that dumb offhand post abt loreleaf being a pond scum boy covered in frogs really did set off the “loreleaf loves frogs more than almost anything or anyone in the world” renaissance huh
the kind of forest boy i usually imagine loreleaf to be: communes with the deer and the birds, soft(tm), a gentle spirit, lavender grows where he walks
the kind of forest boy loreleaf really is: [comes home soaking wet, covered in pond scum, 11 frogs perched on his arms shoulders and head] i’m their son now
if you play “wherever the wind blows” by pillar, and if you turn it up loud and listen very closely between the notes, you’ll be able to see a 13-yo version of me, sitting on my bed in the afternoon light, writing loreleaf drabbles, building his playlist out of evanescence and linkin park and this one utter tonal outlier of a song, my heart swelling with a newfound love for this pretty blond boy and the thrill of getting to know him, feeling, through it all, a sense that he was going to leave somehow: die young or disappear, or otherwise get himself lost from me. and that made the getting-to-know-you practices even more exciting, even more sweet, knowing that he was living on borrowed time somehow. if you listen very very hard to “wherever the wind blows,” you won’t hear much about loreleaf’s personality, but you’ll hear a lot of the feeling i have knowing his soul, and a lot of what made me begin to love him with my whole heart when i was too young to realize who i’d met.
There were rules, but Loreleaf tread carefully anyway. He always had. He didn’t have Brightsword’s sweet smile, dancing eyes, and friendly personality to overcome discriminatory barriers; he had a deep-rooted distrust in people and a reputation for being closely linked to death. So he walked lightly in the Underground. He didn’t fight too hard to be treated as an equal. He let the undercurrent of dislike towards him flow past on both sides, never trying to change their minds. He didn’t defend himself.
Dune knew that. Dune also knew there were rules. Still, once in a while, Dune got frustrated.
Loreleaf spat blood and felt more trickle into his mouth from his nose - almost certainly broken - but he stayed on his hands and knees, waiting, braced for the next blow. It came, a boot to the ribs, and Loreleaf was flung backwards into an empty wooden crate, a pained groan sneaking past his tightly-shut mouth. Dammit.
Dune was a silent worker. He knew Loreleaf knew why this was happening: Dune was the target of some questionable treatment himself, and Loreleaf was the only person lower on the food chain. The situation was perfectly comprehensible.
Dune’s booted foot found Loreleaf’s ribs again. Comprehensibility didn’t make the blow any less painful. Loreleaf tried to curl up, grimacing, but trying to move just made it all hurt worse.
Stay quiet. Stay down. It’ll be over soon.
Dune grabbed a handful of Loreleaf’s long hair, yanking up. Loreleaf yelped and scrambled to follow, grabbing onto Dune’s wrist with both hands, making a symphony of pained noises as his ribs protested. And then it was another blow to the face, Dune’s expression set and cold before his fist obscured Loreleaf’s sight.
He sprawled on the ground, moaning faintly and trying not to move at all.
It sounded like Dune spit on the ground. “Not worth it,” he muttered, and, with a parting kick, left the storage room.
Loreleaf listened to his own harsh, labored breathing and tried to be quiet, but it hurt more to hold it in. He pressed one hand against the eye that wasn’t swollen, and waited for the pain to subside enough to move.
+
He didn’t move soon enough, because Doli Lin found him.
Loreleaf didn’t even try to get up when he heard the footsteps and smelled the oil from a lantern. He kept very still, just in case he had misheard the footsteps and it wasn’t Doli Lin. But then he heard the sigh - it was closer to a gasp, but sad enough to count as a sigh - and he knew. He relaxed a little but didn’t move.
“Hey,” Doli Lin said quietly, and something rustled, probably Doli Lin setting down the lantern. “I have to get some rice for the kitchens.”
Loreleaf drew in a deep, shaky breath, though doing so stabbed at his ribs like needles. It didn’t do much to settle his nerves but he slowly lowered his hands from his face and nodded. “Okay,” he murmured, keep both eyes shut as he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Doli Lin was instantly there to help him. He’d probably only just seen the blood on Loreleaf’s face, since Loreleaf had covered it up until then. “Hey, slow down. I didn’t realize…”
“I’m fine.” Loreleaf shoved Doli Lin’s hands away. The idea of anyone touching him - even Doli Lin, even someone he trusted with his life - made him want to throw up. “Just stop. I’m fine.”
