Hunting Leaves
Normally, life flourished among the vibrant trees and lush undergrowth of the forest, but today barely a leaf stirred through the fae woods, breath held in nervous anticipation. Gormel of the Enduring Court stood, stone skeleton and wooden muscle creaking as he shook his great head. The antlers sprouting from his brow shake a few of the scarlet and gold leaves from the shimmering canopy above, and he plucks a pair, conjoined at the stem, from his mossy beard. “I will not surrender her to you, De’mor of the Wild Court.”
De’mor growls, low and guttural, his nature urging him to hunt the stag-like centaur and feast upon him where he stood for such defiance. “The Elemental Courts owe the Unseelie this much! That tree’s roots run deep into the leylines and reach into my territory, and her power is evident even from there.”
“Yet her canopy is on my lands, her trunk within my bounds, and her heart in my Court. You have no claim to her.” Gormel narrows his eyes, looking over the hunter, whose features were as sharp as the teeth of his prey, which he wore around his neck. “Shadren is my daughter. We let you Unseelie hunt through our lands, drink from our springs, light our flames, and breathe our winds. If anything, you owe us.”
The old hunter’s brow furrows deeper, trenches etched into his skin from years of weathering and intense concentration, staring down the wooden stag. “What would we pay that we have not already offered?”
“You might offer us respite from your constant pursuit of glory.”
“Our hunt can never end. It is our nature, you know this as well as any.”
“Not all of your court are hunters. There are those who are simply beasts, wanderers.”
“You would have us hunt our own kind?”
“Would it be any worse than what occurs in nature already? Those who are not Fae have no morals or loyalty to anyone but that which is best for their survival.”
The Wild Fae sighs, relenting. “I will take that into consideration.” He looks to the sky, where stars shifted, narrowing his eyes. “The Seelie are still changed. Weakened, almost, but also stronger in ways I cannot comprehend. The constellations are unclear, and the sun doesn’t seem to hold the same quality as it had before--”
“I know little of the actions of the noble sky-bearers, and the sun is a matter of the Burning Court. I know only of the earth and wood, stone and roots. Seek elsewhere if you’d like answers, for I have none.” Gormel interrupts De’mor with a hand and a scowl. “Our quarrel is done. Leave my daughter and I in peace.”
De’mor, swifter than could be seen, plucks the conjoined leaves from Gormel’s hand, splitting them apart. One leaf shimmered glittering gold in the evening sun, the other a crimson flame against his tanned skin. “I shall leave you be, and take these as my keepsake to remember her by. Her heart may be in your court, but her roots reach out to me. I’ve enjoyed her conversation.”
The centaur raises an eyebrow. “One day, perhaps. Not today. You cannot take her hand today.”
“Then when the colors of all the trees in the woods match hers.”
“Perhaps.”
FIN
