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The forest began beyond the old stone wall. The boundary of the settlement, marking where the world of men ended and the world of spirits began. The stone had long been overgrown with ivy, threatening to chip away piece by piece until nothing of the wall remained. Since childhood, Max had been told tales of spirits, fairies, mermaids, and God knows what else. As a child, he’d listened to those gripping stories with his mouth agape, but now that the young herbalist had turned twenty, he only raised a skeptical eyebrow and snorted at the elders’ lectures.
Yet now, as he was about to step through the wooden gate for the first time and find himself at the edge of the towering forest, he felt a growing unease. The path ahead grew narrower and narrower, gradually vanishing into the thicket. Max leaned his hand against a small post on which someone, years ago, had carved symbols meant to protect the village from evil spirits. Considering Max had never encountered any of them, perhaps they actually worked. The young man took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air, gripping the leather bag's strap slung over his head. Well, that was it—no turning back now.
The sun had just begun its slow descent toward the horizon. Max closed the creaking gate behind him, catching himself muttering excuses for trespassing into the forest under his breath.
"I only need silver wormwood. I'll take a little and be gone before sunset." In reply, he heard only the soft rustle of leaves and distant birdsong. He pressed on.
The forest around him felt like a single living organism. Damp grass crunched faintly under his boots, woodpeckers tapped overhead, and the trees seemed to converse among themselves with the crackling of bark and swaying crowns. Gradually the path became less distinct until it disappeared altogether. Max had expected this—the locals avoided the forest. According to old legends and village gossip, anyone who ventured onto the spirits' territory would never find their way home. And if they harmed the forest, they would suffer the worst punishment imaginable. Max didn't believe in fairy tales. Yet somehow, with every step deeper in, he caught himself more and more often with the frightening thought that he was losing his own trail, going farther where the trees grew thicker and the light grew scarcer.
And then, when he had wandered long enough that the golden light of the setting sun barely filtered through the trees, Max stepped onto an especially damp bed of fallen leaves and crashed to the ground. His clumsy body slid halfway down a small slope, coming to a stop in a hollow among massive roots. Max let out a low howl at the sharp pain shooting through his ankle. His fingers clawed into the flattened grass, which only by miracle hadn't cut his skin. He knew—he knew perfectly well—that he should have turned back an hour ago, when the sun was still high enough. He should have come back another day, tried his luck again, but his innate stubbornness simply wouldn't let him take a step toward the village and return to his ailing sister empty-handed. Wonderful! Now he'd lie here, God knows where, with a sprained ankle, while his sweet little Vic would keep waiting for her idiot older brother, slowly wasting away from her illness. Frustration stung his eyes; Max bit his lip angrily to drown one pain with another.
The sun sank lower, the forest flooded with the last warm rays, and with the darkness came a primal fear that washed over Max. He would be left in the night forest, unable to flee if danger came. For who knew how long. It grew quiet around him. Only now did he notice that all the morning sounds had left this place—no birds, no insects, not even the wind. Max slowly raised his head. Something was wrong. As if every shadow cast by every tree or bush was watching him. Staring into his very soul. Max tried to stand, bracing himself against the nearest tree.
A sharp whistle split the air. With inhuman speed, an arrow flew right past Max's ear, embedding itself in a massive root behind him. He staggered, plopping back to the ground. A second arrow landed between his spread knees. Max jerked his head up, trying to spot the source. In the darkness, a tip glinted. A third arrow was already aimed at his throat.
"One more move…" The voice came from above, from the darkness—quiet, calm. Threatening. Max swallowed. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. On a thick branch of a giant tree, nearly blending into the surroundings, sat a young man. Of divine beauty, utterly unlike a living human. A dark green cloak almost completely concealed his body; slender arms clad in brown bracers gripped a longbow and a drawn string tightly. In his tousled hair, a few leaves could be spotted, and near his face hung a neat little braid threaded with a ribbon.
But most important were his eyes. Green, inhuman eyes. Enormous pupils, blacker than coal, covering almost the entire iris, which reminded Max so much of the green of this terrifying forest. He trembled; his hands involuntarily crept upward, showing empty palms. The bowstring in the stranger's hands quivered.
"Have humans forgotten how to understand warnings?" the stranger asked, lifting his chin and taking aim again. Max frantically tried to force his brain to think of a way to save his own skin.
"I come in peace," he said; his own voice sounded drier than autumn leaves, scraping his throat. The young man narrowed his eyes. In such darkness, Max could barely make him out, yet he saw how the gaze slid over his herb bag, the knife hooked at his belt, his unnaturally twisted leg.
"All humans prepare the same speech," he snorted, but still loosened the tension on the bowstring slightly. Max exhaled raggedly.
"And do you try to shoot every human on sight?" For a moment, silence hung between them, even more oppressive than the one that had swallowed the forest with nightfall. And then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of the stranger's lips twitched. As if that amused him. Max's heart pounded wildly in his chest; his shoulders ached miserably from holding his hands up.
