The Importance of Moss.

The Importance of Moss 10.

It was fourteen light-and-darks after Drew had shown up and it was cold. The troop stayed inside their tree. The wind was bitter and crashed everything in its path, only set for destruction. There were light splatters of rain which soaked the fae with just one drop and everything was this muggy grey colour—they could barely see five feet in front of them. So the troop leaders had decided that it would be much safer to stay inside their tree, to sort through their food for the winter, to make sure they had enough of everything now that they had another member of the troop.

The tree was a lot bigger than Drew had originally thought. He’d only actually been into three sections of the tree- the place where they slept, the place where they were to store their moss and soft furs, and the place where they kept their food. It turns out that there was a hell of a lot more rooms than he had thought. For example there was a little twist of roots that lead through to a smaller room filled with sharp and thorned weapons, filled with dust-mushrooms, filled with acorn caps, tangles of brambles—all preparations for if there were to be a war, a battle, anything that meant their troop would be in danger. There was also a room filled with more moss, more food, more sleeping clothes, little acorn caps that they’d use for cooking, for collecting water before it all iced over. There was a room filled with all the medical herbs and flowers that they knew about. There was so much he hadn’t known existed and it was exciting to finally see it all.

He and Cyrus had to count the food that they’d collected. Kier was checking the clumps of moss to make sure they were all good enough, all going to be enough for the winter that was coming. Laurence was looking over the weapons, making sure they were all well looked after—Laurence was always the main leader when it came to the battles—making sure that nothing would break in first use. Luke was checking over the medicine, making sure they had the right flowers, right herbs for any injury that might  happen. It was all a little industry of checking and making sure.

It was boring. They had many blackberries, many little seeds, many fruits. They’d drawn lines onto the floor as they counted and they had enough of everything for an extra person and themselves. 

It was also awfully cold, and the moss that they took from Kier’s sorting piles only helped a little bit. The pressing against each other and snuggling was more of what hindered the bitter draft that came from a little more up.

Cyrus liked Drew. He liked that the blonde fae wasn’t always asking questions on his troop, wasn’t always asking why half his wing was missing. He didn’t like Kier, but that was mutual. He could tell that the troop didn’t fully trust him, which he understood. Laurence tried to act like he did trust him but Cyrus  hadn’t missed the little glanced that he had gotten from the white-winged fae. Luke was kind of uncaring about the whole situation, but Cyrus didn’t like him because he  was always asking about the Corrigan and it made him uncomfortable because he’d rather not say.

“May I try the squares on?” asked Drew from where he sat in front of Cyrus. A lump of moss was bundled on his lap and he was leaning forward, scratching lines onto the ground for every blackberry. His back was curved, pale, with vibrant blue vines falling from his wings that were relaxed and soft. “Cy?”

He’d hesitated too long. “What squares?” 

Drew glanced back at him and this smile was on his face, slightly crooked teeth showing his fondness of the green-winged fae’s confusion. “The squares, the one’s on your face,” he says, leaning forward and pressing his middle finger to the curve of metal that pressed over the bridge of Cyrus’ nose much like a child would have done.

“My glasses?” asked Cyrus, a little surprised. Drew frowned and pressed his finger against the metal again, and repeated his question, asking if he could try ‘the squares’ on. Cyrus told him that they were called glasses, but put his fingers on the arms on either side to take them from his face so that he could pass them over to Drew.

The glasses make Drew’s eyes look bigger, and he goes slightly cross eyed when he actually looked through the glass lenses. Cyrus hadn’t seen any other fae where glasses before and he thinks that they look very funny, but then he probably looks just as funny. He has only ever seen himself in the flowing rivers that cut all the valleys into half, into quarter.

“How do I look?” asked Drew, turning to look at Cyrus in the eyes.

Cyrus let out a little laugh. “Your eyes are all funny,” he says honestly, leaning forward. Their noses bumped and he looked into Drew’s eyes, with their foreheads pressing together, solid. He’d also gone cross eyed and Drew was laughing and exclaiming that Cyrus only actually had one eye. 

The blonde one took the glasses from his face and passed them back to their rightful owner who propped them onto his nose and brushed back his dirty blonde hair so that he could look at Drew and hopefully radiate how at home he made him feel. But even then that would be a lie, because he doesn’t feel at home with drew and he thinks that that is possibly a good thing because home is getting ready for battle constantly, home is doing drills when the orange light glows in the sky, home is protecting the women and the fae from their death. Home isn’t here with Drew. Home isn’t laughing, it’s not smiling and this is nicer than home because there’s no stress, no death if he fails.

In that moment Cyrus is glad that he’d not with his troop anymore.

“Your face is all funny,” retorted Drew, a slow grin coming onto his face.

Cyrus chucked a stick at him with his own timid smile contrasting heavily against Drew’s white grin.

-

Laurence appears from the weapons store with scratches red against his arms, his hair is slightly mussed and there’s more dirt smudging his already dirty face. He’d got his fingers all spread and is looking at them and mumbling to himself as he blindly walked to where Kier was counting the moss, the cooking stuff and all that.

“We have this many—“ he holds up his two spread hands, closes them and then opens them again once Kier had counted how many, and waits for Kier to count the fingers again, before holding up his thumb, index and middle finger—“thorn spears. We have-“ he holds up a spread hand, a finger and a thumb- “dust-mushrooms and we have-“ he holds up the same hands-“ acorn caps and we have a tone of bramble tangles.”

Kier nodded and scratched lines into the ground so that he could remember and look at that later. He glanced up to the other troop leader and his face dipped slightly in a frown as he saw the red contrasting against the bright white on his vines. He didn’t like it and his wings pressed tight against his back in a concerned sort of way, they twitched and Kier stepped forward. “Are you okay?”

The dark haired one looked down at made eye contact with the other troop leader. “I’m fine, babe, it’s just a few scratches- they don’t hurt.”

Kier nodded. He was always too protective and too worried about Laurence, ever since his wing got torn in the battle against the Corrigan all those lights-and-darks ago. He didn’t want him to hurt like  he had done when that had happened, that was all. There had been so much blood and it had stained the white so much, and Laurence’s eyes hadn’t been open and it had scared Kier so much. He’d thought he’d lost him at one point but Luke had done something with the flowers, with the sting of a nettle and Laurence’s eyes had opened and he wasn’t dead. He had made it.

“Darlin’, you gotta stop worrying, okay?” Laurence murmured, pressing his arms around Kier’s waist and leaning his body forwards. He pressed their foreheads together and promised again that he was fine. Kier closed his eyes and let his frown show, dark eyebrows scrunched together. “We’ll be okay.”

A/N: Sorry that this is kind of shitty and fillery!