The Spirits of the Forest

Chapter 8

Sirius

2 years ago

Every great war starts with a fortress. Of course, a war isn't usually coming just from one side, but you got my point: we needed a fortress. And not only for creating plans and preparing for the attack. We needed a safe place for all the spirits. A place where all our poor little village could fit. Not that I expected the humans to fight back ; I saw fragments of their horrible state. Just that I hated how vulnerable our cramped houses looked.

And I probably wasn't the only one thinking that cause the spirits accepted with no hesitation to leave their homes in exchange for something more luxurious. Now that they were working for a purpose, the power of my people was coming back to light. And with it, something new, a combination between hope and gratitude. I could see it in their eyes and in the way they worked together with the help of the plants, who also seemed happy to show off their forces again. And I, though the nature forgot to gift me with its powers, was assembling the structure of my grand plan side by side with my new servants. I didn't mind sweating and panting as long as I could still use my broken body for something.

In fact, I might have been working a little bit too hard. At night, when everyone was resting, I couldn't allow myself to close my eyes. No, if I closed my eyes, the world didn't turn black. It turned into shades I knew too well, until the shades became places and I was back in the forest, not glorious as I were now, but tied up to a tree, with thorns in my skin. So maybe I gave up on sleeping. Maybe I spent my nights revising the sketches of the fortress and repositioning bricks until they were sitting in the perfect position. Maybe I destroyed walls just to rebuild them again, better. Overworking was a more productive way to run from my monsters than just laying in the bed and playing with Orion's knife.

I didn't know if someone noticed my late-night routine or the objects that were changing their position from day to day. The few that did observe probably thought just like me that, after the sunrise, everything looked better than it looked yesterday but were too happy with the illusion to question it. It's not like I'd owe someone an answer, anyway. No, I didn't owe someone an answer, not even to Arabelle. I knew she was still angry because I didn't forgive her. From begging to flirting, she tried everything to convince me she deserved my mercy. Now, she limited herself at silence, avoiding seeing me. Which was good, because I also avoided her.

Arabelle's ex-admirers were also unnaturally quiet around me. But their silence seemed more like a small animal that holds its breath, hoping the predator won't hear it. Yes, I began noticing lately that a man can be different in two ways: the unwanted one and the feared one. I've been seen by others in both ways. The unwanted child and the monster. Cause even though the spirits were grateful and happy with the change of events, I could also notice the fear in their eyes, when, sometimes, warmed by the hard work, I took my shirt off, revealing my long, skeleton hands. And on them, the small pieces of skin, too stubborn to fall off my bones, that looked burned and wrong. My face, with its dark veins and grey eyes, didn't look very welcoming either. If I didn't know better, if I didn't know that my pain was worth it, I would be sceptic about myself, too. But the truth is that, though I tried to win my servants with my kindness, an attack can only be formed by fear.

Not that I planned to kill the spirits that didn't listen to me. Not that I could kill them. Torture them, yes, kill them, no. They were born invincible, unlike me, who needed a lost knife to achieve such a performance. Of course, they forgot their powers, but no, my sacrifices assured me that I could never forget mine. For now, the only ones that deserved my punishment were the humans. Though nothing would please me more than to have the chance to steal the strength of all witchers just like they stole mine, I was satisfied with the pain of their weaker version, too. And if somehow I would catch in my anger also some witchers that remained by mistake in the capital, well, my luck.