Le Mère des Champignons

Mourning (Deuil)

A/N: Fun fact: I made my Beta-readers cry with this chapter. However, I am not a sadist, even though I do like writing angst! This story is going to get a lot more sad with the next chapters :D

Once more, get comfy! This chapter is just about as long as the first. 

Salutations to Willow and Tea once more, for they both beta-read this chapter.

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Soundtrack: "Resting Grounds" by Christopher Larkin

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The morning comes swiftly, the sun's rays quickly devouring the pale light of the moon. The fog is stubborn, however; it still grips the surface of the small mycelium island, blanketing the biome in a gloomy grey. The sunlight dances with the fog, shining through its gloom to create patterns of light and shadow across the land.

The Figure is deep in a tormented sleep. They toss and turn, fidgeting in place as their dreams take hold of them. Images of the painful bloodshed-- of the devastation-- that occurred to them before gathering together in a terrifying clump in the Figure's thoughts; those thoughts are in opposition to them.

At long last, the Figure can't take it anymore. They gasp awake, bolting into an upright position and panting slightly as they wipe sweat from their brow. The crimson-clad Figure takes a moment to stare at their surroundings, taking in the strange atmosphere the fog and morning sun had painted. Their eyes wander over the fungal scene; it was much different than the night prior. The trees no longer glowed or shone with that ethereal light; they almost appeared dormant, asleep, in the bright sunlight.

In most legends and cultures, the sun is a sign of warmth, growth, and life. To the residents of this otherworldly place, however, it is quite the opposite.

The Figure sighs, looking down to their lap. Mushi is asleep, peaceful and content where she is. They place their gloved hand on her back, gently stroking it. They feel her small chest rise and fall, breathing is calm and steady. 

The Figure smiles at the sleeping calf; they know that this little Mooshroom trusts them with her life. They stare at Mushi, remembering a time long ago, before the war, before this season had even begun, when they and their dearest friends took care of baby villagers. 

When was it? 

The Figure furrows their brow, trying to remember when the chaos occurred. They chuckle as they remember, some tension easing out of their shoulders.

"Sahara shrimps," they whisper to themself, giggling at the old joke.

The Figure remembers their friends' faces; even though the image is fading, the Figure can still imagine their voices, their laughter. Their thoughts halt for a moment.

They remember his eyes. 

The figure's face softens as they remember their old friend. Those beautiful, deep, amber eyes, they twinkled like starlight whenever he smiled. He always had a tendency to make them laugh, whether he intended it or not. 

Stuffed-down emotions begin to well up inside the Figure, clawing at their insides and tugging at their heart as they remember their feelings towards him. They sigh once more and do their best to forget again, gently pushing the thoughts back into their little compartment.

 A silent tear falls down the Figure's cheek, quickly absorbed and hidden by their mask.

Things have changed. The Figure is much older now, having seen and experienced more. He is on the other side of the war, no longer a friend.