They crouched there in silence for a few moments, Loreleaf glaring at the ground through his one open eye, and Doli Lin watching him - he could feel the older man’s gaze.
“Get some ice for your nose,” Doli Lin finally said, his voice still quiet.
“I know what to do.” Loreleaf sucked in another breath to support himself, then grabbed onto one of the crates, using it to help himself to his feet. His bruises screamed and he almost cried out but he stuffed the sound back inside himself. “Thanks anyway.”
“Loreleaf…”
“Don’t use that tone on me.” Loreleaf clenched his fists, keeping his back to Doli Lin. “I’m not a fucking child.”
His accent was bleeding through even more than it usually did. Loreleaf hated how it sounded, how it mangled his words, made it hard even to speak. The blood in his nose made it worse, the pain up and down his body clogged his throat and stung his eyes. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t—
He screamed and suddenly there was pain in his foot, a massive throbbing pain, and underneath the scream he had momentarily heard a giant crack. He looked down and saw a stream of glittering rice spilling from a crate side, around his soft leather boot, which was stuck in a jagged, newly-made hole in the thin wood panels.
He yanked his foot free and realized that it hurt like hell.
“Loreleaf—“ Doli Lin started, a hint of nervousness in his voice.
“What?” Loreleaf demanded, spinning back to look at him. He could feel blood streaming down his nose, over his lip and past his mouth and to his chin and sometimes onto his tongue. “What? Are you scared like they are now? What do you think I’m going to do? Summon my demon father? Melt into the underworld? What do you think is wrong with me? Tell me, I’ll see how it stands up to the stories everyone else has!”
He’d slipped into Torkchan somewhere along the line, and Doli Lin’s furrowed brow was probably due in part to that. But still, he tried to take a hesitant step closer, one hand outstretched. And then, one more time: “Loreleaf…”
Loreleaf tried to run but he made it three steps before the foot he’d mangled gave out on him. He almost fell, grabbed himself against the doorway, and shoved himself upright again. He couldn’t run, and that scared the breath out of him - he couldn’t run, he couldn’t save himself even that way now - but Doli Lin didn’t follow him anyway.
He made through several of the Underground tunnels before his spinning head and bloody nose and throbbing ribs and aching foot got to him. He sank down at the end of the tunnel, a dead end that split off into two rooms. He crawled into the right one, feeling his way into the corner and finally sinking down.
Like an animal. Like a soulless animal.
He doesn’t think like we do, anyway.
He lives with predators; he knows how to bite, you know. Keep away from him.
Just make the tree rat go, he’s used to sleeping in the rain.
Practice on the tree rat.
It’s the tree rat’s fault, probably invoked his demon gods or something.
Look at him, it’s not like it matters anyway.
Brightsword is different - he’s an actual person. He’s not a tree rat.
Tree Rat isn’t a person. He’s just… you know, a tree rat.
Loreleaf clenched his good eye shut and wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve. The darkness was cold and thick and oppressive but it was better than being around them.
For once in his life, it was even better than being around Brightsword.
+
He slept a few hours in the room, and woke up stiff but in less pain. His foot was swollen through his boot, he could feel it, and his nose still hurt, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d experienced.
He limped back towards the residential area of the Underground, praying that no one would see him. It wasn’t likely that anyone would do anything anyway, but there was always the chance that he’d run into someone who would make the whole thing worse.
He stepped around the corner to the corridor where his room was, and there was Brightsword.
Loreleaf stopped dead, bracing himself against on the wall.
Brightsword lingered outside their room’s open door, both hands covering his face. He looked worn out, his shoulders slumped, a sickly tint to what was visible of his cheeks. He kept taking in large, shaky breaths, like he was trying to calm himself down, and as Loreleaf edged a little closer, he heard his cousin murmuring: “This has happened before. He’s all right. He’s coming back. He just… got… distracted.”
