Archive of Our Own ^beta

He is not often fond of summer.

On a morning like this, though, a day teetering on the very edge of spring, he’s willing to make an exception. 

The towering pine trees above his head shift and sway in the cool breeze, their shadows dancing and twisting along the forest floor. The wildflowers had just begun to bloom again, the first since last year, and dot the hills and forest before him in clumps, still sparkling with morning dew. It’s hard to believe the very last of the winter snows had been only a few weeks prior. 

It’s still early in the year, yet. Spring isn’t quite over yet, and a late-season snow is never quite out of the question this time of year, no matter how warm it seems now. There’s plenty of time for the flowers to grow and spread, and soon the trees and bushes would follow, turning from buds to fresh green leaves, once again casting the forest in shadows. 

The air is sweet, fresh and warm, the last clinging bits of the morning chill being chased away by the sun's touch as it rises overhead, warm on the backs of his wings. He can just taste summer on the breeze, just barely out of reach. 

It’s easy to understand a love for summer, even if he doesn’t share it.

Winter will always be his first love. The cold nipping at his face, the beautiful stillness of a land frozen in snow and ice. A creature of cold and frost like himself cannot easily forget his roots. 

Winter is nothing like spring, clean and fresh and smelling of wildflowers and fresh leaves, nor is it the honeyed warmth of summer, sweet and heavy on the air and on his tongue. Not even the musky, earthy scent of fall can beat the still, sparkling serenity of a forest blanketed in snow. 

Still, just because he prefers winter doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy a beautiful day while it lasts. 

A forest in spring is louder than others would give it credit for. The animals, just waking from hibernation and beginning to find their voices again, the birds stretching out their wings, snakes sunning themselves on rocks and boulders nearby. The towering pines over his head rustle as if singing a song of their own, all set to the melody of birdsong. Such gossipy things, songbirds, always willing to stick their beak in someone else’s business. They make good conversation, but Phil wasn’t in the mood for chatting. 

It’s a perfect day for traveling. 

He doesn’t often travel on foot. His wings were meant for long-distance flight, after all, and why waste the energy walking when he can get to his destination sooner by wing?

Under normal circumstances, he would be flying. This forest is large, though, thickly wooded, trees close together. He would have to fly well above the treetops, and it’s too easy to get disoriented that high up in the air. If he loses the path now, there’s a good chance he might not be able to find it again. 

He can’t find it in him to mind, though. Not in a forest this beautiful. 

There is nowhere he needs to be, no real destination other than north. He moves with the seasons, chasing winter and occasionally falling behind. It’s not often a creature like himself gets to see a day like this one, he might as well enjoy it while he’s here. 

Even with the birds chirping and gossiping overhead, ( look, a traveler! Why does he look so strange? His wings are so pretty! Is he going to eat us? ), it’s peaceful. The world around him awakening, fresh and new from the frozen stillness of winter. Spring has come, summer is near, and it seems the entire forest around him is celebrating. 

He takes a deep breath, lungs filling with the sweet flower-scented air, whistling a tune to match with the birds. A perfect day, indeed.

And then, the peace around him shatters . 

A sound splits the air, a screeching, pitiful wail that freezes him in his tracks. 

The birds scatter to the skies with cries of alarm, gossip forgotten. The animals burrow down back into their holes, the snakes dart away. Somewhere far off in the woods something, someone, screams. 

It chokes off into sobs and cries, every sound echoing and spreading over the forest like spilled blood, and Phil bleeds with it. 

He… He knows that sound. It grabs a hold of something in his chest and yanks. 

He’s moving, chasing it, tracking the sobs and pathetic mewls of a kit and the scent of magic-tinged blood before he even realizes what he’s doing. 

-

Phil, or Philza, if you’re being proper, is older than he looks. 

He’s been around for decades. Traveling across the continent, shifting with seasons and clouds, drifting here and there like a leaf lazily floating down a summer stream. The only constants in his life are the seasons, shifting and changing in their never ending dance, and the Northern mountains he calls home.

He is a thing of ice-cold winds and cold, glacier water. Not the sort of creature meant to stay in one place for longer than necessary. 

Winter never lasts forever, after all. 

Still, there are some things that never change. Things you carry with you. Your first love, your first kill, your most treasured friendships and bonds, things you wish you had done, and memories of the things you wished you hadn’t. Both scars, and souvenirs. 

Of all of these things, of all of his memories, the one he knows he’ll never be able to scrub out of his mind is the screech of a fledgling, a kit, of his son, in pain. 

It’s not his son, this time. It can’t be.

Still, still, he chases it all the same. 

