to
The smell of cinnamon and clove is calming, the spice in the air settling a part of him he hadn’t even known to be disturbed. Ipomoea nods his head along absently to Emersyn’s words, watching the vine shake itself sleepily and extend one waxy leaf towards him. He presses into its touch, greeting it silently even as it greets him. And only when it breaks the contact does he move away, and follows after Emersyn as she leads him back out into the meadow.The snow is falling in earnest again by the time they leave the warmth of the small cottage. As Ipomoea lifts his head he can see the landscape beginning to change, a blanket of grey covering the pale gold of the meadow.
He can hear a cracking sound in the distance, sharp and menacing. He can feel the tree shaking as its branch snaps like it was his own leg breaking off, as snow and leaves and dead things fall to the ground in unison. It sounds like a warning, echoing out through the forest, like the forest is begging them to turn around. But they don’t. And Ipomoea follows along beside the grey mare, trying to ignore the way his stomach heaves uneasily and despair settles like a pit within him.
And as they walk, Emersyn talks. Ipomoea is silent for much of it, letting her words wash over him as the snow settles across their backs. The forest turns colorless as the clouds block out the sky, a grim feeling settling all around them. He lets her take the lead, following her hoofprints through the snow.
She tells him to brace himself, right before they reach the scene. But she didn’t need to. The trees have been telling him all the way there, preparing him for the sight they’re about to see.
He wonders how he hadn’t seen it before, how he hadn’t heard the trees whispering about the blood and the bones and the missing animals. Surely they must have been talking about it - but it was winter now, and their thoughts were always slow and quiet when they went to sleep beneath the snow. But the trees here are awake, the ivy climbing up their trunks is away, and all of them are rubbing their leaves and branches together like they’re trembling, like they’re wringing their hands together.
They’re awake, but they’re still quiet - whispering in voices that are too quiet for him to make out, a steady undertone of murmurs that fills his ears like static.
For the first time, he is afraid to ask them what they’ve seen. Afraid to ask them what they know.
His mouth is dry, so dry, and when he swallows his throat feels as though it’s glued itself shut.
It is not the word Ipomoea would have chosen.
He forces himself to look, at the nearly unrecognizable parts that fill the pit. The snow is still falling, a thin layer of white spreading over the bodies like the forest was trying to bury it, forget it, hide it. But the blood seeps through, red and bright and tainted, and Ipomoea knows there would be no concealing this.
At last he turns back to Emersyn.
They could be in the forest now. Watching them. Tracking another unicorn. Polluting the forest where children play.
@