"You've gone too far," the stranger still hadn't lowered his bow.
"I was looking for silver wormwood," Max replied. The forest spirit—and the herbalist had no doubt that the young man was exactly that—continued to stare at him point-blank. It grew quiet again, but differently, less tense. The young man didn't move, just watched. For a long time. A very long time. And then he unexpectedly slid off the branch, landing on the grass with bare feet. Up close, the forest spirit seemed even more enchanting. Slender, supple, like a branch of a young tree, yet beneath that delicate shell lay immense power. Dangerous power.
He smelled of dampness, wood, the cold of night, and fresh herbs. The spirit slowly tilted his head to one side, as if listening not to Max's words but to something inside him. To his heart. To his fear. To his very soul. Max forced himself not to look away, though under that attentive gaze he wanted to shrink to the size of a field mouse.
"Silver wormwood, you say?" the forest spirit asked quietly. Max nodded. "It grows closer to the southern edge. You went too deep."
The herbalist clenched his jaw. Damn it. Of course he had. He'd realized it himself an hour ago, but his own pride had prevented him from acting logically. The spirit took a step closer. His bare feet trod the ground, disturbing not a single twig; even the leaves seemed to part before him. Max tensed involuntarily. He still held his hands up, though he desperately wanted to try to move away, to flee. The stranger's gaze slowly dropped to his leg. The swollen ankle was already beginning to darken under the skin.
"You won't be able to leave before dark," the young man said calmly. It didn't sound like mockery, more like a statement of fact, yet burning shame still flushed Max's cheeks. Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped. Max flinched. The spirit, however, didn't even stir—only his pupils grew wider, though it seemed they couldn't get any larger.
"Did you come alone?" now his voice sounded more wary.
"Yes."
"No one followed you?"
"No."
The forest spirit was silent for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to believe him or not. Then he suddenly lowered his bow. Max could finally breathe normally, as if he'd escaped death. In essence, he had.
"Humans rarely come here alone," he said quietly. "Usually one comes first. Then the rest. With axes." Max frowned.
"I'm not a lumberjack."
"You have a knife," the young man parried easily, stowing the now-unneeded arrow somewhere behind his back.
"I'm a herbalist."
"Humans always find excuses for why they cut down living things." Somehow those words made Max uneasy. As if they weren't about trees at all. Max cautiously allowed himself to lower his arms, wincing from the pain in his shoulder.
"If I wanted to harm your forest," he said wearily, "I wouldn't be lying in the mud with a sprained leg right now." The spirit stared at him again. Then unexpectedly squatted down in front of him. Too close. Max froze, like a frightened animal freezing before a predator, hoping it would lose interest and leave. Up close, once Max's eyes could focus, he looked even more wrong: too smooth skin, too sharp features, too quiet breathing. And his eyes. God, those eyes. Human eyes aren't that green.
"Does it hurt?" the forest spirit asked. The question sounded unexpectedly soft for someone who, a second ago, had him in his sights. Max blinked in confusion.
"What do you think?" For a second Max feared his own sharpness, but the corner of the spirit's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. His fingers, cold as river water, gently touched the ankle peeking out from under his pants. Max sharply sucked in air through his teeth—not so much from pain as from the touch itself. The spirit frowned.
"Foolish mortal," he suddenly decided to scold him. Max was willing to endure that if it meant dulling the growing pain.
"Thanks, that helps a lot."
"By morning, you won't be able to put any weight on it at all." Max laughed nervously. Things were even worse than he'd imagined.
"Great. Just great," the herbalist muttered sarcastically. The spirit looked up at him. And for the first time, Max noticed in those eyes not a threat, but hesitation. As if the forest spirit himself didn't understand why he still hadn't left the stranger alone in the middle of the night forest. Max, to be honest, didn't understand either.
"I have a sick sister at home. I have to get back with the wormwood." The quiet confession slipped from his lips on its own, making him drop his gaze to the ground. Anxiety washed over him again—not even for his own life, which could have ended so easily many times over, but for Vic, who would be left all alone.
From the being opposite, there was no sound for some time; Max held his breath as well. Then the spirit snorted. He rose to his feet, grabbing the human by the forearm.
"Fine. Get up, lean on me." He pulled Max up so abruptly that the stunned young man could only obey, awkwardly leaning on his good leg. Wet clothes clung unpleasantly to his skin, and his knees buckled treacherously, threatening to send Max back to the ground. The spirit watched him with slight irritation, but his grip on Max's arm was firm. It gave Max a bit of confidence.
The young man paused, turned away from Max, and seemed to listen to something invisible. At that moment, life seemed to return to the forest. The crowns creaked, the wind played some elusive melody. Just when Max thought the young man would drag him up the slope he'd fallen from, he led him in the opposite direction. He stepped through the numerous protruding roots, going farther down, to where even daylight never reached. The trees parted before him, and Max could only watch this living miracle in fascination.
