A man is hidden in a peculiar forest untouched by humans, where the animals and plant-life thrive. He keeps a watchful eye to make sure the peace isn't disturbed when one day, a young woman is found venturing his world. He is unsure what to make of...
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When one is left alone with their thoughts, they start to remember some things that might've seemed trivial before, or maybe, they'd think about the conversations they've had with others in the past or think of ways that they could've responded better, maybe even stew in their feelings for a bit and get so lost in them that they'd forget where they are, who they are. Y/N was in the middle of one of these moments, a moment where she laid by the warm fire, wrapped up in her owl friend's cloak. She didn't know when he'd come to retrieve it back from her, but it's been a good couple of days. For once, her belly was full with fish she had captured and sleeping in the dirt didn't feel so bad with something as cushy as a feathered cloak underneath her. It turns out she has a real knack for fishing with spears. All it took was some practice. That skill would allow her to stay in the forest a little longer, and for that, she felt grateful.
While most of her life had been dictated by her mother, she did have some fond memories of the past, those being from her father, who unfortunately was no longer a part of her life. It was an ugly divorce. Her mother took everything from him, and she hasn't heard from him since. She was told to put him out of her mind, and she did, even though he was the only person she really liked out of her family. "No use thinking about stupid things of the past," her mother had told her— Another way of manipulating her, she supposed. She didn't like the man, so therefore, no one else should like him either. Quite the role model. It's a wonder she didn't rebel sooner.
Well, it worked. His memories, they were faded— Most of them were anyways. She hardly remembers his face, but one memory she had manage to recall in her time alone were the good old days of being read stories for bedtime as a small child. Her papa was the designated storyteller because he was so good at making voices, while her mother tended to drone out the words with no excitement or life, like she had wanted to get it over with. It made bedtime much more fun with him at her bedside. Sometimes, he'd read the books from her shelves, or he'd pull something out from his imagination, but there was one story in particular that she pushed herself to remember.
She had sat there all evening, trying to remember how he had worded it, how it went. She found herself speaking the words she could remember aloud, filling in the blank spots with her own imaginings as she tried to piece it together, while up in the trees, outside her cave, a figure listened in as she finally brought the story together.
"There once was a king of a kingdom of trees. The animals were his people, the owls his kin. He was a ruler that men didn't want to cross in fear of storms so great and loud, they could bring an end to the very earth they stood upon, so they kept their distance and spoke nothing of the royal or his strange home. So long as they did not acknowledge him, he had no reason to come after them. They had feared their lives would end at his scaly claws or be thrown back by the force of big, powerful wings, but had they looked closer, they would've realized this king was no beast, but a man of his own, who loved his kingdom and protected his people. He was kind, not cruel, only seeking to keep the balance of his impossible world, but men are selfish and want to explore in territories that are not their own. The same went for both worlds. The King had often wandered into human land under a disguise that looked no different than you or me. You could not tell him apart from any other face unless your eyes met. Those eyes, so big and round, like bright balls of fire. They were curious and friendly, but those he met were less so.