He was speaking in Fieldan, not Torkchan. Even when he was alone - even when he was worked up - he spoke their language.
Resentment bloomed in Loreleaf’s stomach like nausea, and shock - horror - disgust - along with it. He’d never resented Brightsword before. He didn’t want to, and he couldn’t afford to, anyway. He hesitated, staring at his cousin like he had new eyes.
He slumped, leaning sideways against the wall. He didn’t want this. No, he thought. Anything but this.
He’d made a sound - a shifting noise, a soft sigh. Brightsword jerked his head up and saw Loreleaf, and all the tension melted out of his body, his eyes sparkling with relief. “Oh, gods,” he said, rushing forward, “there you are. Are you okay? It’s been hours!”
Loreleaf didn’t move. He couldn’t even meet Brightsword’s eyes now; he focused on his cousin’s shoes instead. “I’m fine. Just… hurt, is all.”
“Doli Lin told me what happened.” Brightsword reached up, touching Loreleaf’s face an inch or two away from the swelling of his eye. “Come on, I’ll - clean you up.” He tried to smile. “You’ll be fine.”
There it was, that shuddering aversion to being touched any more today. Almost without realizing it, Loreleaf smacked Brightsword’s hand away.
Brightsword froze, his eyes going wide.
Loreleaf stiffened, too, realizing what he’d done. For the first time he looked Brightsword straight.
“I…” he said, but nothing came out.
They had been speaking Fieldan.
I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being here, of being treated like shit. I don’t know why I’m here anymore because I’m not even allowed to do anything. I’m here because of you. Because you want to do this for some godsforsaken reason. Doli Lin and - and Stormy started this and you’re still here so I’m here too because I’m scared to be without you but I have bruises on bruises and I’m never allowed to forget how my own blood tastes and I’m angry and I’m trying not to be but I think I’m angry at you.
The words rolled out in Torkchan in his head, lightning-quick. But Brightsword had started it in Fieldan. And Loreleaf…
Loreleaf wasn’t strong enough to make that change. Even that much showed weakness and he was done showing his throat.
“You need… some time?” Brightsword asked softly, and Loreleaf even hated the gentleness in his voice right then, the sheer understanding, even with the hurt still fresh on his face.
Loreleaf shut his eyes. “Yes.”
Slowly, Brightsword nodded. “You can have the room for an hour or two,” he said, trying again to smile. But he didn’t try to touch Loreleaf again. “I’ll - go have some tea with Doli Lin. He’s probably still up, since—“
Since you vanished to lick your wounds and tend your pride, Loreleaf filled in.
Loreleaf made some sound of neutral agreement and limped past Brightsword into the room.
“You should put some ice on your face,” Brightsword added quickly.
“I know,” Loreleaf snapped, and kicked the door shut behind him.
Stop being like this. You’re being - stupid. Just stop.
I’m not stupid. I’m not a child.
If you’re not stupid then stop acting like it.
He went to the wash basin in the corner, eased into a painful sitting position, and dipped a rag into the water, wiping as much blood off his face as he could. It hurt, especially now that most of it had dried.
Should have let Brightsword—
But no. That would have hurt just as much.
He missed being home. In the open air, with a sky instead of an endless ceiling of stone, with running rivers and fresh ponds instead of stale water that had been sitting in barrels for months. He missed having that particularly Torkchan shield - it wasn’t that anyone trusted him besides Brightsword and Jademoon, but they… respected him, almost. Anyone touched with the supernatural as they believed Loreleaf was deserved some measure of reverence - even if that supernatural did tend more towards evil.
No one beat him up in the village, now that Featherhand was gone. And no one had ever beaten him up for being a tree rat.
Loreleaf dropped the rag on the ground and leaned forward to rest his forehead on the edge of the bowl. He groaned at the pain in his ribs but stayed there for a while, just breathing.
You’re not stupid. You’re not a child. And you’re not a tree rat. You’re not a tree rat. You’re not a fucking tree rat—
He sat bolt upright and shoved the heavy water basin with both hands, and it fell and shattered with a savagely satisfying SMASH. Water coursed from the shards across the edge of the room, darkening the packed-dirt floor, edging towards the beds, lapping against the short wooden frames like a river’s edge.
