“Please…”, a ragged voice pleaded out to a God she hoped existed, “whoever may be listening, protect our child…”

An elven woman named Fillius used the last of her strength to embrace her young child. The blood from her wound was beginning to slow as the last of her life force drained like the sands of an hourglass. Fillius struggled to keep her eyes open; the time between each blink became longer until they finally stopped opening at all.

The half-elf half-human child she held her in arms, Scraton, did not make a sound. Too young perhaps to completely understand why his parents were murdered by the clan his mother once belonged to, but certainly not too young to understand the concept of death of a loved one. The slightest pang of curiosity sparked in my chest, but I smothered the feeling.

Scraton stood up in that awkward way that young mortals do before they gain any sort of dexterity or awareness of their limbs. He stared down at his mother. No tears. Not so much as a sniffle. He looked back towards the way they had come from. The silence, one of the few friends I had, loomed over us.

Scraton turned my way.

There was spirit behind those eyes.

Can this child see me?

I looked at him, but he looked at where my chest would be if he could see me.

The child turned his head away from me and walked. There did not seem to be any reason to this decision, this direction, but on Scraton trod.

With more glide then walk, I stepped over to Fillius.

“Was she one of yours?”, a figure adorned with jewels that did not sparkle or shine appeared beside me: Death. Light bent inward as if their very presence made it fall into them.

“Her and her betrothed were followers of mine, yes.”

With their fingers, Death tore open a hole through the empty space in front of us and pulled out a small leather bound book. Flicking through more pages than the book visibly would have had room for, they stopped.

“They were murdered by-”

“Hunted”, I attempted to correct with coldness in my voice.

“They were murdered. Just because they’re yours doesn’t mean they’re yours”

I glowered back at Death not saying a word. I received a sigh in response that seemed more theatrical than anything.

“Yes, well, I’ll tell you what. Since we’re just such great pals”, they pulled out a jet black stick the same way they pulled out the book and began to scratch something down, “I’ll take their souls and you can figure out what to do with their physical forms. Sound fair?”

I relented with a nod.

“Right. Now if you’ll allow me, I’ve no more time to waste. Mortals keep me rather busy”, the merry tone they had spoken that last sentence with was unsettling.

With a twirl of their fingers, a string of liquid silver and stars rose up from Fillius’ mouth and affixed itself as a pearl along a string that Death kept at their waist. Without any further words, Death removed themselves from the situation.

I felt the trees looming over me, waiting with bated breath about what I’d do next. With a flourish of my hands, I sculpted the land around Fillius, allowing her frame to be swallowed by the Earth and protected by roots. I sprang flowers where her blood had flowed freely unto my domain. Periwinkle - a favorite of her and her betrothed.

I was sure that soon, I was going to need to do the same for the boy.

I had found him quite easily, but even without powers of Godhood it would not have been hard with him tramping about. Twigs and sticks snapping, leaves crunching underfoot, stumbling over roots and rocks alike.

Scraton, whether he knew it or not, walked in circles. The forest was vast and his mother took him way off the path. Perhaps him being lost was a good thing. A last attempt at a mother’s mercy - allowing the forest to take him rather than be swallowed by steel and xenophobia.

Finally, the child tripped over a rather large stone, and let themselves fall. They made no attempt at catching themselves and instead just laid on their back staring up at the canopy of trees.

“Can… Can you help me?”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t, could he?

“Nar…? My mother said if I ever needed help I could ask you.”

I laughed at my own silly worry that this child could somehow perceive me but I was cut off.

“Don’t laugh at me”

Scraton sat up and looked straight at me with purpose.

“You can see me?”, I asked incredulously

“Of course I can", I wasn't sure if I liked the matter-of-fact way he said that, "Mom and Dad would always talk about you like they couldn’t, but I always thought they were fibbing…”, he trailed off for a moment and hunched forward, “...they weren’t fibbing were they?”

I could see fresh tears start to form at the corners of Scraton’s eyes. Ones that he was desperately trying to hold back. I felt a mixture of pity, interest, and dare I say caring take root in me. His parents were very devoted followers after all.

I crouched next to the child, “allow your tears to fall. Let them nourish both the earth around you and your soul. Cry as much as you need until the ache has dulled. Then, once the tears in your heart have run dry, we can begin to heal and grow”

Cry Scraton did. Deep, heaving sobs that bounced off of the woods. The deep, heaving sobs soon became a mournful cry. The mournful cry then became sniffles. Then the sniffles became hiccups until those too subsided.

“Done?”, I finally asked.

Scraton gave a slight nod. I reached out my hand.

“Good”, I gave as big of a smile as I could muster. It had been a while since I had reason to.

“Let us take leave of this place”, and with a swirling whisper of breezes that appeared from between the trees, we were swept away.