Putting weight on his foot was excruciating. Although the spirit had slightly dulled the pain, it hadn't fixed the dislocation. When Max howled through gritted teeth yet again, the young man lost patience.
"Can you stop whining?" he grumbled, stopping.
In a normal situation, Max would have exploded with indignation—he was, after all, injured—but the short time they'd walked had already drained too much energy; he didn't even have enough left for a retort. Seeing that his companion wasn't going to answer, only breathing raggedly, the spirit rolled his eyes theatrically, stepping closer.
"I'm only doing this because otherwise we'll hobble until morning, got it?" he said challengingly, and before Max could process anything, he scooped him up under his knees and back, lifting him like a feather. Max froze. He seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. The spirit avoided his stunned gaze, immediately moving on sharply.
He glided easily through the root systems, leaping from one root to another, as if barely noticing his burden. It was unknown how long they traveled like that until something glowing flickered ahead. Max peered into the darkness, and as they drew nearer, a large tree loomed before him, with a wide but clearly hollow trunk. It was alive, its foliage reaching high into the sky. The spirit stopped at its base, gently setting Max down on the ground. His hand tenderly touched the rough bark, stroking it. The tree, as if responding, rustled its leaves, and to Max's horror, he felt the roots beneath him shift. His breath caught in his throat.
"Don't be afraid," the young man somehow sensed his fear, even without turning. "My tree won't hurt you as long as you behave." He glanced at Max over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes.
Max nodded comically. The trunk under the spirit's hand split apart with a crack, and a soft light poured from inside. The gleam of amber resin coating the interior of the tree held the human's gaze, enveloping him in phantom warmth. The roots stirred again. Max tried to stay calm, gripping tighter. They edged him closer to the spirit. Max froze, afraid to move. The roots, thick and moss-covered, slowly writhed around him like giant snakes sniffing at a stranger. But the moment the spirit touched the trunk again, the movement ceased.
"It feels you," the forest spirit said calmly.
"What?… The roots?" Max asked nervously, looking around warily.
"The tree." It sounded as if he were speaking of a living being. Although… that was probably exactly what it was. The spirit slipped inside the hollow trunk, gesturing for him to follow.
Max carefully pulled himself closer, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. Inside, the tree turned out to be much larger than it appeared from outside. Thin golden veins ran along the wood, pulsing slowly and rhythmically, as if a massive heart beat deep within. The air here was different: warm, slightly damp, filled with life.
Max sank down against the wall, inadvertently touching the wood with his palm. It was surprisingly soft and warm. The spirit whipped around instantly.
"Don't touch." Max flinched and pulled his hand back.
"Sorry." He pressed his hand to his chest, now afraid of accidentally incurring the spirit's wrath again.
For a few seconds, he just looked at Max, then let out a quiet breath.
"It… doesn't like strangers," he tried to explain, relaxing again.
"So it tolerates me, then?"
"So far." Max couldn't help but smile—not cheerfully.
The spirit frowned as if human smiles were something suspicious to him. He knelt opposite Max and finally took the bow off his shoulder. Now, without a weapon in his hands, he looked younger—almost Max's age. Almost, because in his eyes there was still something too ancient.
"Your leg," the forest spirit extended his hand.
"Usually people say their name first," Max tried to joke, feeling fear rise in his throat.
"Usually people don't fall in my forest in the middle of the night," he countered, narrowing his eyes.
"That's rude."
"That's how it is."
Max rolled his eyes, but still carefully extended his injured leg, grimacing at the movement. The spirit's fingers touched his skin again—cold, but no longer frightening. Rather… strangely calming. The forest spirit closed his eyes. The thin roots that had been lying peacefully along the walls suddenly stirred. Max tensed. They slowly reached toward them, winding around the spirit's wrists, sliding over his shoulders, intertwining with strands of his hair as naturally as if they were part of him. The air filled with the young man's scent, becoming even richer, intoxicating.
And then the pain in his leg flared so sharply that Max couldn't suppress a short cry.
"Quiet," the spirit said irritably. "I'm setting the joint." Without looking up, he shushed him.
"You could have warned me?!" Max bit his lip indignantly.
"Then you'd have panicked beforehand."
"I'm panicking now!"
This time the spirit couldn't hold back a smile—very brief, almost invisible. But Max saw it. And for some reason, his heart skipped a beat.
"So… what's your name?" Max looked up at the spirit, who was focused on examining his injury. Oxygen still came in bursts, though Max tried to distract himself. The young man shot him an irritated glance from under his brows. His cold fingers wrapped around his skin again.
"You first," he breathed, not taking his eyes off Max. Max blinked. It took him a moment to grasp the meaning of the words.
"My name is…" He literally screamed in the middle of the word from the pain, only by some miracle not yanking his leg out of the spirit's grip. Somewhere in the distance, startled birds took flight. The spirit hadn't looked away the entire time. "Max, my name is Max," he whimpered under his breath, while the spirit's coldness soothed the throbbing pain left by the bone being returned to place.