It wasn’t enough, but there was nothing else to break. Loreleaf clenched his fists tight, staring at the remains of the water, already seeping into the floor. He threw the rag at the wall, too, but it was a half-hearted attempt, not nearly as satisfying.
What would Stormy say about you right now?
The question sank into his brain like poison. He shuddered and scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain. He had to go. He had to do something to keep that question out of his head, had to move before it poisoned the rest of him.
He knew what would keep his brain where it was. He shivered with the realization. Fear, exhilaration. Both felt the same all at once.
He was going to pick another fight with Dune, and this time he was going to hit back.
+
These days, Dune usually had weapons-cleaning duty, and most of the time it kept him until late at night. Loreleaf would bet anything that was where his torturer was.
What would Stormy say about this?
Stormy would be disappointed. So disappointed.
SHUT UP.
Loreleaf rounded the corner and approached the weapons room, one of the last rooms on the corridor. He kept one hand against the wall to help keep him up, his foot still throbbing. Light shone out from the weapons room door, the flickering orange light of Dune’s Sander lamp. It sounded like Dune was hard at work, the faint sound of panting and weapons rattling in their racks drifting out along with the light.
Loreleaf hesitated. That… could possibly not be Dune working, he thought, listening to the desperate gasps. Warmth flooded his cheeks and he made a face in the darkness of the corridor. Come on. At least close the—
Someone cried out in pain - pain and fear - and Loreleaf was almost certain it was Dune.
That’s not the other thing, he thought, and hurriedly limped to the weapons room, peeking in while staying as out of sight as he could. The small lamp made it hard to see details in the gloom, but Loreleaf didn’t need details to know what was happening. He’d just gone through it, after all.
He didn’t know the man who was working Dune over; all he could tell was that the man was older, bigger, and less angry than Dune. No, he wasn’t doing this out of anger; there was no real fury in the way he grabbed Dune by the shoulders and smashed the boy into the rack of sword sheaths. Clangclangclang. Dune cried out and slid almost all the way to the ground, mumbling, “Please stop,” over and over like he didn’t realize he was doing it - but the older man wasn’t angry. He just… wanted to do this.
Loreleaf swallowed the bile that rose in the back of his throat. He had one hand pressed over his mouth, watching the boneless pleading of Dune’s body language. That was pure fear in his eyes now, and it didn’t look anything like his earlier fury; his dark hair stuck to his cheeks, wet with tears.
Loreleaf stood, frozen, and watched for too long.
Just leave, said a voice in his head that didn’t sound like the one that had asked about Stormy, because the one that had reminded him of Stormy was saying What would Stormy think about this?
No, Loreleaf thought, sliding his hand over his good eye. No, come on. No. Don’t make me.
There was another metallic clatter and Dune made a sound too close to a scream. He wasn’t at all like he’d been earlier, silent and cold and precise. “Please!”
Loreleaf’s stomach churned. He was going to throw up.
He slipped into the room, sticking in the shadows. The man had his back to the door and his attention was taken, anyway. There were daggers to the side of the room, stored on shelves. Shooting glances at the ongoing beat-down every couple seconds, Loreleaf picked through the daggers, searching for the one with the heaviest hilt.
Dune yelped: “Please, please, please…”
“Shut up or I’ll kill you after all.”
Loreleaf’s blood burned in his face and in his hands and in his chest. He leaned down to the shelf and grabbed one of the sheaths. It was made of heavy wood, with metal reinforcements. It wasn’t the best weapon but it would do. He gripped it tight until it cut into his palm.
The man didn’t seem to be moving from where he loomed over Dune, but the fear still beat in Loreleaf’s ears as he crept closer. This man could do far, far worse than Dune did, and it didn’t look like he’d stop when Dune would.
He could kill me. He could kill me and no one would be able to do anything about it.
A tremor ran down his body and he almost stepped back. Then he heard the softest hint of a cry - Dune’s weak, terrified, badly muffled sob - and the man growled a curse. He reached out towards the work table, where a naked sword lay.