Even the iciest, coldest of Winter creatures would move quickly at the sound of a kit in distress. There are some instincts no one can ignore.

BabybabybabyhURThelphelpbabywhere-

The noise leads him off the path and into thick, unforgiving undergrowth. A challenge for anyone else, but him? Between his clawed hands and strong legs, he barely has to slow down. The battle drum of his heart in his chest and the pounding of his footsteps only driving him to move faster, faster, faster! 

He dodges bushes and trees and vaults over fallen logs with a deer’s grace, never once breaking stride. Even without the use of his wings, he moves like a stinging northern wind, fast and sure. 

What the hell is a kit doing here? This deep in the woods? Alone? 

He scents the air, just to be sure, but all he can smell is pine. He hadn’t seen any creatures beyond the normal woodland-variety since he entered the forest, and didn't know of any nearby villages. Certainly none close enough for a kit to wander this far into the woods from, especially a kit sounding so young . Too young . 

It sounds like a kit, but he could be wrong. A troll pup, maybe? Some kind of young fae? 

Whatever it is, it should be with its mother , still, not alone in the middle of the woods. The thought, and all of the unpleasant conclusions his mind begins to jump to, only drive him to move faster. 

The birds had stopped in their cries of alarm long enough to understand the situation, and a few of them began to circle overhead somewhere in front of him, flashes of brown, red and blue visible through the pines. He’s over here !, they shrieked and trilled, Kit in trouble! Over here, traveler! Quickly! 

He follows their calls, and the once-faint scent of blood begins to fill his nose, first slowly, then all at once, until all he can taste is copper and fear. 

There’s something else there, nearly drowned out in the copper-smell. A milk-scent that all kits and fledglings have, mixed with something distinctively earthy and fresh. Magic. 

He’s close. 

He slows his sprint to more of a jog, pushing aside bushes and undergrowth with a bit more care as he follows the kit-smell. He finds the trail easily, letting him lead him closer and closer as the stench of blood and fear gets stronger and stronger, until it’s the only thing he can pick out. 

The kit is close. He must be practically on top of it by now, so where…? 

Something shifts in front of him.

He turns, ears pricking at the sound of movement and soft cries. Carefully, carefully, he moves aside another branch, revealing the source of the smell.

No white, fluffy troll-fur, no green tinted skin or reek of chlorophyll. No feathers, no scales, or glittering, iridescent sheen to its skin or the shimmering, silver blood of a spirit. No, he’d been right the first time. 

Half-hidden in grass and undergrowth, a kit is curled on its side.

It’s such a little thing, the sight bringing a coo to his lips as he inches closer for a better look. So little , much smaller than Wilbur had been, all those years ago. A dark raccoon’s mask around his eyes, and the ears and tail to match. The teeniest, tiniest little horns poking through a head full of sunshine-blonde hair. 

The kit hiccups, his muddy face streaked with tears, little grey ears folded tight against the sides of his head. Great gods above, the poor thing probably isn’t even properly weaned yet, what in the world is it doing all the way out here? And alone? 

He leans in closer for a better look. The poor thing doesn’t even seem to notice his presence, tiny form shuddering with full-body sobs as thrashes and kicks out its leg and- oh, he sees the problem now. 

A snare. An iron hunter's snare, it seems. 

Phil has to bite back a snarl, tail lashing from side to side. Hunters . Leaving their traps all over the forest where anyone could step right into them. Hidden so well under pine needles, the poor kit didn't stand a chance. 

His nose twitches, the smell of blood and fear still strong, and bringing him back to the matter at hand. 

He moves slowly, inching closer bit by bit until the kits gaze snaps to him. 

Two glassy, summer-sky blue eyes narrow into a glare, lips curling back over tiny, needle-point teeth and ears pinning back. He growls a warning, stay-back!, leave-me-alone!, lashing his fluffed out-tail, doing his best to look bigger and more intimidating. Precious. 

Phil takes another step, lifting his hands where the kit can see them, keeping his voice low and soft. “It’s alright, mate. I’m here to help.” 

The kit doesn’t seem convinced, only tensing up more as he creeps closer, trembling and growling. He sniffles, a truly pitiful sound, and makes an attempt at hissing, but his tearful expression and tiny kitten teeth aren’t scaring anybody. 

He’s so little. 

Phil is going to have a lovely conversation when he finds this kit’s parents, that’s for sure. No kit this small should be left alone. 

The leg only looks worse from here. Shit.

It needs tending too, and badly . Still, Phil keeps his approach slow and gentle, not wanting to freak the kit out anymore than he already is. 

He knows he doesn’t exactly look the friendliest, with his tall, scrawny frame and piercing blue eyes, not to mention the wings . He’s no soft, doe-eyed Spring creature, that’s for sure, but the last thing he needs right now is the kit thrashing about even more. 