The spirit was silent. They sat like that until Max could pull himself together and stop making those humiliating sounds. Then the spirit pulled back, nudging Max's shoulder. Obeying his movements, the herbalist leaned his back against the tree trunk.
"Sleep. In the morning I'll take you out." He rose to his feet, and the passage that had remained open all this time closed smoothly. Max drew his knees up—his leg almost didn't hurt.
When he finally managed to overcome himself and open his mouth, he was immediately interrupted.
"My name is Charles."
Max froze. The name fell into the hollow tree's silence like a drop of resin into water—heavy, leaving barely perceptible ripples behind. Charles. He tasted it, silently moving his lips.
"Charles," he repeated aloud, quietly, almost in a whisper. The name sounded strange in human language: too soft for someone who'd held him at arrow point.
The spirit, still standing with his back to him, tensed almost imperceptibly. Max couldn't see his face, but he noticed how his fingers, just resting on the bark, clenched. The roots at his feet stirred.
"I didn't give you permission to repeat it," his voice sounded duller than before. Max guiltily bit his lip.
"Sorry, I just…"
"Just sleep," Charles finally turned around. In the half-light of the amber glow, his face seemed carved from old wood: beautiful, frightening, utterly unlike a human. But in his eyes, something flickered that Max couldn't decipher. Loneliness? Or maybe he just wanted to believe that even spirits had something human in them.
Max wanted to object, to say he wouldn't sleep, but his body decided otherwise. The warmth spreading from the tree's walls was deceptively gentle. His eyelids grew heavy. Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, he felt someone's fingers touch his forehead—just as cold, smelling of moss and night dew.
"Sleep," Charles repeated. This time, softer. And Max sank into dreamless darkness.
---
He woke to light. Sunbeams streamed through the cracks in the wood, golden and warm. Inside the tree, there was no longer that pulsing darkness like a heartbeat—only the morning glow and the scent of fresh herbs. Max blinked, trying to figure out where he was.
His leg. He carefully moved it. No pain. No crackling. Nothing.
"Don't get up too fast," a voice came from above. Max jerked his head up and saw Charles sitting on something like a perch running through the trunk almost at the ceiling. The spirit was holding something small and silvery, running his fingers over thin stems.
Silver wormwood.
Max gasped. His heart hammered in his throat.
"You… you brought it?" he breathed, not believing his eyes.
Charles looked down at him. In the morning light, he looked almost ordinary. Almost. His hair glinted copper, his skin seemed porcelain, and his eyes… under the sun, his pupils had contracted, revealing a bright green iris in which one could drown.
"It grows at the southern edge of my forest," the spirit shrugged indifferently, descending with a cat's grace. "You wouldn't have made it. Especially with your leg." He landed silently beside Max and held out the bundle of wormwood. The herbalist took it with trembling hands. The silvery leaves smelled of bitterness and freshness—exactly what Victoria's decoction needed. Exactly what he'd risked his life for.
"Thank you," Max breathed. And repeated, looking straight into those green eyes: "Thank you, Charles." He carefully tucked the sprouts into his bag, like the most precious gift.
The forest spirit turned away first—too quickly, too sharply.
"Let's go. I'll take you to the border while the sun is high."
The roots at the tree's base stirred again, opening an exit to the outside. Max struggled to his feet, still not believing his leg would hold. He took a cautious step. A second. Nothing. Just slight tension where the bone had been dislocated the day before.
"How did you do that?" he asked, following the spirit outside. Outside, the forest greeted them with birdsong and rustling leaves. By daylight, it didn't seem so frightening—on the contrary, it was breathtakingly beautiful.
"You're a herbalist. You should know that nature heals everything," Charles replied shortly, not looking back.
"But not overnight," Max objected. This went against everything he'd been taught since childhood. He clearly remembered his lessons with the then-young village elder, who taught little Max to understand herbs and roots—what could help, what could harm.
The spirit stopped. Turned around. Something complicated, almost human, flickered in his gaze.
"Your sister needs you," he said quietly. "The dead can't help the living."
Max opened his mouth to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Charles looked at him with the same impenetrable aloofness as yesterday, but now Max sensed something different in that gaze. Not a threat. Not contempt. He couldn't put his finger on what.
"Let's go," Charles said and strode ahead, deftly avoiding roots and bushes. Max hurried after him, clutching the silver wormwood tightly.
They walked in silence. The forest gradually thinned, the trees parted, letting in more light. Max noticed they were moving unusually fast—unlike his own pace. Soon the old stone wall appeared between the trees. The place where the human world met the world of spirits.
At the very edge of the forest, still hidden in the shade of tall trees, Charles stopped.
"You're not coming across?" Max stopped too, turning to his companion.
Charles shook his head. The sun barely touched his face, but Max still saw how pale the spirit's skin had become.
"My place is here," he said quietly, gesturing to the edge. "Beyond that wall, there's nothing for me."