“No better than the damn tree rats,” the man muttered, and the sword hilt made a rolling thud on the wooden table top as he picked the sword up.
What would Stormy do?
Loreleaf set his sore jaw and stepped up directly behind the man, slightly to the side. It was enough to the side that Dune could see him - and Dune did.
The boy gasped - just a little bit, his eyes darting past the man. Loreleaf raised the dagger hilt in both hands like a bat.
The man said, “What—“ and started to turn around.
“Good night,” Loreleaf said, and swung with every inch of fury, pain, fear his body contained.
The hilt hit the man broad across the face, and Loreleaf felt the rebound down to his toes. The man slumped without a sound, bumping against the table and making the lamp shudder. Dune jerked back from the falling sword, just clearing his hand from the blade.
His breath coming quick in his throat, Loreleaf stepped over the man’s legs and grabbed Dune’s forearm. “Get up,” he snapped. He knew his Fieldan was almost too mangled to understand, but he hoped that context would fill in the gaps. “He won’t be out long.”
“Wh-what,” Dune said, darting his gaze between Loreleaf and the man. “What?”
“Get up,” Loreleaf repeated, pulling Dune’s arm until Dune hissed and smacked at his hand. “You have to get in a public place.”
Finally Dune just looked at Loreleaf, his eyes wide and red and wet. “I - I…” he whispered. “What are you…”
“I came to beat your ass but someone made it here before I did.” Loreleaf glanced over at the man. He was already shifting, a soft moan in his throat. Loreleaf’s heart kicked up a beat and he grabbed both of Dune’s shoulders. “I know it hurts but come on unless you want us both to die.”
“O-okay.” Dune shakily grabbed onto Loreleaf’s upper arms and let Loreleaf help him up. They both quick-limped out of the room, Dune snatching the lamp up before the left.
Rot in the dark, Loreleaf thought as they hurried past the door. How do the damn tunnels work for you now?
“You’re going to the meal hall,” Loreleaf said, trying not to wince as Dune leaned on him, so making his ribs throb. “Doli Lin and Brightsword are there. You should be safe the rest of the night.”
Dune was silent, but he followed Loreleaf’s lead. It was a little frustrating, but at least he didn’t say anything annoying. Loreleaf shut his mouth and concentrated on not falling over before they made it to the meal hall.
Finally, they got there. Loreleaf glanced over his shoulder into the hallway, a little paranoid, but there was no one. He pulled back from Dune just before they reached the door. “Go on,” Loreleaf said roughly, watching Dune sway, one arm around his ribs. It was a painfully familiar stance to Loreleaf. “Just go along with whatever they want to do, it’s easier. Even their nasty medicine.”
His eyes a little glazed, Dune managed a nod. He started to go into the meal hall, hesitated, glanced back at Loreleaf through dark, tangled hair. He opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” Loreleaf said. “Just don’t.”
Dune looked down, nodded, and started his hobble into the meal hall. Loreleaf breathed out hard, rested against the wall for a moment, then turned and headed back to his room.
He had just stripped off his shirt - revealing a mottled torso that made him wince just to look at, much less feel - and crawled under the covers of his bed when the door knocked. It was Doli Lin’s special knock, and Loreleaf groaned, “Please don’t, I’m fine,” as he pulled the covers higher over his head, burying himself underneath.
The door opened anyway. “So you’re alive, at least,” Doli Lin’s voice said, muffled from the other side of the blanket. “What about sane?”
Loreleaf closed his eyes tight. “So far. You might push me over the edge, old man.”
“If that were possible, I would have done it a long time ago.” The mattress sank underneath Doli Lin’s weight as he sat on the edge. Loreleaf ended up with his knees against Doli Lin’s behind before he turned over, putting his back to Doli Lin even though Doli could see it.
Doli Lin didn’t speak for a long time.
“Can I say something that will make me sound even older?” he asked finally.
Loreleaf grunted. “Can I go to sleep after and make this bastard day end?”
“Sure. I’m proud of you, though.”
