not focus on it long as tiny knives fall over your shoulder, removing the sleeves of your summer dress. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. Jade sucks hard on your right breast.

The sensation sends a ripple of goosebumps along your arms. It feels sweetly blasphemous, all the attentive kisses pepper to your breasts. A taste of something new and at its peak. You twitch when you feel Jade’s blunt nails move from cupping your sex to trailing a finger over the space where hip and thigh meet.

“Wait,” you stop Jade. His mouth falls away, teeth sharpening a bit with annoyance. He looks up at you, big olive- brown eyes gleaming. “I’m – Well –” You glance down at his hand that is swallowed under your dress. “It’s not a pretty scar,” you whisper.

“I’m sure it’s beautiful like the rest of you.” Before you can protest, the rest of your dress is pulled over your head. He leaves you in only your panties, sitting in the dirt by the stream. Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” Jade grabs the hand that goes to block his sigil. It has never looked so appetizing on a sacrifice until you. He licks his lips. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s still a scar.”

“Not to me,” Jade says, pressing his body against you so you lay down.

Delirious, like you are floating off a substance, you go to unbutton his long sleeve, wrestling your hand from him. Your skull is cushioned by your dress, bundled into a ball. The sharp point of sticks hit your skin. Wet sediment, a mixture of sand and dirt, clings onto you.

Under the ground, a foreign heartbeat drums. It hammers in a rhythm over your spine, bottom, shoulders, and soles. It is a mimic of the heart resting in your chest, syncing with nature in some incomprehensible way just like black dahlia managed to breathe. Chary thoughts dissolve from your head when Jade moves down to press a kiss to the sigil.

You manage to wrestle the shirt off Jade, using it as a rope to pull him, meeting in a kiss of tongue and teeth. Let go of your inhibitions, the forest beckons. Treading a hair through short black hair, you keen under his gentle, attentive touch. You float with the floating pine-cones as Jade presses himself against you.

“God,” you moan, breaking away from the kiss.

“Come now, you know my name.” Jade teases. He works himself out of his pants, patient in his motions. “Can’t you say it?” The head of his penis kisses the wet spot of your panties. His grin is so familiar like you've seen it somewhere else before .

“Jade.”

That is all it takes, panties torn by claws. A dozen frenzied thoughts crash into your mind when he pushes himself into you. You cling feebly to him like a caterpillar to a leaf. He thrusts in, starting slow and then fortissimo-ing the act. The sound increases, skin on skin, along with the speed, inch by deeper inch. It feels like your insides are being ripped out of you. I think I’m dying is your most prominent thought. Then, you cum, singing in moans.

It is, in all senses of sensations, la petite mort.

“Aaah — mmmmph my God aah!”

You push your hands against the trunk of a tree. On trembling, fawn legs, you stand with arms outstretched in a tight caress of the pine. Behind you, down the long arch of your spine, Jade presses kiss to each golf-ball indent of bone. Heat spreads like a virus to your shoulders, smoldering, as you feel his length lightly trace down the curvature of your bottom.

Butterflying eyelashes glance up at pine. Your head feels heavy like a whirlpool heat courses through it, scarlet and yellow. Salvia holds itself heavy in your mouth; stimulation – if pushed any further – will have you drooling from your blissed out state. Even disoriented, you recognize nature and the creatures it keeps.

Jade stills when he sees you moving your right hand off the tree. There is something on the tip of your finger. “Keep your hands there. You will need to keep yourself balanced.” He kisses your last vertebrae, eyes glowing, as you ignore his words.

“Cen-Centipede,” you manage to say, breathing heavily.

You hold out your finger to him. On your index, the orange legs of the arthropod flow like oil down your knuckles. With deep fondness, you watch it move. The same fondness is found in Jade’s eyes. He stills you look strangely beautiful: two leaves threaded in your hair, the streaks of dirt that birthed themselves on you when Jade plowed into you, and admiring a centipede in the middle of your third sex position change.

“Yes. I see.”

Jade says, resting his chin on your shoulder. Leaning over you, his length makes a pointed reminder of existing when the warmed blood of it hits and throbs on the center of your ass. “Pretty thing, isn’t it?” You nod before moving your arm down, letting it crawl off into the ground. Over your shoulder, you drag Jade back into another kiss. “Earthy and sweet,” he says, feasting on a taste he will have the pleasure of knowing for eternity.

Around you, the forest sings happily. Surrendering to that wonderful melody of nature, you put your hands back to the pine, using them to keep yourself upright. A slug of drool falls off your bottom lip as a soundless gasp exits you. You and Jade met; he presses himself into your cunt, two harvests of cum soaping and sucking him in easily.

The taste of you is entirely sweet like a honeycomb. The sensation of him is hallucinogenic like psilocybin. Earthy and sweet.

“S-Ssso deep.”

Your left leg twitches when Jade starts to move, experimenting with his speed. He was insatiable the first two rounds; he thinks he will test that beekeeping patience of yours. Yet, at only the first thrusts, Jade finds it a futile effort.

Your hand twitches on the pine at a foreign sensation. Where Jade’s hands rest on your hips, there is a difference in texture. There is silk between his fingers like some type of webbing. You startle at the odd sensation. Going to look behind you, you ask breathless, “Jade?”

“Cl – ugh – Close your eyes. Listen to … fuck … Listen to the forest.”

The thought of that strange texture of his hands is punched out when he finds a finger to your clit, rubbing in circles.

Fucked dumbed and drolling, you manage a “Fuck Jade!” before all your vocabulary burns itself from your brain.

“You have kept me up for the past week … (Na-Name) – uuk! –” Skin slaps in a thundering clap. Subconsciously, you tighten and moan. Summoning his breath, Jade leans in towards your ears, “I hope you can judge my next words fairly: I won’t stop until dawn. It will be a sleepless night for us.”

The night fills itself with the song of your moans.

“Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Like a bisque doll, you are washed by the village nuns. Two flank you on each side, one designated for your arm and the other for your leg. Assiduous, they move soapy towels down the length of your spidery limbs. Bisque dolls are beings without autonomy. You certainly do feel quite similar, disjointly watching a foreign hand lift your arm, twisting and rubbing soap on each finger with care.

Joints and skin do not belong to you anymore. A sterile hand lifts your left leg higher. Heart, not your possession.

Split into fourths like a filet, you try to remember who said those words: “Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.” As you are being stewed and cooked into a gallimaufry, you find that the past is not what you think about.

You are thinking about the cloudless skies outside. You are thinking about what it will be like under real warmth, not the warmth of bath water. You are thinking about whether tomorrow it will rain or remain sunny.

“Is something wrong, One?”

The image of skies dissolves in your mind. You blink in surprise. Head off in the cloud, you do not know which of the four nuns spoke. Between all the pallid moon faces cloaked in black, you choose to look at the one cleansing your left arm. You two met curious eyes.

“Your face was scrunching up. I was wondering if you were feeling any discomfort, One.” Your right arm talks to you.

“I’m quite alright. Thank you.”

Your left leg chimes in, soapy brine slathered on it. “If you feel any sort of stress, please let us know.”

Now that silence has been broken, your right leg says, “I cannot imagine being stressed on such a wonderful day. Ah, I’m so terribly envious.”

“I am quite at peace on this holy day,” you smile as to appease the fear all your limbs display. Moon faces hum their agreement, tranquility only broken when you say softly, “but –”. You gaze at the bathhouse’s windows, glass blocking off where nature carols. “How much longer? I long to be outside.”

You glare at the shoes on your feet.

Flanking both your sides, the congregation sits in the village’s woodsmith-made chairs. Beyond you, the stone slab lies; behind you, the statue of your God. Yet, what is most vexingly is in front of you: the sight of shoes on your feet.

Each birthday, you were dressed in the ceremony clothes and made to practice. Each birthday, you gave no fuss over the attire. Letting them dress the bisque doll, you resigned to putting on the empire dress with the square cut to display your iron branding on your stomach. Down to the fiber of your being, now, you wish you could take off the blasted shoes.

Your pointless glaring only stops when a voice approaches, asking, “Did I ever tell you about your grandfather?” You turn to the Reverend with a smile. The ceremony is commencing.

With a soft voice, you answer. “Not often enough.”

The Reverend always walks the sacrifice down the aisle. You suppose this might be a bit more sentimental, considering who you are to him, which is why he talks to you. Gently, you two find yourself joined at the bend of your elbow.

“He was a religious man. Devoted in a way the others around him were not.

“He would go out in forests people were too scared to venture into. The villagers would find him, sketching things they could not see in nature. It frightened and delighted them too, his sketches. He would polish that very statue like each day it would bring him luck. Each day before he went out in the forests, that was his routine.

“When he died … he died saying it was all for vain.” Your lips press together tightly. “A man so devoted and so close to God, shaming it. It was perhaps the worst day of his sons and daughters lives. On his deathbed, he brought upon such … shame to his family. Men only think about the past right before their death as if they were searching frantically for proof they were alive.”

Ah, that is where you heard it. You remember finally, you had heard it in the future which is now the present. That was why you could not remember the speaker because he had not spoken those words yet. You did not think you would find the future in the entheogens; how curious.

You two start towards the stone slab. As nobody's buttercup, you keep your eyes straight and refuse to yield towards distractions. Devote unlike your grandfather. Devote unlike your unsourced father who knocked up your mother exactly twenty years and nine months ago.

“I tell you this because I am incredibly proud of you. I have witnessed such growth from you. Piety flows in your bones as if God has smiled upon you Himself. My child –”

You look towards the Reverend, curious.

“You have been good.”

Nature stirs. At least, this time, the queen bee in my honeycombs is healthy. I leave behind something good.

When you reach the sacrificial table, you part like droplets rolling off a leaf in opposite directions. You press your hands on the omphalos, kneeling down and bowing your head. Eyes closed, you listen to the words you have heard since your tenth birthday.

You cannot help it – your mind wanders back to the past. Not searching for the merit of life, simply remembering how you became the Chosen One. A decade ago … such a long yet short time, such a juxtaposition.

The ritual involves the ocean. The ocean in which that faithful stream bleeds into. Every twenty or so years, just after the sacrifice predating them dies, everyone below the age of ten is made to stay underwater. The one who remains the longest is regarded as the Chosen One. Time slipped from your fingers like sand, underwater. A minute is an hour, an hour is a minute.

When you walked out of the ocean, your mother ran to embrace and to collapse to the ground crying. You had been underwater for a full twenty-four. The villagers thought you got swept up a riptide and died like some three year olds and two year olds of the past. Blue-lipped and shivering, you told them you thought you were the first one out.

There is no way you should have survived and felt as fine as you did.

Since then, nature talks to you like a baby conversing with an adult. You can make some syllables, understand the babbles that make up baba mean dada, and read the unconcealed emotions clearly. Now, it sings along with the Reverend, soft and gentle … somniferous almost.

You know you shouldn’t but –

You glance, barely moving your head, at Jade. He is staring right at you. His eyes are different, tiger eyes of flaming black and flaming gold. Somniferous eyes stare at your soul. Promptly, you pass out.

You wake up.

Your feet are encrusted with dirt. A multitude of trees enter your eyesight and the sound of a running stream worms into your ears. You are standing by the river where you washed clothes as a young teenager; the place where you and Jade had sex seven days ago; the place where you broke God’s trust.

Yet, no fear is present. Chest unusually light, you stare at the familiar pattern of trees dotted across the opposing side of the river. To your limited knowledge, this is you facing divine judgment. Retribution must be collected for your only sin.

You can accept that.

Curious eyes fall across the wilderness as your vision clears. You can not really tell what song nature is singing; there is a disconnect between you and the world. Blocked from the majority besides a single instrument: buzzing. You hear the harmony of humble bees buzzing, which you search for the source of. When you find it, a gasp breaks apart your lips.

