#self-indulgent present tense with an abrupt tone shift

[cenniedolls]

Kyprian ventures into the forest surrounding the bog wearing Zetherain’s red cloak, and even though these woods and the wetlands beyond are familiar, they feel deep and strange today in the fading light.  The cedars loom over him, thick trunks covered in rough bark and cool moss, and even though he knows the texture, there is something off about it now, with the last full moon of autumn waxing bright far above.  Damp and uneven beneath his feet, the forest floor is no different than any other day, scattered with shallow pools of still water and jagged rocks, but Kyprian feels threatened by it in a way that goes deeper than the risk of twisting an ankle in the dark.  The seasons turn sharply here, but it is more than the simple seasonal change making the air itself feel heavy against what little skin Kyprian has bared to it.

The bog belongs to the witch, after all.  This first ring of cedar swamp less than the moose meadows beyond, and that less than the acidic sphagnum heart of the bog proper, but the people of Havenswood don’t come this far without good cause.  Kyprian knows the witch just as well as he knows the forest, though, and she doesn’t scare him.  Nerai is unpredictable, capricious; but she is no villain like the witches in the village stories.  It’s her creatures he is wary of, both those created by Nerai that are familiar vegetation given unfamiliar sentience, and those that are themselves, first, and merely give allegiance to the witch.  First among these is the wolf.  This time of year, he is even less predictable than usual.

The moon is glowing silver over the whispering sedges of the moose meadow by the time Kyprian makes it through the cedars.  He pauses at the edge of the trees, eyes adjusting to the new light; it is nowhere near the light of day, as some stories might suggest, but after the near complete black behind him, the moonlight is too much.  There is a lantern hanging cold at his hip, but it had felt too invasive to bring lit, and Kyprian does not want to risk a feeling like that, not now.  He is beginning to feel that even the deep red of his cloak is too strong, tonight, the velvet nearly as dangerous as firelight.  There is no substance to the danger, though, no definition and no rationalization - Kyprian knows this place, knows its creatures and its people, but still he has to draw himself together to step out into the moonlight.

Both quieter and louder than the cedar swamp, the moose meadow is full of the whisper of grass and sedge, yet empty of the sudden animal noises of the forest.  The ground here is uniformly damp, sinking slightly beneath Kyprian’s feet as he parts the grasses to pass through.  There are paths through the meadow, but he cannot trust them.  That’s one thing the village stories get right.

Even though the rustling he causes passing through sounds deafening in the night, Kyprian knows that he won’t hear the wolf coming if Sage decides to sneak up on him.  The wolf has long since mastered moving soundlessly, even here in the stiff sedge and crisp grasses.

Farther in, and there are hummocks of brush rising from the bog; the uniform meadow gives way to deeper water, masked in places by thick sphagnum moss looking like an innocent forest floor over sucking mud.  Solid ground is tricky to find, here.  One way is to stay close to the brush, but some of the hillocks are tiny floating islands just waiting to tip the unwary into the murky water.  Narrow, bristly spruce trees spear up in places, golden tamaracks in others, but even the ground around these trees may be too unstable for human feet.  

Kyprian has walked through the bog many times before, and knows all of its tricks.  As many as anyone can, at least.  Without living here, he is sure it’s impossible to truly understand the place, but Kyprian doesn’t step into the smooth floating carpet of sphagnum moss, or try to use the drifting brush islands to hold his weight.  He doesn’t investigate the sweet smell, something between apple cider and the chocolates Zetherain used to love, wafting from the unnaturally large pitcher plant out in the bog, or follow the fluttering lights between the trees at the corner of his vision, or let the sinuous movements just under the surface of the open patches of water unnerve him.  The bog is full of Nerai’s creatures, and he has seen all these before.  She likes things that push at boundaries - makes creatures larger, faster; gives them more agency, intelligence, strange new traits drawn from somewhere else.  Bats that glow like lightning bugs and live off moonlight; lightning bugs the size of bats that dip and dive through the water eating fish.  All these creatures follow only their own natures and the will of the witch herself, though.  Thus, they’re predictable.  Nerai’s tentacle monsters are the stuff of nightmares, but it just goes to show that you can get used to anything, because Kyprian knows them now, and can avoid them accordingly.  Not so with the wolf.

It’s not as though Sage is the wolf from village stories, a poorly disguised metaphor for the consequences of discouraged actions.  He’s not the danger of leaving home given physical form - or perhaps he is that - or the pitfalls of new adulthood - although there are moments Kyprian can see the parallel - or some mindless beast, ravening in the woods.  In stories, the wolf is a convenient symbol or a simple danger, but in the witch’s bog, her wolf is altogether more complicated.