“Oh, eight thousand gods. Go away.”
“I’m serious, Loreleaf. That’s… I wasn’t…”
Loreleaf made a bitter face under the covers, eyes still closed. “You weren’t expecting that from me.”
“I’d say that’s not what I mean, but also…”
Loreleaf opened his eyes, staring into the darkness. It was starting to get hard to breathe. Reluctantly, he pulled the blankets down past his face, just past his nose.
“I…” he started, then found his throat shutting up. He swallowed hard.
Doli Lin put one hand very gently on his upper arm. Loreleaf didn’t move to look, but it felt… okay. He didn’t mind so much anymore.
“I thought about Stormy,” he finally whispered.
Doli Lin let out a slow, almost shaky breath. “Oh, Loreleaf.”
Loreleaf clenched his eyes shut, squeezing out the tears and brushing them off his face. “It’s what she would have done. It wasn’t me. It was her.”
Doli Lin gently squeezed his arm, not enough to hurt. Then he stood up. “Brightsword’s tending Dune. I should get back. Do you know who did that to Dune?”
“No. I didn’t recognize him.”
“Okay.” Doli Lin hesitated on the threshold. “I am proud of you, though.”
Loreleaf managed a nod.
“Sleep well,” Doli Lin said, in his clumsy Torkchan. Loreleaf said it back, trying not to let the gratitude bleed through his voice, and then the door was closing.
Not closed yet, though. It opened all the way again. “I think Stormy would be proud, too.”
Doli Lin left then, without witnessing the fallout, for which Loreleaf was grateful. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, then dragged the coverlet up over his face again, hiding his crying face from any invisible watchers.
He didn’t have nightmares that night. Instead, he saw Stormy’s hands stretching out, as if searching, and then he saw his fingers intertwining with hers, her pale strong hands holding his dark freckled ones tight.
He woke up with tears on his face, and Brightsword sitting where Doli Lin had sat the night before. Brightsword was holding his hand.
“Good morning,” he said - in Torkchan.
Loreleaf couldn’t help the smile. He wiped his face, wincing slightly when he brushed against bruises, and said, in Torkchan, “Good morning to you, too.”
Exhaustion ran through him like blood, making his heart beat off-rhythm. He’d gotten back to the village the night before - closer to the early morning before, really - and he’d slept about an hour, the rest of the periwinkle hours filled with startling awake, grasping and clutching at the pallet next to his that didn’t hold anyone. He could remember shrieking in fear, tearing the blankets away from the mattress as if he could unbury Brightsword, find him in some wrinkle in the leather.
Brightsword wasn’t there, though - he wouldn’t be for a while, not until he recovered enough to move from the Underground medical center - and Jademoon got up to soothe him back into silence five times before he shoved out of her grasp, shaking and damp from tears and sweat, and went to sit outside to let the dawn air cool his feverish skin.
That was where his brother found him.
A sharp kick to the knee made Loreleaf jerk from the half-sleep daze he’d slipped into as the dawn began turning pale pink. When he looked up, grimacing, Featherhand kicked him again, snapping out, “Where have you been?”
The right answer: The Underground. Simply stated. Keep the voice low, emotionless. Don’t look him in the eye.
Loreleaf didn’t have the energy to wear out the usual charade. He didn’t want the energy.
“Hell,” he said, lifting his gaze to Featherhand’s. “I told Mother hello for you.”
Featherhand didn’t look much like Loreleaf, not with ten years between them. Featherhand kept his hair short, and it had always been darker than Loreleaf’s. His skin was lighter. And his eyes were brown - normal brown. They didn’t burn amber.
He had always hated looking at Loreleaf’s eyes. There was fear in his face when he did, like he was scared his irises would catch fire from exposure. Usually, Loreleaf kept his face angled down, didn’t look his brother in the face on the few occasions they spoke.
Now, though, that all meant he had a weapon.
Featherhand’s face went crimson, and he jerked forward a few steps, fists balled and lifted. Loreleaf shoved himself to the side by habit, but he felt his breath quicken in his chest and it wasn’t because he was scared.