Spread across the planes of your two arms are a thousand octagonal holes. Skin drenched in a mixture of golden honey and scarlet blood, the only breakage is pitch black, tiny honeycomb structures dug in your flesh. The concave pits freckle the entirety of both arms.

From the inner elbow and wrist of your left arm, two bees emerge from two separate holes. From the radius of your right arm, another bee. The rest of the colony is inside your skin, tickling your nausea.

That is not all that summons that high-pitched gasp. Clenched in the Swiss cheese flesh of your hands is a knife covered in blood.

You watch as the once cement knife starts to vibrate back and forth the longer you stare at it. Whole body shivers rape your bones and the shining red knife trembles with the movement.

For reasons unknown, your parted lips spill out one last rhythmic note, “J-Jade?” The world goes black.

You wake up.

Black, directionless water swallows you. There is no end or no beginning, so you float in the abdomen of the universal ocean, body tilted and head heavy. No calamity stirs your buoyant bones. Quite peaceful, you exist like a free-roaming satellite, untethered and left to bounce alone in directionless galaxies. No light, pitch black.

This is what you have always wanted from death. No God paradise, just a nebulous space to drift. This is the ideal death. Body propelled and caressed by unsourced waves that rock you peacefully to infinite sleep. No stars, pitch black.

It stops being peaceful when you need to take a breath. Water instead of air travels in. You have no mouth or nose. Body manipulated, water goes in the waiting nostrils of the seven pairs of holes in your abdomen and the three pairs of holes in your thorax. And, suddenly, that tranquil black gains a blinding hue of pain.

Depressing, the water does not float around you but pushes onto you. It clings like you are a magnet. The tiny caves in your thorax and abdomen flicker with agony, gathering more water. It clings to you like spandex. You throw an arm and leg into the atmosphere, and the absence of everything (beginning and end) is no longer a comfort. It clings like a leech, suctioning itself to you and filling the spiracles.

Mouthless, your heart throws out an unheard scream. The world goes blinding gold.

You wake up.

The first texture you feel is the cold granite on your cheek. It is a welcome balm until the granite grinds painfully on your pelvic bone and the skin of your breasts. Disorientate, you push yourself away from the surface. The granite rumbles under your hands … no, the granite is soundless but there is a rumbling. Still sitting on the ceremony’s sacrificial slab, you open your eyes.

The village is on fire. There is no building left intact. Flames rumble and tremble, fueling their physical form with all that a house has to offer. Red and gold climb upon the outer walls and black climbs out from the pumpkin innards of each house.

Snip-snap-woosh-woosh. The conflagration’s volume drowns out any and all sounds of nature. Beyond the roar of fire, you hear absolutely nothing.

Irrational, you turn your head in the direction of where you know the bee colonies are. You cannot see them through the thick plumes of smoke, separated from you by several burning buildings. You knew you would not be able to see them; why even look in their direction? Regardless, you squint even more to try to catch a glimpse.

If the queen moves, they would too. Survival instinct would make them take flight, right?

On the verge of tears, you start to squirm on the slab, taking your hand behind yourself and moving it by your thighs, angling your body so you can lean closer and squint at the flaming barricade, one of your legs slides off the slab, perhaps there is time –

“(Name).”

You look behind and down at Jade Leech. He rests with his arms folded on the slab, knees in the dirt. On his index is the queen bee, walking around and around in circles on his nail.

Your heart falls in despair. “She’s sick … She has a parasite.” Even when vocalizing the issue, you do not want to accept your own words.

“She does; she has had it for a while.”

“Is there anything I can do for her?”

“I’m afraid not. Soon the egg in her stomach will hatch. And the pupae will break out of her throat and head. It is truly odd. Usually, when bees have parasites like these, the bees throw them out of the hive. They kept her though. Even when there was something glaringly wrong with her.”

“Because she’s the queen.”

“Precisely.”

You and Jade watch on in a moment of silence. The queen rotates on twitching legs. Zombie-like, her tiny legs will give out momentarily and she tilts on the perch of Jade’s finger before getting back up again relentlessly. Circle turning into an octagon as she stutters in her steps.

Your hand drags across your face, flustered. The single, heavy as an anvil tear spreads thinly on your cheek. You blink the rest away.

Jade glances up from the parasite-raped bee. “Are you afraid?”

“No … I’m sad.”

Jade considers that. Mourning is a human process when death happens; mourning is like kintsugi to the heart, repairing it layer by layer. In the face of death, one sheds a predictable tear. The queen bee twitches, losing her strength. Jade mourns that he might never see true fright on your face, like missing a piece in a chocolate heart-shaped box.

He falls out of his pondering when you gently press your finger to him. Under the light of dozens of suns, gold and red flickering over, you are ethereal. His eyes fall helplessly to his sigil. He allows you to move him at your heavenly will.

“What happened to the ceremony,” you ask, taking the queen from him. You cup her like she is the tiniest pearl or the fragilest shard of sea glass. “Do we still have time to complete it?”

You do not receive a verbal answer. Instead, Jade gently pinches your chin in his hand, pulling your focus away from the insect. A warm smile settles on his face, olive-brown eyes soft with admiration. Then, grip steady on your mandible, he turns your focus to the open field, on the opposing side of the burning buildings.

When his hand falls away, your mouth falls open with the loss of stability.

The attending nuns and villagers are dead. A deep cavern is cut like a mouth across their throats, blooming a million liquid roses that stain their white garments. In their chairs, their heads are tilted back to display the rings of muscles in their body. Dead eyes face up the heavens, ignorant of their God who is venturing on land and swimming in the oceans of Earth.

The Reverend though – he lies in the middle of the walkway. He is headless, body supine and incomplete at the shoulders. All that remains of an indication he had a head is red splattered upon the grass. This butchery is inevitable. A priest of your religion is not allowed to impregnate women, under your God’s vow of celibacy.

“Oh.”