Max wanted to ask what that meant. Ask why he'd helped him yesterday, when he could have simply killed him or left him. Ask why there was pain in his eyes that couldn't be hidden even behind a mask of indifference.
But instead, he stepped forward—toward Charles, closer than caution allowed. Toward the being that had threatened to shoot him on sight the day before.
"I'll come back," he said firmly, leaving no room for doubt. "Tomorrow. Or in a few days. I'll bring you something tasty."
"Why?" Charles stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.
Max shrugged. His lips curved into a slight smile—the first in all this time. Not mocking, not nervous. Just… simple.
"I want to repay you."
The spirit was silent. Watched. And somewhere deep in the green of his eyes, Max imagined something like hope. Or maybe he just wanted to think that.
"Go back to your sister, Max," said Charles, and stepped back into the shadows, dissolving into them as easily as mist at dawn. "And don't die on the way. That would be too much of a waste, after I spent my time on you." A second—and the forest spirit was gone, as if he'd never been there.
Max laughed. Quietly, tiredly, but sincerely.
"See you, Charles," he whispered softly toward the forest, then turned and walked toward the gate. Behind him, the forest rustled—as if saying goodbye.
Max touched the old wall, stepped across the boundary, and only then allowed himself to exhale.
In his bag lay the silver wormwood, and in his chest was a strange, warm feeling.
---
Max kept his word.
He returned three days later.
On the first day, he barely made it home. Vic lay feverish, cheeks burning, breathing uneven. The decoction prepared by her brother's trembling hands she drank through sheer will, grimacing at the bitterness, but by morning the fever had broken. By the evening of the second day, she could sit up in bed and ask for food. On the third day, a healthy flush appeared on her cheeks.
"You smell unusual," she said in a weak voice, as Max sat by her bed sorting roots. "Like the forest." The girl pressed her cheek to his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent. Max said nothing, only stroked her head.
And at dawn on the fourth day, when Victoria had fallen into a peaceful sleep, he packed his bag again. He put in a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese wrapped in clean cloth, and a small clay pot of honey. This sweetness was much loved by his little sister—maybe the spirit would like it too.
The old stone wall met him with morning mist. The gate creaked as before, but this time Max didn't mutter excuses. He simply stepped inside and walked along a path that seemed to form itself before him. The forest had changed. Or he had.
The sun was just rising, the dew still not dry on the grass. Max didn't lose his way, though there was no road. His feet carried him to where the trees grew denser, where the air grew damp and smelled of something ancient.
"You don't know how to obey," a voice came from above. Max looked up and saw Charles. He was sitting on a branch of an oak—spreading, mighty—legs crossed. Today he didn't have his bow.
"I brought treats," Max lifted his bag, as if offering a gift to a deity, feeling his lips twitch into a smile. "And I didn't fall in the mud on the way. Be proud of me."
Charles slid off the branch noiselessly, like a drop of rain. He came closer, sniffed. His eyes narrowed.
"You smell sweet," he said suspiciously.
Max felt his face heat up rapidly. "That's for you." He opened the bag, took out the pot, and handed it to the spirit. "And bread. And this is cheese, also for you."
Charles stared at the offering as if it were a live snake. Then slowly, as if afraid of being burned, he took the pot. Lifted the lid. Inhaled.
"Sweet," he said quietly.
"Honey," Max nodded. "Try it."
The spirit gave him a long look, as if expecting a trick, then dipped his fingers into the amber thickness and licked them. His eyes widened. Something like childish wonder flickered across his face—so sincere that Max felt a pang in his chest.
"This is…" Charles didn't finish. Looked away, hid the pot inside his cloak. "How's your sister?"
"Alive. Thank you. The wormwood decoction worked better than all my tinctures."
"You healed her yourself. I only gave you the herb," Charles grumbled, but Max noticed the corners of his lips twitch.
They sat at the foot of that same tree—Charles's tree, which by daylight looked a little less frightening but still majestic. Max broke the bread in half, placed cheese on the crust, and handed it to the spirit. He didn't take it right away. First he smelled it for a long time, then took a tiny bite, chewing with the caution of a wild animal.
"Weird taste," Charles pronounced, but he broke off a second piece himself.
Max chewed his bread, watching sunlight filter through the leaves, and thought about how strange the world was. A week ago, he'd feared this forest down to his very bones. Now he sat beside a spirit, shared food with him, and felt… calm. Almost like home.
"Why did you help me?" he asked suddenly, not looking at his companion.
"You're not the first to fall in my forest," Charles answered quietly. "But the first to behave respectfully, not to ask to be left alone. The first to look me in the eyes and tell the truth. About your sister."
"So that's why you didn't kill me?"
Charles smiled—dryly, without joy. "Killing is easy. Trusting is not."
Max turned to him. Up close, in the daylight, the spirit seemed even more unreal: his skin glowed with gold, his hair shimmered with copper and green. But in his eyes still lived pain. Only now Max recognized it. It was the pain of loneliness.