“Where’s the brat?” Featherhand asked, his voice still pitched low, but now rough with anger. “Finally get himself killed?”
Loreleaf bit the side of his mouth until he tasted blood. When Featherhand stayed still, as if waiting on an actual answer, he said, “You wish.”
“Can’t disagree.”
Hatred froze the exhaustion in his veins like ice. He dug his knuckles into the dirt at his sides.
“Is he going to be back or is he staying?” Featherhand took two steps closer, his lips pulling into a smirk as if yanked there by hooks. “Is that what you’ve been screaming about?”
Loreleaf stayed silent, the only words that he could think of to say being curses. Instead, he just looked up, trying not to blink.
Featherhand’s smirk shifted, slipped. “You nearly woke up my family.”
My family. It was hard to remember when Loreleaf had been part of that. All memories of his life before age six were jumbled, streaked with red and shouting, a mess of sensations and voices, most of which didn’t include Featherhand, who was already practically married by the time—
“Sorry,” Loreleaf said, not breaking eye contact. He did feel bad about disturbing Willowstream. She slept poorly. It must have been genetic. “I’ll try to be more considerate next time I have nightmares.”
“Nightmares,” Featherhand repeated, scoffing out the word, and Loreleaf tensed.
“If you don’t believe me,” he said softly, “I’d be glad to tell you what I saw last night.”
Most of the villagers didn’t believe Loreleaf had nightmares. Most of the villagers believed he was visited by the demon his mother had bedded to conceive him, the demon now returned to burn his humanity away. The fire always stayed in his eyes.
Featherhand didn’t believe those rumors, but he knew how much they stung.
“Fine,” he said, folding his arms. The sky was turning yellowish-red, and in that light, maybe his eyes were-- “Tell me.”
Loreleaf rolled his head on his shoulders, trying to crack the kinks that he’d obtained from sitting against the cabin wall for hours. Then he stood up, folding both hands at the base of his skull.
“I saw Brightsword,” he said, looking Featherhand straight in the eye, “our cousin, with the skin peeled off his ribs and a feather on his dead heart.”
Now Featherhand’s face turned two shades paler.
“And Willowstream,” Loreleaf went on, taking a step forward, “was in the river, except the river was black and her eyes were red like mine—“
“Loreleaf, stop.”
Loreleaf barked out a laugh, took another step that Featherhand mirrored by stumbling back. “—and she was singing like a demon while she drowned, and the water turned red where she was dying—“
The white in Featherhand’s cheeks made him look sickly. He’d stopped stepping back now. “Shut up.”
“You asked for it,” Loreleaf snapped - one more step, just feet from Featherhand now. “You asked—“
Featherhand grabbed him by the front of his shirt, almost dragging him off his feet.
“And Mother—“ Loreleaf struggled to continue, his heart hammering, his own blood on his teeth, “Mother was—“
Trickhand slammed him into the cabin wall, and the blow was more like light than pain, a sensation that numbed his whole body. He gasped and latched onto the wrist of the hand that was the only thing holding him up now. “Mother—“
A blow to the face and Loreleaf yelped, his grip loosening, and he sagged to the ground. Only Featherhand’s fist knotted in his shirt held him up - and then another hard punch, rattling his teeth, and Loreleaf laughed again as he sprawled in the dewy grass, one hand to his bleeding face, before he drew back one foot and kicked Featherhand as hard as he could in the shin.
Featherhand shouted curses and staggered closer but Loreleaf just kicked him again, propping himself up on both elbows as blood coursed down his lips and chin. He didn’t get a third kick in, though, because Featherhand dove, panting and grunting as he straddled Loreleaf’s middle, one hand again in Loreleaf’s shirt, his knuckles pressing into the underside of Loreleaf’s jaw, one hand cocked back—
Loreleaf spat blood in his brother’s face and grinned. “Mother said she loves me.”
He regained consciousness a few seconds later, curled up on the ground, gagging on his own blood. He gasped and spat and coughed before he could push himself up on one hand. His whole body trembled, like he was cold, though his skin was slicked once again with sweat. Tangles of his hair clung to his lips, blood-sticky, and he shoved them away with shivering fingers. Featherhand was gone.