Is this punishment? Life snuffed out from your devoted village, leaving you and Jade who had broken the rules. You look down at your dying companion; she is halfway through a rotation, legs trembling on a trembling hand. Nature feels disconnected from you and yet, simultaneously, you feel like nature nestles herself in you.

“Oh, look at you. All alone.” Jade purrs, almost singing.

“I – I’m assuming you did this. Or God did this.”

“You are correct on both parts.”

“Do not toy with your words, Jade.”

“I'm as serious as death. Here, let me show you.”

Raising his hands, Jade presses palms to mouth. As he tilts his head back as far as possible, he follows along with his hands, running them up and over. Upturned olive-brown eyes quell with the pressure. Cropped black hair trembles with the motion. And when his hands finally return to the granite slab, Jade stares at you with a new right eye that shines a honey gold. His hair is considerably different.

Different, not unfamiliar. Far from unfamiliar. You have seen that style of teal hair with a single black strand since birth. In paintings on your mother’s nightstand, in books shelved away in the school, and carved into a towering stone effigy.

You think you have always known, looking so intently into nature thus looking so intently into Jade as well.

The queen bee on your finger grinds to a halt and dies. Crushing down in enclosing fists, the ceremony narrows; all the world is lost to you besides God’s/Jade’s voice. Nature beckons. He beckons. The fists you make are a comforting caress.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Never.”

“Prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Sing for me.”

Swallowing thick saliva, your chest puffs with air peppered with ash. You two stare at each other. Then … you sing.

Tongue volatile, you sing. It is not a melody that follows along with the rhythm of a river or the instrumental of an insect. You sing out your heart, sending it out on delicate honey bee wings.

#jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year

Note

A cute human wrapped in a bow is left behind in the clergy and is assumed to be a gift, what happens to them?

[Fem reader. Minors dni. This is sort of a test.]

This one is interactive, you get to choose what happens next! [VOTE]

" Spit it out. Spit it tha fuck out, boy! "

Sybastian remains seated on the cold break room floor, chest closed tightly, albeit snarling at the cook and the group of monsters forming a cricle around him. They have him trapped, unfortunately, he recognizes this, sweating slightly beneath his display of bravery.

See, the mimic... Got lucky, you could say.

He could hardly believe his eyes this morning. Because nothing ever happens during mornings, he was just stretching, getting started for the day with a walk around the garden. The last thing Sybastian expected was to find a crowd on the flower beds around the entrance to the establishment. Whatever was happening there had gathered Hellion, the beekeeper and several of the gargoyles, even Pebble, chattering back and forth to each other.

So engrossed in their frantic murmuring, they failed to notice the mimic rapidly approaching. Trouble, it could only mean trouble. Sybastian bat and shoved his way through the group, earning angered buzzing and hissing that was swiftly ignored, though froze in place at what awaited him.

There, on the grass, a human. Not just any kind of human, a pretty little thing, scared witless, naked like a babe, wrapped in fanciful red silk- A bow on your front to top it all off. He's not stupid, he knew you could very well be some kind of honeypot. However... He would be lying if he claimed you weren't easy on the eyes, that he didn't feel a desire to just grab you.

So he did.

" Quiet. " The large mimic had snarled when the garden residents began muttering in distaste of his selfish act. He wasn't cruel enough to let you be subjected to the whims of careless savages. Well, one could say Sybastian himself is a savage, but he'd like to think there's a difference between his type and monsters like Hellion or Colmei.

The first thing he did was walk somewhere secluded with you in his arms. No one could have blamed him for the way he drooled, the amused tittering as he tickled and fondled at your body. You're just the cutest thing, it's been too long since he caught himself a gem like this. Clever too, because as scared as you were in the moment, trembling like a leaf in the wind on his arms, you didn't scream. Maybe you realized that screaming wouldn't do you any good, after all, it was probably what gathered that small group around you. And the two of you knew things could have ended very badly if he hadn't intervened.

The mimic's game with you was cut very short when he heard footsteps, tensing. He didn't know it at the time, but the angel had begun his morning patrol already. Sybastian made a shushing gesture your way and quickly opened his massive treasure chest of a maw. In you went, wrapped by his massive tongue, only having had time to fill your lungs with air, the ensuing scream muffled greatly against the walls of his mouth. Poor thing, you must have thought he was going to devour you whole, silly. The monster had crawled away at top speeds then, entering The Clergy and making it to what he assumed would be a safe spot- The break floor.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Because everyone had gathered there before their work day started. Sybastian will admit he doesn't pay too much attention to certain warnings spread around the staff team, but he's sure today must be a big day, a really big day, for everyone to already be inside the establishment. He felt himself sweat as he stepped in, having to pretend everything was perfectly fine, but naturally, it was a wasted effort as soon as you started kicking and swinging at his insides, going as far as to pinch his tongue.

It took very little for the previously conversing group to notice Syb had something lively in his bear trap of a maw. And now, they're pressing him about it...

" Syb, ya don' gotta be like that... " The shroom caging him to the wall warns. He's taller than the mimic, but Sybastian knows a well-placed jab could give him an opening to move- The problem is everyone else in the room. " Listen- We doin' this tha nice way? "

Silent moments pass, tension rises, the walls seem to shrink.

Morell claps. " Aight... Two o' y'all git up, I'mma crack him open. "

Sybastian cowers, shaking slightly before his instincts take over and he jolts to the right- Into Santi's arms. Although smaller, the demon isn't easily displaced, and by the time Syb is stepping left, his leg and arm are caught in a yellow pool, Gallon. He's trapped.

Snarling and growling past grit teeth, the mimic's thrashing manages to jostle Santi, who laughs excitedly. Patches and Nebul murmur to each other, the robot appears to be filming, Vinnel and Grimbly snicker while Belo runs hands down his face.

The chef powers forth, kneeling. Meaty blue hands grab onto Syb's jaws, powerful and painful, the mimic grunts as gaps between several teeth are taken into advantage and the shroom manages to wiggle the tips of his fingers into his mouth, pulling hard.

