Chapter 2: In Which Resistance Is Futile
Seed's Story, Chapter 3: In Which Seed Forgets His Greek Mythology, With Unfortunate Results
He had been walking for what felt like forever; the trees hadn’t tried talking to him again. The Oldest Forest was as lovely as he remembered it. Like the forests where deer wandered, it always seemed to be Spring here. Only someone making careful observation, only someone dreaming slowly, could see the difference. So here, the trees were always soaked in white blooms that drifted in front of his face as he walked like snowflakes falling around him. In the places where the light shone red and the flowers stopped falling, it felt like autumn; in the places where the blooms were too high up to see, it was summer. But Spring was everywhere, tangible as air.
If he weren’t trapped against his will and lost, Seed would have been awestruck by it, even after the near eternity he had spent there, once. His neck hurt, his head felt heavy. He walked with blocks of ice for legs, not bending so much as folding to let him fall, and then catching him before he hit the ground. Somehow, this moved him along. His golden eyes vanished behind his heavy lids, as he struggled to stay on a side of conciousness. He had to stay awake, awake until he reached home. He kept repeating that idea in his head. Then he heard a rustling – not the trees speaking, but something moving in the bushes. His ears perked up as he turned his head.
“Why, hello there, Mister. I haven’t seen the like of you before,” a little voice said. Out of the bushes emerged a little brown squirrel with bright green eyes the color of spring leaves. “What are you supposed to be?”
“I’m a deer…I’m lost, actually. I don’t live in this…place,” he finished, lamely.