Be careful of the wolf, Zetherain had said, one of the last things he told Kyprian before leaving.  It was a bit late for that.  Be careful of what?  Sage’s sharp claws and canine teeth?  The smoky edge to his smirks, and the way he stands a bit too close?  Or the way he rolls in the sweet-smelling sedges behind the witch’s house in the warm days of summer, full of simple joy, and the softness of his furry ears?

All of these things, maybe.  The wolf is a complicated figure, and carries a variety of dangers.  On a night like this, full of moonlight and sharp with the first edge of winter, that danger is perhaps at its most literal.  On a night like this, Sage is a creature of the bog, first, and something human after.

Kyprian picks his way steadily closer to the stand of trees near the center of the bog, where the witch has built her house.  There’s an expanse of open water beside it, not quite a lake and nothing like the Pool where the bog meets the mountains.  Still, it is the most predictable area in this part of the bog, with a paradoxically solid shoreline between the floating mosses and the ring of cattails and rushes surrounding the water.  Kyprian allows himself a short breath of relief when he reaches it, and of course that’s when the wolf strikes.

There’s a howl that contains at least some of the sounds of his name, and Sage pounces out of a stand of golden tamaracks teetering at the edge of the solid ground.  Kyprian gets a glimpse of shining eyes and bright teeth, before Sage barrels into him and they crash into the shallow water and crisp cattails.  Startled despite knowing that something of the sort must be coming, Kyprian shrieks, spluttering as some of the bog gets into his eyes and mouth.

Sage is laughing at him, but even as they fell the wolf turned to take most of their weight, so Kyprian is not nearly as bruised or muddy as he could be.  He barely has time for the thought before Sage is up again, bounding around with his tail thrashing behind him.  So it’s one of those nights, after all.

“Trick or treat,” Kyprian says, as dry as possible while he’s sitting waist-deep in water, picking duckweed off his face.  Sage just howls with laughter, rolling to a stop at the edge of the shore.  He’s a bit more wolfish than usual, tonight, hands more clawed and feet more like paws, fur all the way to his rolled-up pants, but even though his eyes are full of wild energy, it’s not the dark kind Kyprian sometimes finds there.

“Nerai’s got the treats,” Sage says.  “C’mon, come inside.”

Kyprian accepts a hand up, and leans into Sage when the wolf slings an arm around his waist.  A few more steps around the curve of the shore, and there’s the witch’s house, lights gleaming in the windows.  Orange, purple, strangely black; still, the light is welcoming, and Kyprian likes the way it reflects off the water, swirling through the silver moonlight.  The witch has a flair for the dramatic, but an eye for beauty too.

There are pumpkins carved with faces on the step, and cobwebs hanging from the eaves.  One of the pumpkins cackles at them; another winks, leering far more effectively than a vegetable should.  A massive spider swings out of the way as Kyprian raises his hand to knock on the door.

“Trick or treat,” he calls, put somewhat at ease by the fact that Sage is still at his side.  Not that the witch would think twice before pranking the wolf along with him, but at least they’re in it together.

She just opens the door with a gleeful shriek and an armful of candy, though.  Everyone else is already here - Zetherain is waiting by the window, projecting indifference; Finael is slouched at the table with Lilon next to her; Lilon is pouting, looking askance at the massive pair of costume rabbit ears on Finael’s head.  Nerai herself is wearing a ridiculously oversized witch’s hat in the style of children’s stories, and Kyprian is sure she’s responsible for Finael’s rabbit ears as well.

“Finally!” the witch crows.  She snaps her fingers, treats abandoned to float in the air beside her, and Kyprian’s wet cloak sweeps off his shoulders to hang next to the hearth.  Sage drags him into the next room, bundling him into a dry sweater and pants, entirely more hindrance than help.  Kyprian stumbles, giggles, gets a mouthful of Sage’s hair and a faceful of his ears.  He can just make out Zetherain’s low voice through the half-closed door, and Nerai’s laugh clear as a bell.  She sweeps him into a chair when they come back out, and suddenly the table is full of pie and candies, and a bowl of shining red apples.

“Lilon did the baking,” Sage says, with a sly glance at Nerai.  “So it’s all safe.”

She kicks his feet out from under him as he moves toward his seat, and Sage topples into Finael, who just sighs.  Even she is smiling, though; it’s faint, but some of the chill is missing from her eyes.  Across the table, Zetherain rolls his eyes.