" Open up! " Morell shouts, flexing with the effort, glaring. Sybastian is sure he hears himself creaking with the strain.

As the monster in cuffs swings his head around desperately, jagged teeth catch those pudgy baker hands, ripping cuts into them. Morell winces slightly, but the pain is hardly enough to make him drop the attempt, soldiering on as everyone watches with bated breath. When the chest parts just a tiny bit more, the chef's discolored and slightly luminescent blood hits his tongue, the flavor distracting Sybastian.

It's then that he remembers, with no short amount of alarm, that Morell is quite poisonous.

It was over exactly in that moment. Not wanting to chance certain death, the mimic straightens, chokes, and rapidly spits out the contents within his chest, darting to the tiny sink in the kitchenette like his life depends on it.

Your saliva-soaked body collides with Morell, the two of you landing on the ground with startled noises. Santi and Gallon scramble to find their footing, almost knocking into each other. A sort of suspense appears to drop the temperature in the room.

Total, consuming, restless quiet.

And then, hollering.

It's been quite the ride so far. Not that your memory allows you to recall much of it.

In fact, right now, you're just happy to be free of that damp, horribly warm cavern of a mouth. The gaunt, large monster that apparently wasn't planning to eat you has brought you to its fiendish friends, it seems. The people you've been hearing muffled speaking from all this time, while he licked you idly.

The shivers that wrack your figure are both from the stark temperature difference and terror, as you take a good look at the people around.

A demon and an angel? A slime, a floating clown? The mimic, a man with a pumpkin for a head, someone with a cloak, a bat possibly? And one large robot sporting a glitched visor. What in the fuck is this? What kind of bizarre get-together have you just been tossed into? Is this why... Why you woke up in that blasted, cursed garden? To be the plaything of these loons? The part of you that wants to scream can't compare to the growing fear that has your throat clamping shut.

They're all staring at you, shouting and bickering and shoving, which is surprising. Even the one closest to you, this absolutely massive blue monster with a bulbous mushroom cap for a head, has this dumbfounded look on his face.

" Oh oh- Look at how pretty she is! " A noticeably higher-pitched voice rings out, making your head snap towards the smallest of the bunch, the wide-eyed guy you can only call a bat, albeit an unique one.

" Damn right, brought a present fer us, did'ja old Syb? " The spotted monster taunts, already a distance away, wrapping his palms with bandages. Upon a second thought, he looks like a butcher, something that doesn't sit well with you.

You get to see the same mimic that caught you, still gargling water by the sink, flip him off. Right, so that would be Syb.

More faces get closer to your awkwardly tied frame on the floor. You whimper in the back of your throat, eyes darting between talons and fangs.

" Have I been speaking to no one this entire time?! " The one with a large hat fumes. " We have no idea what's happening, she could be a distraction, a trap, something! "

" I second that. " The thing you can only call an angel nods beside the pumpkin man.

You're abruptly hoisted into an uncomfortable sitting position by numerous yellow tendrils, the red-eyed slime studying you from top to bottom before turning away. " Possibly. But look at her, Patches- She's scared witless, the poor thing. She's not going to hurt us. "

You couldn't even if you tried, honestly. The monster holding you up allows his appendages to roam, spreading goosebumps on your skin.

Patches, if you heard correctly, sighs. " It's not her I'm worried about, smartass. You know tonight is special, someone could be trying to jeopardize t- "

" Don't you think we would have been warned by now if this human held any relevance? " A new, imposing voice surges. Your head instantly darts to the purple cloaked figure, gazing into a pitch black abyss of a face with a swirling core of warm colors within it. His voice is mesmerizing, and you get the distinct feeling he's looking right at you, even without eyes. " Our lord isn't one for lapses of judgement, we have no reason to fear, only prepare. "

" That still begs the question, where did she come from? " Patches taps the mimic harshly, until said monster swats the offending hand away and shuts the sink off. " Well, we're waiting. Words this time. "

" Dunno. " He simply shrugs.

" Liar! " Finally, the floating thing talks, pointing an accusatory finger towards the monster in cuffs. He sounds constipated, or maybe that's just the natural- Did his mask actually change its expression for a second there? " You're full of shit! "

The mimic takes offense to this, making a strange sort of bark and slamming his hand on the counter. " True! " He spits out, hesitating for a second. " Found her... In garden. Today. "

" So that's why you were in such a hurry earlier... " The angel squints his three eyes at Syb. " You wanted to keep this a secret! "

" 5h4r3 7h3 5qu15hy! " The robot blurts something out, but you're sure there's something wrong with its voice, it's hard to understand what he's saying in between the odd pitch distortion. In fact, he's a whole other level of bizarre out of all these freaks.

" Speaking of, Fank-e dear, you don't have any uhm... " The demon, who you forgot was at your right this whole time, searches for words. He's very handsome, you have to admit, perhaps under different circumstances, you'd like to talk to him. " Advanced source tracing mechanisms? "

Said robot's visor blanks for a moment. There's a heavy clunk of metallic feet coming closer until he squats right in front of you. Scared shitless, you hold your breath and tear up when a cold hand grabs your chin. Something red flashes on the untouched corner of his visor, like a countdown. Everyone is quiet in anticipation.

CLICK

A flash goes off, blinding you momentarily. Fear molts into pure confusion.

" n0P3! " He cheerfully declares, a smiling emoticon facing you before he rises and steps back.

" Right... So, what was that? " The bat carefully questions.

" P1C7uR3. "

The entire group seems to collectively exhale in irritation and disappointment.

" Enough of this. " Mister void-face, because what else are you supposed to call him, huffs. His stride towards you is nothing short of terrifyingly imposing. There's an air to him that seems to demand your obedience. " Human. Who brought you to this place? "

You know you have to answer, but by God, you have absolutely no idea. The last thing you remember is making it home from a day's work, slipping into your bed... And that's it. The next thing you knew, you woke up stark naked, tied, in a cursed garden.

