The Stray

2-12: Hemolymph is Thicker Than Water, Pt. 2

It was her crying that caught his attention. At first, he'd thought it was some fairy trick— luring him in with the sound of a small woman's tears. Mientofani sucked. But then it'd clocked for him that he was hearing it in wildtongues. And so it was that a twelve-year-old Timothy crept through the woods, dagger drawn, approaching the sound.

He slowly peeked from the cover of a tree. There, on a large bloom of Lua's Lace, lay a bee. He'd seen darkwood bees before; they were almost the size of your paw, dusky-colored, the type who'd leave you alone if you left them alone. He'd not yet had a problem with them, and he'd had problems with just about everyone here. The bee had buried her face in the petals, weeping just loud n' miserable.

This was a Timothy who was hunted and miserable himself, wounds fresh and aching. It was also a Timothy whose loneliness was enough to overcome his caution. So, without even really thinking about it, the young witch stepped out from behind the tree, intentionally making a little noise.

The bee's head whipped up in fright, revealing eyes which burned with strange light. Timothy jolted and stepped back. It was like a furnace blazed away in the little creature, barely contained within. The wolf gulped. For a long moment, they stared at each other.

Timothy took a deep breath. <<T'aint nothin' to be scared of.>> He said it for both their benefit; those eyes were really somethin'. As for her, why worry 'bout a skinny little kid in a dress too big for him? <<It's only me.>>

The bee sniffled. <<A speaker...? Wait, you're that witch!>> Ever since he'd started looking for a new home— and hunting along the way— word'd started to get around that a witch lived here now. Bein' known helped here an' there, but it'd also slapped a target on his back...

<<Yep. My name's Timothy.>> He waved awkwardly. <<Who're you?>>

<<I am— I'm Hellebore.>> Oh, like the winter rose.

<<That's a nice name.>> Timothy tried, smiling. Bees liked flower names. <<Why're you crying, miss bee?>>

She kept on sniffling— well, doing sad little shakes that the wildtongues translated as sniffling, at least— so it took her a second to reply. <<Why do you care? I don't know you.>>

<<Heard y' cryin'.>> He sat down a ways away from her, near another cluster of the silvery-white flowers. <<An' it ain't right to ignore someone who needs help.>>

(The Timothy of now let out a sad little chuckle at that reasonin'.)

Hellebore frowned, just as skeptical. Wipin' her face on the lace's pistils, she said <<That's your reason?>>

The boy thought back to his struggle east. Of being ignored by villagers at best, and attacked at worst. <<Yeah, that's 'bout it.>> His smile faded a little. <<Take it from a spider, talkin' to someone you ain't gotta live with can help.>> To be honest, it was as much his months with the spiders as it was his experiences in his tiny Vol village. The thought made him wince a little.

Hellebore thought that over for a moment. Then... <<...My hive's in great danger.>> She turned around a few times, folding her legs under her and sitting on the flower's soft petals. <<And I think it will destroy us before t-the new queen can get everyone to safety.>>

Danger? Timothy gulped. That could mean a lot in the Deepshadow. Warily, he sat down, glancing every which way. <<W-what's goin' on?>>

The bee looked torn between spillin' and keepin' her mouth shut. But the truth is, most critters— people included— just want someone to hear 'em. So after a moment, she sighed, and started talkin'. <<I come from Forena. That's our hive,>> she said, and he sheepishly lowered his hand, <<and our kingdom. Queen Belladonna ruled us, her children, with wisdom and kindness.>> She sniffed. <<We live in safety and prosperity beneath a Great Saltbloom, surrounded by patches of many flowers. A lovely home... until now.>>