He inches closer, and closer still, showing the kit his hands and keeping all of his movements in his line of sight. He crouches to his level a polite distance away, and ever so softly, begins to speak.

“Hello there.” He says, voice steady and gentle. “I’m here to get you out. I’ll have to touch your leg though, is that alright?”

The kit hesitates, sniffling, and giving him another distrustful glance over. Phil is patient, though, and after a few moments, the kit gives him a reluctant, shaky nod, uncurling around the injured leg with a soft churr. 

Phil grins, responding with a trill of his own and kneeling to get a better look. “That’s it, mate. Now, let’s see how to get his awful thing off.”

His leg didn’t look any better up close.

The metal teeth have a firm hold on the kit's leg, just above his ankle, and the fabric of the pant leg is already soaked-through with red. His heart sinks. Just like he’d feared, all his thrashing about trying to get it off had only dug the teeth in deeper. Shit. 

There’s already a sizable amount of blood pooling at their feet, the metallic smell almost unbearably strong, this close. He isn’t sure how much blood a kit this small can lose and survive, but he’d rather not find out like this. 

Phil ignores the awful smell, leaning in to get a better look at the snare itself. Just the sight of it makes him wince, his wings instinctively curling around the kit in a protective shield of feathers. 

Focus, Phil. One step at a time.

He cuts the rest of the pant leg with a claw, ever so gently moving the rest of the shredded fabric out of the way. The kit whines at the movement, and he trills an apology. 

Thankfully , the amount of blood is only making the wound seem worse than it is. 

It‘s an ugly, jagged thing, sure, but not a fatal one. The leg doesn’t seem broken either, by some miracle, and the teeth aren't deep enough to do any real, lasting damage, beyond some scarring. He lets himself breathe a sigh of relief. In the right hands, he should make a full recovery. 

Still, the worst part is yet to come. 

He glances up at the kit. He’d stopped sobbing, thankfully, though his face was still streaked with tears, and wasn’t growling or hissing, though his wary gaze never left Phil for a moment. He sighs. 

This isn’t going to be fun. The sooner it’s over with, the better. 

“I’m going to have to pull on the snare. It’s going to hurt,” he tells him, voice soft, but honest. “But only until I get it off, like pulling out a splinter. I’ll start pulling on the count of three, okay?”

The kit chokes down a whimper, a noise that takes hold in Phil’s chest and squeezes, but gives a shaky nod. 

Brave little thing. He warbles in approval. 

As gently as he can, he takes hold of both halves of the metal snare, careful of his claws and the wound it was clamped around. “Alright, one…”

The child tenses, squeezing his eyes shut. Phil’s wings tighten around them both, tail swishing. “Two…” 

“Three!”

Phil heaves the halves apart, freeing the kits leg from the metal teeth. The kit yelps, whimpering and pulling his leg free the moment he gets the chance, 

tucking it in protectively with a half-smothered sob. 

It’s over in a matter of seconds, the trap dangling uselessly from Phil’s claws. He regards the bloodied, metal teeth with a sneer. 

At least now, broken and defeated, the horrible thing can’t hurt any more innocent creatures, magic or otherwise. He tosses it into the undergrowth with little fanfare, turning his attention back to the kit, still huddled and trembling on the forest floor. 

He folds his legs underneath him, settling by the kit's side. The kit lets him move closer, ears flicking warily and him watching closely with teary blue eyes. 

Settling amongst the pine needles, he holds out a hand. With only a little hesitation, the kit stretches out his injured leg, placing it carefully, trustingly, into Phil’s gentle grip.

Another warble slips through his lips before he can think better of it, h ere-safe-calm, a noise meant to relax and settle anxious fledglings. It works on kits, too, if the way the little one stops trembling and leans into his touch is anything to go by. 

He rolls up what’s left of the kit's pants leg just past the injury, doing his best to ignore the pained whimpers and sniffles the movement brings. Thankfully, most of the damage done was superficial, tearing the skin and just grazing the muscle underneath rather than ripping through it. Blood loss is their biggest worry, but still. A wound like this can be more dangerous than it looks. Especially when the kit is this young, and needs to be kept warm. 

Not to mention the fact that it had rained the other day. Phil knows all too well that getting mud in a wound is a recipe for all sorts of awful infections. This isn’t some little scrape that can be fixed with a wash and a bandage, this needs real medical attention. 

For the meantime though, he’ll have to make do with what he has on hand. 