"You're alone here, aren't you?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. For some reason, this peaceful atmosphere loosened Max's tongue, and Charles's talkativeness gave him confidence.
"In this forest, I'm not alone. I have trees, animals, streams." Charles raised his head to the sky, reverently closing his eyes. "But those like me… long gone. And I… I'm bound to this tree. I can't go far."
"And how long have you been here?"
"Long."
The answer sounded as if time for Charles wasn't linear but frozen, like resin in amber. Max didn't press. Instead, he broke off another piece of bread and set it beside the spirit.
"I'll come back," he said simply. "If you don't mind."
Charles looked at him. In his green eyes reflected the sky, the trees, and this strange man who sat on the ground and wasn't afraid.
"Come," the spirit replied quietly. "Just don't let anyone see you. People won't understand."
Max nodded. They sat like that until noon, barely speaking, listening to the forest. Then Max left, promising to return in two days.
He kept his word. And again. And again.
Weeks passed. Max came to the stone wall every time Vic was strong enough to be left alone. Slowly she recovered, so Max could allow himself to slip away more often, and their meetings lasted longer. He brought food, told village news, taught Charles to read and write—though the spirit got terribly angry when he mixed up simple words. The spirit, in turn, showed him the forest. The real, deep forest that people never saw. Plants that bloomed only at full moon. A spring whose water smelled of fresh mint. A clearing where, even on the darkest night, mushrooms glowed.
They didn't touch each other except for rare moments when Max stumbled on roots and Charles caught him by the elbow. But in those brief touches, there was something that made his heart beat faster.
One day Max came and found Charles agitated. The forest spirit stood at the edge of the clearing, staring toward the wall, his fingers gripping his bow so tightly his knuckles turned white. Max had rarely seen Charles so close to the village.
"What happened?" Max approached, looking around.
"There are people," Charles's voice was quiet but laced with steel. "Not villagers. Strangers. Coming from the north, with axes."
Max went cold. A shiver ran down his spine.
"How many?"
"Five. Maybe six. I smelled iron from a mile away." Charles turned to him, and Max saw fear in his eyes for the first time. Not for himself. For the forest. "They're already cutting young oaks at the edge. If they go deeper…"
"They won't," Max cut in, feeling anger boil inside him. "Where are they now?" He moved closer, and Charles's fingers, which had been gripping the bow until it creaked, relaxed slightly.
"Northern edge of the forest, where the old stump shaped like a deer stands."
Max knew that place. He'd been there with Charles—on that side grew rare herbs that the spirit allowed him to gather.
"Let's go there," Max said, taking the bag off his shoulder. "I want you to play along with me."
"What are you going to do?" Charles's voice trembled for the first time.
"What I do best," Max grinned, but the smile was hard. "Scare people."
Charles didn't need to be asked twice. Following the plan—still utterly incomprehensible to him—he moved nimbly through the forest. Max tried to keep up—over this time, he'd learned to push through thick undergrowth in his attempts to keep pace with the swift spirit.
Max saw the men from a distance. Four burly fellows with axes and a two-man saw. A fifth with a map in his hands was pointing something out to the others. Rough faces, reeking of sweat and tobacco. Given that even Max could smell that disgusting stench, he dreaded to imagine how Charles, with his sensitivity, must be feeling.
"The forest is rich here," the map-holder said, not bothering to lower his voice. "The master ordered a square cleared by winter. The timber is excellent."
"What about spirits?" one of the lumberjacks chuckled. "The old woman in the village told us all sorts of things live here." The big man shrugged, as if trying to shake off a delusion.
"Spirits?" the cartographer laughed hoarsely. "You believe in fairy tales? There are no spirits. It's just a forest. Start cutting."
An axe whistled, followed by the crack of a young tree giving way under the blade. Max breathed out slowly. Charles beside him was frozen, terribly tense, as if the tree's pain were his own. Where he stood, hundreds of massive and very thin roots burst from the ground, intertwining like a nest of snakes. The forest lived, breathed, felt the pain inflicted by the intruders. It was angry.
"Don't kill them," Max whispered. In response, Charles whipped around, his braid nearly hitting Max's cheek.
"They came to kill my forest," the spirit hissed. It seemed that if they weren't in danger of being spotted, he'd have screamed at the top of his lungs.
"I know," trying to keep calm for both of them, Max took another deep breath, hoping Charles would follow suit. He didn't.
"Then why are you defending them?" his tone was almost hurt. For a second, the herbalist fell silent.
Because they were human. And Max was human. Because if blood was shed here today, tomorrow people would come with torches. He carefully reached out and touched the spirit's wrist. Charles flinched—not from fear, but more from surprise. This was the first time Max had deliberately, consciously touched him. For a few seconds, the spirit looked at his palm, trying to understand why that warm touch made his eternal heart beat faster.
Charles gave a short nod.
