Fig

She had barely been home a week following the revelation of the Dragon’s Throat Sultan – the murderer – and the puppeteer who had woven her spell through his mortal being. Fig needed rest, respite and to work through the tortured thoughts which had overwhelmed her peace-loving mind since the devastation and death; but even after the meeting which had been called not long after her return to the whispering embrace of the misty forest, the young tree-girl had been pulled by duty – by the tireless need to find her soul plant.

Slow, weary steps led her towards the river which snaked through the centre of the vast country. Travel was sluggish, the weight of her expanding canopy a bittersweet burden, and after one week and a half she was pausing with the powerful heat of the sun pressing down like an ominous cloud across her back. Lips sank gratefully into the cool water, mountain snow, unable to weather the overbearing, unnatural warmth of the hot season. She took her fill, quenching both thirst and the nagging hunger that rendered her fleshy frame slimmer and less padded (still none would notice the loss of condition, as thick roots draped like a masking blanket across her body).

It was as she dithered there, cowering beneath the shade of sprawling branches, that the strange sound was detected by swivelling ears – and they stiffened quickly forward to listen. It was the hum of voices, an undulating chorus that seemed out of place in the late afternoon. Fig followed it at a heavy, urgent gait, both curious and cautious after the last gathering which had caused such a sound. She came upon a sea of creatures, and before them the same God with ram-like horns who had spoken as the scene of the murderer’s verdict. Lashes fluttered sympathetically, but her attention could not be swayed from the hulking structure by his side.

What is this? she whispered, drawing alongside a pale mare with wings and mouldy residue across her hide. Deep shade was thrown across those closest, cool and a pleasant relief from the still-cutting rays of the sinking sun. The God at their head spoke of rain - rains - and though there was underlying foreboding in the word, Fig could hardly deny the smile that rose through her expression – how she missed the monsoonal deluges of old Prim’sylva, nourishing and revitalizing. The stranger beside her turned with a look upon her face that did not mirror the tree-girl’s undeniable delight.

“I am Fig.” she answered softly, tone as tranquil as a silvery morn – the other’s accent was curious, intriguing. “Yes, Laedere, what a kind thought.” Large brown eyes surveyed the crowd around them with interest – they were already dividing, finding their friends and family perhaps – and the solid Lignea was more than grateful for the other’s open nature.

Fig & Laedere <3