" I... I swear I have no idea. " You stammer out, able to sense how he radiates suspicion. " P- Please, I just w- waanna go home! " Fortunately, he seems to back down with a tut after a couple of moments, satisfied with whatever be saw in you.

More vague murmuring.

" Oh screw it! " The jester yells, giving you a look you don't really enjoy. " It hardly matters where our petunia's from- I say finders keepers. "

Oh no. Oh no no, you're so fucked.

There's a purr to your side. Suddenly, it's not just tendrils on your body, a warm pair of big hands strokes up and down your drool-soaked arms. You tense like a plank, at least for the first five seconds, a strange sense of calm taking over afterwards. Muscles become lax even as your brain screams that something's awfully wrong.

" Mmm, I do love the idea of her sticking around, we could all get to know her a little. " He slurs, a touch too close to your ear. Even if you were the most naive people in this world, there's no room for doubt about what he's implying. These bastards want a little fucktoy. At the same time your cheeks are set aflame, you're frozen with anxiety.

" Unhand her! " The winged one shouts, a pale but beautiful double-axed staff summoned into his hand. " This is an abnormal occurrence and she must be taken to Admin, immediately. " Who?

The demon lets go of you, groaning. " Must you be the thorn in everyone's side? "

" Ugh jeez, what a suck-up. "

" B00- "

" No one asked you, pigeon brain! "

You watch, more than a little stupefied, as this team of monsters essentially gangs up on the angel, putting him down very quickly.

" How 'bout this, I have 'er first 'cause I set 'er free. " The chef booms, hands on his waist. " Sounds fair, hm? "

Syb throws a tasteless snarl his way, standing to square up with the chef, who doesn't look too intimidated by the display. They're about to fight, and the rest of them don't seem to care to stop it, starting to argue with each other again, each one claiming you're clearly meant to be in their hands.

" CEASE. "

It feels as if every bone in your body locked into place, you can hardly wheeze in terror, not just frightened by perpetually confused it seems. Everyone else seems to tremble to a halt as well, the tendrils previously holding you receding back into the slime's core protectively.

The cloaked figure takes the center of the room. " Dim-witted fools, it's a wonder we function as a team at all. " He chastises. " We will get nowhere with this, I will finish this nonsense here and now. " There's a pause, miffed looks and petty murmurs thrown about.

" You. "

" Yes, you. " Who else, is left unsaid. " We have no time to sort you out properly. You will pick one of us to stay with for the day. Now. "

Ah yes, he's definitely looking your way. Once more, your throat dries into a desert. And, like an idiot, you mutter. " M- Me? "

If you could afford it, you'd be having a massive breakdown by now. But you can't, you have to stay minimally composed, you can't let these monsters see you in an even more vulnerable state.

" Utter madness... " The angel growls, waving.

The other gives him a sedated head tilt, as if daring him to protest further. He doesn't.

" Choose. " The swirling hues in that dark pool command you.

Well...

Let's look at the options then.

The chef is definitely scary, you're not sure how much you dig his vibes, but he got you out of the mimic's mouth, and he doesn't look like he scares easily. Maybe he's a good bet to keep the others away from you.

The slime is creepy, definitely, but he's been one of the calmest elements so far, going as far as to sound easy-going about the situation. Something about his gaze doesn't sit right with you, but he could be a safe bet.

The bat is small. Cute too. You don't think he's very aggressive, and even if you're naturally still wary of him, it's hard to feel afraid of someone much shorter than you. Who knows, maybe you can even defend yourself if need be...

The demon looks at you in a way you'd rather not linger on, but he's also been quite calm throughout this. Maybe, if you appeal to some sort of mercy in him, he could just let you run away? He looks smug.

The pumpkin-headed monster is suspicious of you, but he looks interested in getting to the bottom of why you're here. He's also on the smaller side, but you can sense there's more to him.

The angel said he'd bring you to someone called "Admin"... Maybe that could be your way out? Once they realize you're here by mistake, s-surely you'll be led away. Hopefully? He looks like an obedient worker.

The cloaked one has been able to take control of the situation several times. He's good at diffusion tension and seems to hold respect here. Maybe he'll keep you safe? He's intense and mildly scary.

The jester has been giving you nothing but alarming vibes this entire time. He's incendiary and odd, but maybe that creepiness will discourage others from trying to snatch you. He's just a weird doll, right?

The robot has been harmless to you so far. He even looks kind of goofy in the midst of all this. Sure, you can barely comprehend him, but he seems excitable and happy as opposed to predatory.

The mimic took you away from the creatures in the garden. You're not sure what his deal is, but he had a reason to hide you from these guys, right? Maybe he didn't just do it to be selfish and keep you...

#Sybastian oc #Morell oc #Nebul oc #Santi oc #Belo oc #Grimbly oc #Patches oc #Gallon oc #Fank-e oc #Vinnel oc #yandere monster #yandere teratophilia #minors dni #not sfw

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cookiekitten91 · 2 years

Text

I am still quite fond of my beekeeper and taxidermist au Donna, although I hadn’t drawn them in a long time 🤔

#resident evil #resident evil 8 #resident evil village #donna beneviento #beekeeper au #taxidermist au #cookiekittenart #beedonna smells of flowers and honey #while taxidonna smells of formaldehyde sorry queen #tw trypophobia

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osamwah · 4 months

Text

malia/lia. twenties. selfshipper. she/her.

rules. about. multifandom.

minors and blank blogs don't interact.

resident at @enchantedforest-network

beekeeper at @thehoneypotserver 🍯🐝

i answer asks pretty slowly, i apologize.

please do not save/steal/use my theme

#pinned #like for a kiss and a cookie if you read the rules #theme by @/kithsune #pfp by @saecidal

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writethrough · 1 year

Note

Hello!! Could I request a Morpheus/powered reader? Powered like witch, elemental magick, whatever floats your boat! Action with fluff and camaraderie? Romantic or platonic is up to you! I love your fics!!