Other villagers were awake by now - he heard them moving and he knew he was within seeing distance - but no one came. He was glad his back was to them, so they couldn’t see what his face looked like, whatever that was.
I don’t want help, he thought, coughing, struggling into a sitting position. His head swayed and his teeth hurt. I don’t want their help. I don’t need their help.
He looked out into the Wood, instead, shakily smearing blood off his upper lip as he tried not to see into the dark green beyond the first few lines of trees. The problem was that he always could. He could always tell what was going on. The more he tried not to see, the more he saw them - the image he’d always seen, a man and a woman with their entrails knotted together and their blood commingled in the dirt as jul-vultures ate the bits of their flesh that had decomposed the fastest.
And somewhere between their bodies, which were no longer so separate as they had once been: a long-haired child, stunned and burning.
“Mother said she loves me,” Loreleaf whispered now, curling his legs closer, into his chest. He pressed his face against his knee and waited for Jademoon to come find him. “Mother said it wasn’t my fault.”
hanging out with my cousin today and since we’ve been writing buddies since we were basically in diapers she knows all about my older chars, and she mentioned loreleaf today and it’s not that i don’t think about him, it’s that no one else ever mentions him to me, and i just got this huge swelling feeling in my chest and i tried to stop smiling but i couldn’t because he’s my child he’s so important to me and to hear someone else talk about him was so GOOD
loreleaf is scared of people, scared of what they think of him and what that might lead them to do, he trusts so rarely but when he does it’s 100% and then you see his smile and he lets you in on his snorting laugh and suddenly you hear his soft muttered sarcastic comments when someone in charge is speaking, you realize he’s the most obnoxious little shit and that he almost never obeys out of respect, only fear, and if he’s not in danger then he shows no respect and it’s simultaneously the most annoying and most hilarious thing ever to see a skinny kid (because he’s a kid, he’s barely eighteen, he’s still practically a child) with cherry blossoms tattooed on his right shoulder and his hair tangled around his arms, to see him making bitter comments about his leaders and bosses and waving his hands like he never does in public, and to hear his voice get louder than he ever lets it around most people
and while he’s stiff and silent and uncomfortable around most people, keeping a wide area of personal space and jumping when anyone gets too close - it’s easy to see it as attitude and even arrogance but it’s not, it’s fear and distrust and a readiness to be used as a scapegoat - around people he loves he’s different, he relaxes and the furrow in his brow eases and he smiles, sometimes even showing his teeth, and love looks a lot like trust in his eyes and the way he lets himself drift closer to them, lets them touch him and lets himself brush against them in return, curling his hands in their clothes and resting his head against their shoulder, and he sighs a lot like he’s been so tired and he’s so thankful that they’re here to let him rest
and he tamps down his own anger so often - in part because he’s scared of being hurt more than he’s hurt already but mostly because he’s angry at himself for being so much lesser than (even though he’s not he’s not he’s not) - but sometimes it all just gets too much and when someone pushes him, instead of letting them roll him over, he pushes back and he shows his teeth again but the smile is different this time and he lets them bloody him up just for a chance to throw a punch or two himself, to scream what he’s been holding inside for so long and sometimes he can’t stop screaming and that’s how he gets his nicknames, “demon” and “spirit boy”, and though no one sees him patching himself up with the scream still caught in his eyes, he shoves it down again so the ones he loves won’t know what happened, and the cycle starts again
this boy means so much to me and i know it sounds stupid and i know he doesn’t sound like anything special, he’s just kind of a pretty emo boy stereotype i know, but he’s something so special to me and sometimes i remember how much i love him and it’s hard to get past it because 1) he’s my child 2) i don’t really want to
my love for loreleaf is like a cat bc it’s always there but sometimes it sits on your lap and purrs and you just go aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaahhhhhh but very quietly for the most part for a few hours
my love for brightsword is like a dog because it sleeps half of the time and then it wakes up because something startles it and it starts jumping around and screaming AAAH AAAAH AAAAH AAAAH AAAAH AAAAH AAAAAH for like ten minutes