"Play along," Max repeated, stepping out of their small cover. The dry creak of wood cut through the air—axes were hacking through the sparse young growth. Charles sucked in air through his teeth but stayed put. He trusted Max. For how long, remained to be seen.
"Hey!" Max shouted, stepping fully out of the forest shadow into the clearing. The men simultaneously raised their heads, staring at the stranger in confusion. Max moved closer. "What do you think you're doing?" He moved fast, on the edge of aggression, trying to look far more confident than he actually felt.
"What the hell…?" the youngest-looking of the lumberjacks cursed quietly. Max shot him an indignant glare.
"Who the hell are you?" the cartographer frowned, also stepping toward Max.
"Apprentice to the elder from the southern village," Max snorted, crossing his arms. Their elder was quite old, and rumors of a talented healer had circulated around the area for as long as Max could remember. This might work.
"Then get lost, even more so! We're working on the baron's orders."
Damn. For a moment, he felt as cold as if plunged into icy water headfirst. The baron. Bad. Very bad. Max forced himself to smirk, despite the fear. Somewhere behind him, a pair of very attentive green eyes watched.
"Then your baron is an idiot for sending you here." Stepping toward the youngest lumberjack he'd already singled out, Max noticed him involuntarily backing away. "You really haven't heard?" The men exchanged glances. One nervously spat at his feet.
"I told you this place was cursed," under the indistinct grumbling, Max turned toward the thicket. At that moment, the forest answered. Somewhere deep between the trees, a crack sounded. Heavy, shaking the ground. As if something enormous moved in the heart of the forest. A gusty wind rose, literally throwing a blanket of dust and fallen leaves over them. A small twig hit one of the men's cheekbones at speed, leaving a faint scratch. The treetops creaked loudly, and then… with a crash, one of the axes fell to the ground, but even before that, Max heard that sound—the one that had once nearly stopped his own heart. An arrow.
The iron tip embedded itself in the ground, close to the youngest lumberjack's foot. To the accompaniment of the gusting wind, a thick, heavy mist crept from the forest, already obscuring the distant trees and low bushes. Somewhere in there, green eyes flashed. Another arrow struck a tree trunk near the cartographer's head, while a root from that same tree crawled up the man's leg, pinning him in place.
Max felt a chill run down his spine. Even knowing Charles, even trusting him… now he truly understood just how dangerous he was. The lumberjacks understood too. Max pulled on a mask of mockery.
"Hey," no longer shouting, he turned to the cartographer. All color had drained from his face; he looked like a white sheet. "The next one goes through your head." Baring his teeth in the friendliest smile he could muster, Max said.
"We're getting the hell out of here," somehow overcoming his terror, the young man stammered, immediately fleeing. The others followed, some even dropping their tools in their haste to escape this damned place.
Once they disappeared from view, Max finally allowed himself to exhale. He lowered his tense shoulders, feeling the mist envelop him in its damp shroud. In the impenetrable whiteness, Charles appeared before him. Something inhuman still flickered in his eyes—a sign of spent power.
"They'll be back," the spirit said quietly. Max nodded silently. He knew that as clearly as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Only then did he see something else in the face opposite him. Something entirely new. Fear, worry—yes, but also… relief? An unexpected thought pierced the young man's head and immediately formed into words.
"You were afraid for me?" Charles gasped, the air catching in his throat. His beautiful eyes were wide open now and spoke louder than any words. He was right! Charles had been afraid for him! Concerned about his well-being. Max's foolish heart skipped a beat. In the mist, he couldn't even see his own feet, but the simultaneously pale and flushing face opposite was now especially clear. And then the spirit swayed forward and pressed a kiss to human lips. Gentle, absurdly clumsy, and careful. Only for a second, but Max felt as though he'd lived an eternity in that instant.
Charles's lips were as cold as his hands; he smelled of the dampness of morning dew, forest mint, and the free wind roaming through the thicket.
"I'm sorry," his tender fingers went to his own face, and his eyes filled with tears. "I shouldn't have." Charles whispered feverishly, tangling in his own hair.
"Why?" Max's voice cracked.
"Because you'll leave. People always leave."
Max wanted to say he wouldn't go anywhere. That he would come to him every day, even stay with Charles in his forest. That he didn't care about the village, his sister, the whole world! But the words caught in his lungs—he couldn't say them. Because it was a lie. He couldn't stay forever. He had Vic, a life among people.
"I don't know what will happen later," he said honestly. "But today I'm here. And tomorrow I'll be here too. With you."
---
They returned six months later.
Much had changed in that time. Max had lost his fear of the forest so completely that he sometimes spent the night there. On days when Vic felt especially well, Max would put her to bed at sunset and go into the woods. There, at the roots of the tree, with his head on Charles's lap, he felt unusually at peace. They never spoke of the kiss. Not once. But now Charles allowed himself to be touched: his hands, his shoulder, sometimes his hair. And Max brought him strange, by Charles's standards, gifts. Dried flowers, pretty stones, once a wooden spoon he'd carved himself.
