#forest lore

He first appeared by opening and crawling out of a rotting abandoned suitcase in the forest that was covered in leaves and moss. He looked horrifying as he unfolded his body from the unnatural angles it was contorted into while crammed in that little suitcase.

If you just look at his face and upper body, there’s nothing too scary about him. He kind of looks like a 1980s yuppie wearing a polo shirt and khakis, though they were discolored and rotted away in places like they’d been lying on the forest floor for years. His face is normal and kind of handsome, somewhat resembling Ryan Gosling but with a buzz cut and glasses. But if you look more closely at him, his face has the flat pallor of the recently deceased and instead of red veins in the whites of his eyes, there are thin green strands of moss growing there.

His arms and legs start out normal, but at around his elbows and knees, you start to see swirls of moss and fungus growing up from his clothes and skin. The moss gets denser the lower you go on his limbs, and he has no hands or feet at all, just long trailing masses of moss that sweep against the ground. Instead of walking, he levitates, and the strands of moss where his feet would be make a SWISH SWISH SWISH sound as they trace little patterns in the dead leaves that line the forest paths he takes.

He can talk, but with great effort and with several sounds missing. It’s like playing a flute that’s been buried at the bottom of a pond for decades, with mud and sediment clogging up some of the holes.

He doesn’t seem to be a ghost, but he’s not exactly a zombie, either. He seems… colonized and reanimated by the forest.

Cause I just remembered and I think its funny

In middle school (so its not like- that serious- but it was serifous enough to affect my charater development) I was dating this guy right, real outcast nerdy type that some of the girls told me was creepy. I was like hmm is he though? (Narrator: yes. Yes the fuck he was) so I gave him a chance. (Narrator: Which was a terrible idea)

We dated pretty hard for kids (kissed, held hands everywhere, texted nonstop, etc) but then he started doing weird things like eating paper and offering me his jacket (knowing I was almost 3 sizes bigger then him) and then would complain because I "kept refusing his gestures"? And then on my birthday he gave me LIVE OYSTERS and thought it would be a good gift idea if I pryed out the pearls. The pearls were my gift i guess but god damn dude this is like 8th grade. Then when he took me on a family outing he took me to a place called wild gingers. Im DEATHLY allergic to ginger.

Oh and he once took me to church and we got shoved into the kids room despite being older then the director lady and he was having fun making slime while I sat there in my nicest clothes steaming. Why the fuck did you invite me to church if everyone under 18 gets shoved into the "youth group" which was practically just a day care? For THREE hours!? The youth group leader girl was 12. She read us a baby book about noahs arc and he was happy as could be. Like what the fuck?

Anyway. Were both Bi and he asked previously if Id be open to a third (I know IN MIDDLE SCHOOL is Crraaazzy) and I said No. Duh, so he proceeds to cheat on me with this girl acting as if I wouldnt see them kissing in the halls and shit.

So. What did I do? Thats right bitches. I lost all feelings for him and stole his girlfriend. Don't fuck with me.

At first she was also very sweet and we both lowkey didnt like him now cause he told her we weren't together (8 months of my life WASTED apparently) and yada yada. Now mind you I made this moron breakfast every morning. I would make him food from my house and bring it to school for him because he never ate. He claimed he didn't have time, so when I found out later that he never ate it and would THROW IT AWAY because he quote "only eats his moms food" ??? Yeah no. BYE. Dumped his ass and he had the nerve to cry all day like he didnt do anything wrong.

But she always ate it and was always appreciative.

Chapter 2: The Shape of What Was Feared

No one moved.

The clearing held its breath, the way clearings do after something impossible has been said aloud, as if the air itself needs a moment to decide whether to carry the words or let them fall.

Kit became aware, slowly, that she was still holding the compact open. The fae lords were still lit. She was still feeding them from whatever she had left, which was not much, which was not the point. She closed her hands around the current and held it there, not releasing, not pulling more. A kind of standoff with herself.

She had read every page of that journal.

She had read it the way a person reads something they love and are afraid of, carefully, more than once, in different lights, hoping the meaning would shift. Her grandfather's handwriting in the margins. Her grandfather's corrections, the places where he'd pressed too hard and torn the paper slightly, the places where the ink went thin because he was tired or because whatever he was writing cost him something.

She had assumed the last year wasn't there because it hadn't been written. She had not considered that it had been written and removed. She had not considered that someone who loved her might have looked at a truth and decided, deliberately, that she was better off without it.

Something moved at the tree line.

The bark-and-moss woman came forward first, the many-tailed fox close at her side. Behind them, the great stag lowered its impossible antlers and stepped into the clearing with the careful gravity of something that had not chosen to move and had moved anyway. It stopped at the woman's shoulder. Its eyes were very dark and very still.

'Guardian,' the bark-and-moss woman said.

Her voice was the sound of green things growing over stone. Kit had heard it before, or something like it, in the deep places of the Vennwood where the forest spoke through root and water rather than wind. It was not comforting, exactly. It was old.

'You know,' Kit said. It wasn't a question.

'I know what I was told.' The woman moved to stand at the edge of the gray, the place where the Hollow King's cold began, and stopped there. She looked at him with something that was not fear and not recognition and not quite anything Kit had a name for. 'I know what the fae lords believed when they made the compact. I know what they did not ask.'