To Dream of Magic

(Morpheus x Female Reader)

Warnings: Minor injuries, mention of death, Matthew gets a little love interest

Word Count: 2377

A/N: Okay, so I love anything that has to do with witches, so the fact that you requested this was like the best cup of tea! I actually had this idea for a bit, and then you submitted this so it gave me the motivation to finish it!

I consider this a part one. But in the sense that if someone wants more Witch!Reader, this will be the character they get. I'm really excited to dive into this world/relationship. And once my requests are open again, I'd be happy to hear any ideas anyone has.

The residents of Thelma’s Grove were an eclectic bunch. A small community tucked just outside the city—modest homes perched along the street that led back to the highway. It was the type of place you didn’t know was there until you were in it.

That suited the residents fine. The hustle of the city and its traffic and crowds was what led everyone to Thelma’s Grove. It provided serenity, privacy, and above all, secrecy.

They were an eclectic lot indeed—beekeepers, a preschool teacher, a few single parents, and their children. But the woman who lived in the little white house with the sage-colored door was the most secretive.

You were kind—incredibly so—a wonderful neighbor. Everyone in Thelma’s Grove knew one another from where they were before to what they did, so when you arrived with your trunks, plants, and a lovebird, the street was abuzz.

They suspected something was different about you when you told one of your neighbors to take his dog to the vet. He had given you a funny look at first, but you made up an excuse, saying your friend's dog had similar symptoms. A day later, he was at your front door thanking you.

It grew from there. Your neighbors trusted your “instincts” more—that’s what they called them anyway. If someone had trouble with headaches, sleeping, anxiety—you name it—you’d give them a concoction of your making.

It wasn’t until the woman across the road broke her leg that the word “witch” attached itself to you.

You had thought you heard a scream. When the man who lived beside her looked up from his weeding, you knew it was real.

You rushed to her door, unlocking it with a flick of your wrist, and found her at the bottom of her stairs.

Her leg was bent at an odd angle as she lay on the floor, sobbing.

“It’s alright. I’m going to help you,” you said.

Searching around, you grabbed the hand towel hanging from the oven, folded it, and held it to her mouth.

“You need to bite down on this.”

She did as you said, too in pain to register what you were saying or doing.

You moved to her feet, kneeling above her.

“This will hurt, but you’ll be fine once I’m done.”

You didn’t hesitate as you grasped her behind her knee and ankle, straightening it. The scream she let out was muffled by the towel, but you didn’t let it phase you as you aligned her leg.

You muttered to yourself, a language lost in time. Beneath your fingers, the muscles and tissue reconnected. And your neighbor's cries slowly ebbed.

You shifted to sit and pulled the towel from her mouth.

“How does it feel now?” you asked, wiping the tears from her face.

She sniffled and looked at you with a mixture of wonder and confusion.

“Better,” she whispered, hoarse.

You gave her a small smile. “Good.”

You later found out the man had witnessed the whole thing. And between him and her, they had told the entire community what you did.

It all made sense after that. Your “instincts” were really magic. You knew the dog was sick because you spoke to her. Your concoctions were healing potions. And that little bird of yours was your familiar.

Yes, Thelma’s Grove was full of an eclectic bunch, indeed.

—

You were tending to your greenhouse in the backyard. It wasn’t much, no bigger than a shed, but it held life in every square inch. Planters lined the three walls with large terracotta pots on the floor below and other plants hanging from above.

You had finished watering the elderberry tree when Hope flew in.

“Come quickly! Someone needs you,” she said, zipping away when you started to follow.

The cries hit you before you saw who made them.

Hope landed beside a raven whose wing was unfurled and lay limp in the grass.

“It’s alright now. She will heal you,” Hope reassured.

You kneeled slowly, hands raised, so you didn’t startle the poor creature.

“Let me see,” you said, cupping the wing from underneath.

The bird yelped.

“I know,” you hushed. “I know.”

You rested your other hand over the wing, the lost language passing through your lips until the limb was healed.

The bird hiccupped but tentatively moved to test if the pain was gone.

When no zap occurred, the bird hopped closer and bowed its head.

“Thank you! Thank you!” he cried.

“There’s no need for that. I’m just happy you’re okay,” you said.

“I’m more than okay! You fixed my wing!”

You giggled. “What’s your name?”

“Matthew, my lady.” He bowed again.

You shook your head and told him your name and Hope’s. “No need for that. Why don’t you come in and rest?” You held out your finger, and he hopped on.

Hope flew in before you and perched on the back of a barstool as you set Matthew down on the counter.

“So, what exactly happened?” you asked.

He looked down as if embarrassed. “I was running an errand. And…may have gotten distracted.”

Your brow furrowed. “Distracted?”

Only when you caught his tiny eyes glancing at Hope did you understand.

You hummed. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re alright now.”

“I am!” He jumped at the subject change. “Never better.”

“Good.” You nodded. Then after considering what he said, you asked, “Who were you running an errand for?”

You knew most, if not all, of the witches in the area. You couldn’t remember any of them having a raven as a familiar. And even if one did, it wouldn’t explain the odd sensation this bird carried. Like…well, it reminded you of the lost language—ancient and powerful.

“The King of Dreams,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed in confusion. The King of Dreams? As in, not a witch?

Matthew shifted from foot to foot, getting the sense this was news to you.

“Are you…Are you not a goddess or something?” he asked.

You pulled back in surprise. “No. No, I’m definitely not.”

“Oh.” He dragged out, coming to a realization. “So, what are you?”

“A witch,” you said blankly, glancing at Hope, whose head was tilted. At least she was just as lost as you.

“Wait. Witches are real?” he asked.

“And apparently, so are gods,” you breathed, laughing in disbelief.

Yes, you were a witch. And yes, you thought of your gifts from the goddesses Hecate and Circe, but to have confirmation that the God of Dreams was real? It was almost too much.

You shook your head slightly to clear it.

“Morpheus is a little more than a god, per se,” Matthew said. “It’s…It’s kinda complicated. And thinking about it gives me a headache.”

You waved a hand. “We’ll save it for a rainy day then.”