"Why do I need a spoon?" the spirit asked in surprise.
"To eat honey. Not with your fingers."
Charles smiled then—openly, without a hint of mockery, for the first time. And Max knew he was completely lost.
The people came at night. There were many more of them, nearly two dozen. With torches, with oil, with dogs that smelled fear. Max learned this from Vic. His sister ran in breathless, disheveled, terrified like a cornered animal.
"There are people! By the wall! With torches! The elder is trying to talk to them, but they won't listen!" she screamed from the doorway.
Max ran out of the house barefoot. Without remembering himself, he sprinted to the gate, vaulted over it, and raced into the forest.
"Charles!" His shout echoed far through the forest, alarming sleeping birds and animals that hadn't yet sensed the approaching danger.
The spirit was already on his feet. Standing in the clearing, his tree trembling—from the roots to the very crown, like a living being sensing imminent death.
"I know," Charles said quietly. "I can hear them."
"Run," Max breathed. "Can you run? What will happen to you if they burn the forest?" He gripped Charles's forearms, searching the spirit's face.
Charles shook his head. In his eyes reflected the treetops obscuring the night sky.
"The tree will burn, and I am one with it. If the trunk falls, I fall with it. If the roots burn, I turn to ash." He smiled sadly, though Max could clearly see his lips trembling. "I am that tree."
The first torch fell into the bushes at the edge. Flames shot toward the sky, illuminating the faces of the men—determined, blind. Dogs howled.
"Please," Max shook Charles, tears clouding his vision. "Run. I'll hold them off."
"You can't," the spirit looked at him with such anguish that Max's breath caught. "They'll burn you too."
"Then we'll die together," Max said. Charles froze. "You're needed by your sister, you idiot," and then he did something Max didn't expect: yanked him by the arm, spun him around, and shoved him away from the tree, toward the northern edge where the fire hadn't yet reached.
"Run!" the spirit cried. "Max, please, run!"
"NO!"
Max lunged back, but the roots under his feet suddenly came alive, insistently winding around his ankles, holding him in place. Charles stood by his tree, and tears streamed down his cheeks, leaving glowing trails.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't want to love you. But I did. And now I can't watch you burn."
"So you're making me watch YOU burn instead?! That's cruel! Charles!"
The flames crept closer. Max tore at the roots, scraping his skin, but they held fast. Then from the other side of the forest came a cry—inhuman, animal. Taking advantage of Charles's distraction, Max finally wrenched his legs free and ran to the spirit. He grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the burning tree. Charles stumbled, fell to his knees. Max hoisted him up, lifting him in his arms—it was heavy, because the spirit seemed rooted to the ground.
"I can't," Charles whispered. "The roots… the roots are holding me."
Max looked down. From the spirit's ankles, thin, nearly invisible threads stretched straight into the earth, to the burning tree.
"Then I stay," Max said, lowering himself down with his burden. The roots from the other's legs retreated underground, but didn't let go. "I'll sit with you until I burn."
"You're insane," Charles struggled to break free from the human's firm grip, but the flames licking the trees weakened him faster than either of them could have imagined.
"I know." The flames drew nearer. The heat became unbearable. Max pulled Charles against him, shielding him from the sparks, and whispered in his ear: "I love you. I know it's early. I know it's stupid. But I love you. And I regret nothing."
Charles sobbed—perhaps for the first time in his long life. He wrapped his arms around Max, pressed his whole body against him—cold, trembling.
"Me too," he breathed.
And then the rain came down. Not just a downpour, but a true deluge. Water crashed from the sky like a wall, dousing the fire, hissing on the embers, beating the flames off the trees. People screamed, scattered. Some prayed, some cursed, but the rain did not stop. Charles raised his head to the sky. His eyes glowed with the same green light as the roots underfoot.
"The forest didn't let us die," he whispered.
Max looked at him—wet, trembling, alive—and tears fell from his lashes. From relief, from fear, from everything at once.
---
The fire died out by morning. Charles's tree was scorched but survived: the trunk blackened, but the roots were intact, and in the middle, life still flickered. The spirit himself was weak but alive. He lay on the moss, covered by Max's cloak, watching the sun rise over the forest.
"They won't come back," he said quietly. "I can feel it. Scared of the rain. They'll think the forest is cursed."
"And they'll be right," Max smirked, sitting beside him. His hand rested on Charles's chest, feeling a faint but steady beat—maybe not a heart, but whatever served him in its place. They were silent for a long time. Then Charles asked:
"What you said… when it was burning… was it true?"
Max blushed. "It's true," he said, looking away. "Even though we've only known each other six months. And you're not human. And you're an idiot for wanting to burn."
"You're an idiot too," Charles answered, smiling weakly. "And I love you."
"I love you too."
They said nothing more. The sun climbed higher, the forest came alive, and somewhere in the distance, an axe was already striking—but not an enemy's, a villager's. The villagers were chopping the scorched wood, clearing the way for fresh saplings.