Lore [5/???]

Something has changed. The woods are unnaturally still, breath held, waiting.

When the Sliver at the boundary shudders with excitement, он сам decides to investigate.

It only takes moments to reach His side of the boundary. The Sliver hunches in the deep foliage, watching, quivering, its lichen-crusted claws flexing.

он сам dismisses it - like the thing it is, it leaves without hesitation. Without a backward glance.

он сам turns His full attention to the disturbance that has entered His domain.

A child.

Her feet are bloody from the brambles and pine needles, but she doesn't look pained; she seems curious.

он сам leans down from His place in the canopy, surveying the child. Wild blonde curls fall into a pale face. Squinting blue eyes stare into the canopy; she can't see Him but can undoubtedly sense Him.

Just as He sensed her.

He pulls leaves to him as He slithers down the tree to meet her pale gaze with His yellow. Undergrowth coats Him, makes Him visible, and gives him a shape.

The girl's eyes widen, but she stays where she is.

You should not be here, little deer, He tells her.

She stares at Him, her lower lip quivering. "Not s'posed to be here," she repeats, absently rubbing a fresh bruise on her arm. "The woods are bad."

And why is that? He asks, amused. Humans have always amused Him, but the young ones moreso. Straightforward, easy to read, and painfully sincere.

"There's monsters."

What do you think I am?

That stumps the girl. She tugs on a matted curl, considering Him. "You're a tree."

он сам unfurls himself from the bark, taking shape. The nearby overgrowth pulls free from the dirt, swirling around His mass. Small bones help Him shape the trickier bits - the legs and hooves, the fingers.

It takes mere seconds; He has had millennia to perfect it.

The child gapes - more in awe than fear.

он сам studies her. He knew the girl existed - the parents never tried to hide her from Him. They allowed her to play too close to the woods. Ignored her curiosity.

They wanted her to be the one that the woods took. That He took.

As such, she isn't the one He wants.

Where is your brother, little deer? 

The girl tilts her head, narrowing her eyes in... confusion?

No. Accusation.

He understands then. She is used to this question. She is used to no one wanting her. She is used to being disregarded at best and harmed at worst.

он сам tilts His head lower on His broad, curved neck; the branches creak around him, and the leaves flutter.

Do you wish your brother gone, little deer? His huff of breath makes her flyaways flutter around her gaunt cheeks. Do you wish to be the golden child?

Her eyes widen a little. She suddenly looks worried, glancing back toward the boundary. Toward safety. "Not s'posed to be here," she says.

You are not, He agrees. He could kill her. Take her. Absorb her into Himself or use her body as a vessel for a new Puppet. He has every right now that she has come to Him.

But He won't. He won't because she can be so much more useful than that.

Bring your brother, little deer, He says, using every ounce of power within Him. A wind erupts from Him, a swirling cyclone that forces the child to stumble and fall against a tree.

Her eyes are wide and horrified.

And hungry.

Hungry for power. Hungry for what He can do. What he can offer her.

Bring your brother, He repeats, His voice a deep thrum from each rock, each tree, the air itself. And no one shall harm you again.

The little one watches him for a moment before she gives the smallest nod.

Go.

She hesitates, but He can still see her hunger. Her desire for more.

She turns and runs from Him, but He knows that she will be back.

And she will bring her brother.