—

Matthew had stayed a few more hours, asking questions about your powers and nearly preening when Hope wanted to know more about him.

You were exhausted by the time you crawled into bed. And sleep took you quickly.

The man before you wasn’t familiar. His porcelain complexion and onyx hair contrasted sharply but in an entirely transfixing way. He seemed larger than he was, possessing this energy that encompassed everything around him.

This feeling wasn’t new. You experienced it before…

The raven. Matthew.

This was Morpheus.

“You know me,” Morpheus spoke first, deep and honey-rich.

It was less a statement and more a question, making sure you knew who stood before you.

“Yes,” you said.

A breeze rustled the grass, and the distinct smell of citrus floated upward, but you couldn’t place where it came from. There were no orange trees here.

“It’s in the field,” he said. “I thought it would make you comfortable.”

You smiled at the images it conjured.

Hours upon hours of running through your grandmother’s orange grove. She was the one who first taught you about your heritage. Her skills had laid in plants. She knew everything there was to know. No one could brew a potion like her or heal an ailment quicker. You were happy she saw some talent in you.

“How is Matthew?” You looked back to him, coming out of your memories.

“As if nothing happened.” Morpheus had gotten closer. Or the stretch of green between you had shortened. You supposed it didn’t matter.

“Good,” you breathed, reaching to play with your pendant.

“I wanted to thank you for your aid,” he said.

You shook your head. “That’s not necessary. I’m just happy he’s alright.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up, but it was gone so fast you thought you imagined it.

“He’s spoken quite fondly of you.” He turned to the side, hands in his pockets, and you knew he wanted to walk with you. “And your familiar.”

“Hope,” you said, biting your lip at how Matthew had acted around the lovebird. “I think he has a little crush.”

“I think he’s fallen in love.”

You looked up, surprised at the slight tease in his tone. You never expected someone of his position to joke so readily. Then again, you hadn’t met anyone of his caliber before.

He led you to a pond with water so clear you could see the fish below. A dolphin-sized koi fish swam with half-fish half-cat creatures and so many others you weren’t sure how they all fit.

Morpheus sat on a bench, waiting for you to do the same.

“You are different from the witches I’ve encountered,” he said, regarding you with curiosity.

“How so?”

“You are kind.”

He said it as if it were foreign. Like he hadn’t seen kindness in eons. And, maybe, he’d seen so much that all of the bad had clouded the good.

You opened your mouth, unsure how to respond, then began slowly. “My grandmother used to tell me, ‘Do not put into the world what you do not wish back.’ She said it was the only lesson she wanted me to master.”

“Your grandmother was wise.”

“Yeah, she was.” You smiled softly, watching as willow trees dipped their leaves into the pond. “Is it always this peaceful?”

He stared ahead as if seeing something other than what was in front of him.

“It hadn’t been for some time,” he said. “All is well now.”

You hummed in thought. “‘The only thing that is eternal is hope.’ Another thing she used to say.”

“Is that the origin of your familiar’s name?” His eyes were soft, an endless galaxy on a warm summer’s night.

“She came to me the day my grandmother passed. I thought it was fitting.” You shrugged.

Everyone who had known your grandmother attended her celebration of life—family members, friends, patients—it made you cry harder knowing she was so loved.

You had walked away from the group for a moment to yourself—for a moment of grief and remembrance—when this beautiful little bird landed in your path.

She gazed at you with an intelligence unlike the animals you often healed, and you felt the connection bridge between you and her. And the name came to you when the last piece fell into place. Your utterance of “Hope” solidified your bond.

“My brother was with you that day.”

Your brow furrowed. “Your brother?”

“Destiny,” he said.

You let out a small laugh. “Yes, I suppose he was.”

Conversation flowed easily between you two. Though Morpheus didn’t say much, he was insightful and intelligent, and he listened with keen attention that made you almost shy. He controlled every speck of dirt and beam of light around you yet held an interest in you.

When you felt the tug of consciousness, you couldn’t believe how quickly time had passed. You could have sworn you only arrived in the Dreaming a few minutes ago. But you woke to the sunrays filtering through your curtains.

In the following days, you scoured every source you could think of for information on Morpheus. There were Greek myths, but your search grew more fruitful when you stumbled across an ancient tomb in one of your grandmother’s chests.

She taught you about destiny—how it influenced you and how you influenced it—so to see it written in her delicate scrawl wasn’t unusual. But when it changed to capital-D "Destiny," you shifted your tactics. It led you to the beginning.

Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium.

Personifications of otherwise intangible consciousnesses—all more powerful than any god or goddess you could think of.

And you had unknowingly saved one of their emissaries.

You had spoken to one of them.

You felt the vastness of his power by simply looking at him—it both terrified and thrilled you.

Dream. The perfect name for a creature so enthralling.

Mere days passed before Matthew appeared in your garden once again. You only noticed when you heard Hope speaking to someone, and his voice carried into the greenhouse. You thought it best to give them their privacy.

You could feel Morpheus’ presence through the raven even from here. It was stronger than last time, but you assumed that was because of Matthew’s injury.

And when it moved closer, you paid it no mind, thinking Matthew and Hope were joining you. It only occurred to you that their voices had stayed the same volume when the energy was standing in the doorway.

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes jumping in surprise.

“Good morning.”

“Morpheus,” you said. “I…What are you doing here?”

“Matthew wished to visit Hope,” he said, stepping forward, hands behind his back. He scanned over the pots of flowers and herbs, trailing from the one at your fingertips, up your arms, to meet your eyes. “I wished to visit you.”

You bit your lip lightly, glancing down then back. “Well then, how about a cup of tea?”

He nodded once, letting you lead the way.

You moved to Thelma’s Grove because something pulled you toward it after your grandmother died. You found a home in the community. People who would protect you and who you’d protect in return. It didn’t matter if you had lived here for twenty years or visited for a few hours. Once you found this little corner of the world, you were part of it forever.

And you hoped the same could be said of the Endless behind you.

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