“You’d think he’d learn,” he says, gesturing at Sage, but looking just at Kyprian.  

Kyprian can hardly contain the warmth rising in his chest, entirely separate from the flickering candles and the fire in the hearth.  He hadn’t expected Zetherain to make it back tonight, all the way from Merstithe; it’s almost as rare to see Finael and Lilon in the same room, and neither of them fighting with Nerai.  The sweater Sage gave him smells like dog and musty wool, the candles are sparking in unnatural colors and the flames move like snakes, Lilon looks ready to bolt and there’s a cluster of lightning bats hanging in the rafters, but this is perfect.

Lilon slides his chair closer, away from Finael and Sage on the window seat, and hands Kyprian a plate.  “Pumpkin,” he says, pointing to one pie, then the others.  “Apple.  Cherry, peach, pecan.”  His ears twitch, luminous green eyes careful on the last pie.  “Nerai made that one.  I don’t trust it.”

The witch just scoffs, leaning against the back of Kyprian’s chair, but she won’t get rough with the bunny the way she does with Sage.  “It’s perfectly safe.  Delicious, even.  I’m certain of it.”

The surface of the pie bulges, the movement not unlike Nerai’s creatures in the swamp.  Kyprian takes a slice of apple pie, and Lilon adds a large spoonful of whipped cream.

“You try it first,” Sage says, leaning back in his own chair.  “Me, I’ll stick with the bunny’s baking.”

Finael takes a pointed bite of apple, the crisp fruit snapping under her teeth.  Her plate contains a thin slice of every pie but Nerai’s.  “A shame to let it go to waste,” she says, without inflection.

Finael, the witch has no compunctions about getting physical with; Nerai drops herself into the one-time assassin’s lap, pulling her pie closer.  “I know you’re just trying to be polite, and let me have the best pie all to myself, but I’m willing to share with you, Fina dear.”  Her tone is almost as distressingly off as the pie, sweet and cloying.

“Leave them to it,” Zetherain says, glancing away as Nerai cuts into her pie.  Something flickers, like static in the dark, and Kyprian averts his eyes as well.  Lilon scoots to the edge of his chair, as far as he can get without leaving the table.

“Here’s to us,” Sage says, blithely ignoring the pie situation as he reaches for the cider in the middle of the table, pouring everyone a glass.  He gets right up in Zetherain’s space as he leans back, earning a dismissive look; under the table, he tangles his feet with Kyprian’s.

It’s hardly a toast.  Sage is drinking before anyone has a chance to respond, but Zetherain still raises his glass beside the wolf, with a roll of his eyes and the shadow of a smile.  Kyprian clinks his glass against Lilon’s, and the bunny solemnly repeats Sage’s words.

The moment is broken by a shriek as Finael shoves Nerai off her lap, diving to the floor after her with a growl.  Sure enough, the witch’s pie is… blooming, or something - bubbles of chocolate are oozing from the cut slice, growing and spreading with, as usual, far too much agency for comfort.  

“Great party,” Sage says, leaning back with a grin.  Lilon tumbles out of his own chair, popping up on the other side of Kyprian with a distressed moan.  Zetherain takes care of the pie, raising one hand, limed with dark energy, over it, and slowing pushing down as though through heavy snow.  By the time he’s close enough to touch, the pie is just a sullen pile of glop.  It surrenders one final bubble, bursting over Zetherain’s hand; he sighs, but licks his fingers clean anyway.

“The chocolate is good,” Zetherain says, eyeing the women on the floor.  Nerai puts her head up, smirking.  “Leave off the special effects next time.”

“Where’s the fun in that,” Nerai grins.

“I don’t know, maybe we could have a civil meal for once,” Finael mutters, settling back into her chair.

“Again, where’s the fun,” Sage says.  Zetherain elbows him.

Kyprian pats Lilon’s ears, and the bunny sighs, casting a wary glare over Nerai and Finael before returning to his seat.  “I would be even more nervous if nothing like that happened,” Kyprian says.

“And that’s why I like you,” Nerai says, passing him a slice of the defeated pie.  “See, Zethie?  Your little brother goes with the flow.  Stay away too long, and you’ll forget all the important stuff.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” His voice is haughty, but there’s a flicker of apology in Zetherain’s eyes as he looks at Kyprian.

Kyprian supposes that’s what’s important.  Zetherain is here, everyone is fighting in their comfortable ways, and Nerai’s chocolate pie really does taste good, now that it’s not moving.  It’s enough; it’s perfect.  Kyprian can only hope that they get more nights like this.