Ring of Mushrooms

18

Blood stains are hard to clean. Corpses are annoying to dispose of. It's not exactly difficult to do, when you don't need to hide them at least. Lilia hasn't ever needed to hide one, only dispose of them. It was an unwritten part of the job. But here he could leave the intruder's corpses scattered across mossy forest floors and let the mushrooms and animals deal with the remains.

Nature was violent in that way. Tearing and ripping meat off of bones. Grinding their teeth across them. Lapping up blood and juices leaving little to be found again. The pale bones grow moss and turn colors and they slowly decay, gently decay. Letting worms and beetles skitter across them, though there was no way to voice complaints anymore by that point.

It was a simple job by all means. Kill the invaders, and slaughter those who sneak in seeking violence and war. So he did just that, searching the forests throughout the night. He gathered herbs and remedies, filling his pockets every time before he returned in the morning. He'd brew teas and hand you exactly what you asked for when you labored over a steaming pot of soup.

Deep in the late night, he skipped through the woods finishing a portion of his duties. His orders were completed and so he dug through the ground uprooting another plant to attempt to help with Silver's illness, but he felt something go wrong.

The way a fairy circle works is different for each one, some grant ownership over the intruder, others set up a way to make a bargain, and in Lilia's case, keep a close watch on his home and family. He knew instantly something was wrong, the same way he felt you step across his border of mushrooms. He took off at that, stuffing the plant away, but not bothering to pick it or the other finds as he dashed off towards his cottage.

Blood stains are hard to clean up. The wood soaks it up, holds onto it, and part of the wood will always know what it soaked up. He didn't care about the cleaning but he stepped into the house and saw part of the wall covered in it, then he stepped into a gooey oozy puddle of it, part of it crunched under his foot.

He could hear them speaking. He knew their panic and their fear was laced with a touch of remorse, a dousing of guilt. All of it is a little too late. He saw them, gathered in his son's room. He saw them circling around you, gawking at round ears, and a crying whimpering boy covered in sweat and blood, holding onto his parent's sleeve. His loose-fitting pajamas stuck to his skin and soaked with his parent's blood.

Needless to say, that floor was coated in red. In their panic, they never noticed him until he killed one of them. He lashed out in a blind rage removing the intruders from a list of dangers.

He held silver to his chest, panicking as he grabbed you both. His small frail boy was growing weaker as he fell asleep into your arms. Your eyes were glassy, you couldn't see a thing, already passed out from pain and blood loss. The small boiling-to-the-touch boy leaned into your cold body. Your fiancé screamed as he pulled you both from his home and into the storm to bring you somewhere safe.