The Hollow King had not moved. He stood in the center of the ruined stone with his crown of twisted branches and his eyeless face, and he was patient the way winter is patient, not gentle, not cruel, simply enduring.

'What didn't they ask?' Kit said.

'Why,' the woman said simply. 'They did not ask why the oldest root was severed. They found the wound and they found something standing near it, and they made a judgment.' She paused. 'Judgments made from wounds are rarely accurate.'

'I did not sever the root,' the Hollow King said. His voice had not changed. It never seemed to change, that sound of empty rooms, of aftermath. 'I was present when it was severed. I had been present for some time, trying to understand what had done it. When the fae lords arrived, they saw what they expected to see.'

'A monster,' Morrigan said from Kit's shoulder.

'Something large and strange in a place that had been damaged.' The King tilted his crowned head. 'The distinction matters.'

Kit's hands were still closed around the compact. She was aware of the fae lords through the bond, diminished and fraying, holding the light she was feeding them with something that was effort now where it had once been reflex. They were listening. She could feel that, the quality of their attention, the way it had shifted from braced readiness to something more careful.

'Three hundred years,' she said. 'You were imprisoned for three hundred years, and your argument is that it was a misunderstanding.'

'My argument,' the Hollow King said, 'is that the misunderstanding is going to get you killed.'

The stag made a sound, low and resonant, more vibration than noise. The fox pressed closer to the bark-and-moss woman's leg.

'What is it?' Kit said. 'The thing that severed the root. What is it.'

The Hollow King was quiet for a moment that lasted slightly too long.

'I don't have a name for it,' he said. 'In three hundred years of considering the question, I have found no name that fits. It is not a creature. It is not a force, exactly. It is more like a, ' he paused, and for the first time Kit had the sense that he was searching, 'a direction. A hunger that moves through the world the way a cold front moves through weather, except that what it leaves behind is not just cold. What it leaves behind is absence. Things that were there and then simply are not.'

The gray of the clearing seemed deeper, suddenly. Kit did not look at it directly.

'The sickness in the forest,' she said. 'The wrong silences. The places in the Vennwood where nothing grows.'

'Yes,' the bark-and-moss woman said quietly. 'Those places have grown, over the years. We did not know what was making them. We thought, some of us, that it was the imprisonment, that the Hollow King's containment was bleeding something into the soil.' She did not look at him when she said it. 'We may have been wrong about that also.'

'You were,' the King said. There was no heat in it.

'How long has it been in the forest?' Kit asked.

'It was here before I was.' The Hollow King turned his eyeless face toward the Vennwood's dark edge. 'It was here before the Standing Stones were raised. The fae lords built their compact and their wards to keep me contained, and in doing so they built something that functioned, for a while, as a kind of barrier to it also. Not intentionally. Not well. But the old wards had weight, and weight slows things that feed on absence.' A pause. 'The wards are gone now.'

The ruined stone was very quiet.

'You said it knows I'm here,' Kit said.

'It has known since you first opened the compact,' the King said. 'Possibly before. You carry a great deal of the forest in you now, guardian, and the forest is one of the last places with enough root-weight to be worth feeding on. You are, from its perspective, a door.'

Kit thought about the moment in the deep Vennwood, months ago now, when she had first felt the forest pour itself through her, had first understood what the compact meant, what it asked. She had thought, at the time, that the most frightening thing about it was the scale, that she was becoming something she didn't have language for.

She was beginning to think she had not been frightened of the right things.

'What do we do,' she said.

She hadn't meant it to come out the way it did, plural, inclusive, directed at the clearing as a whole rather than at any one of them. But it came out that way, and no one corrected it.

The bark-and-moss woman looked at the Hollow King. The stag raised its head. The many-tailed fox sat down in the grass at the edge of the gray, which was either trust or pragmatism, and Kit found she didn't care which.

Morrigan was very still on her shoulder, and she felt him through the old bond, the one that had existed long before the compact, and what she felt from him was not comfort exactly.

It was something more like: we are not alone in this, and that is not yet the same as safe, but it is something.

'First,' the Hollow King said, 'you stop feeding the fae lords enough to keep the compact at full tension. You are burning through yourself, and we will need you intact.' He paused. 'Second, you tell me what your grandfather built on his land before he died, because I believe he knew more than he put in that journal. And whatever he built, I believe it is the closest thing to a ward we have left.'

Kit looked at him for a long moment.

'You've been watching my family,' she said.

'I have been watching this forest for three hundred years,' the Hollow King said. 'Your family is part of this forest. The distinction, again, matters.'

The clearing was still gray where he stood. The cold was still the cold of absence, of rooms that had forgotten warmth. But Kit was standing at the edge of it, and she had not stepped back, and neither had anyone else.

She let the compact ease, just slightly, enough to stop the pulling, enough to let the fae lords rest in what they were rather than what she'd been forcing them to hold.

'There's a root cellar,' she said. 'On the property. He sealed it a year before he died, and he told my mother not to open it. She never did.'

The Hollow King's crowned head tilted.

'Then that,' he said, 'is where we begin.'