He unwinds his scarf from his shoulders, wrapping the kit's leg as tightly as he dares. He’s no stranger to dealing with injuries of this sort, traveling comes with its own dangers, after all, but he’s no healer. What he really needs is some proper bandages, or even a canteen of whiskey to sterilize the wound. Something, anything. 

This is what he gets for traveling so light. It’s just his luck that he’d find an injured kit with nothing on him but a half-empty satchel and an empty canteen to his name. 

He rises to his feet slowly, helping the kit up as he stands precariously on just one. “That’s a pretty bad injury, kit. Are there any towns nearby? Somewhere we can find a doctor?”

In a forest like this, moving off of the path isn’t a good idea. 

It’s a terrible idea, actually, with how quickly Spring seems to be slipping away in the forest. It’s already late enough in the season as it is, the longer he sticks around, the more likely he is to get himself stranded until Fall. Once Summer arrives in full… 

Well, he is a Winter creature. The heat only drains him, makes him weak and sluggish, unable to call on his magic. Vulnerable. 

But what else can he do? 

The kit is clinging to his arm, looking up at him with those scared blue eyes, kitten-sized ears flattened to the sides of his head in fear. He can’t just leave him. He can’t walk by himself, and that leg needs medical attention and soon, and- 

There are just some instincts no one can ignore, after all. And the instinct to protect a kit, no matter who or what it belongs to, is one of the strongest of all. 

What kind of creature leaves a child alone and in pain?

The kit nods shakily, pointing with a mittened paw somewhere to the East, nearly the exact opposite of the way he was supposed to be going. 

Just a small detour. He should have a few more weeks of spring left, anyways. The town can’t be that far. 

He grins, crouching down ever further and unfolding his wings so the kit can climb on his back. “Hop on mate, there we go- now, hold on tight. We’ll be there in no time at all.”

The kit secured on his shoulders, Phil stands to his full height, careful to hold on to the kit's knees to avoid the wound, and starts to pick his way through the undergrowth before them. 

If he hurries, hopefully they can make it back to the kit’s town before nightfall. 

-

It’s not a very long journey.

Above them, the birds continue with their ever-present chatter, The kit was saved! Will he be okay? Will they have to cut his leg off? And Phil finds himself not minding the weight of a child on his shoulders as much as he thought he would. This kit is an angel compared to Wilbur, who would always yell in his ear and pull on his hair during piggyback rides. 

This kit barely weighs anything at all, and where that be the blood loss or another problem all together, it’s hard to tell. He does his best to move quickly, but the thick undergrowth is thick, and the heat of the day isn’t helping. Still, he pushes through the exhaustion that pulls at his limbs, and keeps on.

Oddly enough, he even starts to recognize a few of the trees they pass. By the way the kit is leading him, he must have walked right past this town without even noticing it. He hadn’t seen any paths leading to it, all the trails veered sharply to the east before turning North once more. Strange .

They walk in relative silence, for a while, another thing that strikes Phil as odd.

He’s not… Entirely sure what season this kit is from, if he’s a seasonal creature at all. Spring, if he had to guess, or maybe Summer. The scent of his magic, fresh rain and wildflowers, is still new, nearly buried underneath the universal milk and honey smell all kits share. The scent of Autumn magic is musky, Winter sharper and more crisp. 

He’s heard of creatures born of flowers, others of trees, even some formed from nothing but earth and rainwater. It’s anyone's guess what a little one this young could belong too, his magic not quite having settled into something solid. He’s still just reflecting the magic of the forest around him, rather than holding any of his own. 

Still, from what he knows of kits, fledglings, and even pups, most young creatures are not usually… quiet. 

Other than a few whimpers or sniffles, the kit hasn’t said a word. He tries once or twice to ask him questions, but the kit stays quiet. Almost eerily so. The few quiet churrs or grumbles he does make weak and half-smothered. 

He’s probably just in pain. Phil can’t imagine he’d be too willing to chat after getting his leg caught in a hunters trap, after all. He’s more than willing to fill the silence with his own stories and chirps. 

The sun has barely moved a few inches across the sky when they finally reach the edge of the forest.

A rolling field of grass and wildflowers spreads out before them as far as the eye can see, sun-kissed and golden in the afternoon sun. It seems to go on for miles, the towering pine forest bordering along one edge, the rest disappearing into rolling hills, mountains far, far off in the distance. 

And, In the center, far enough away to look small, but close enough that it really isn’t too much of a walk, is a village.

Sun-bleached and framed with small stone walls, smoke lazily drifting upwards from chimneys perched utop thatched roofs. It’s small, compared to most of the ones he’s visited on his travels. Only a dozen or so buildings, a single, cobbled church. It’s quaint. Cute, even, if a little bland. Pretty much indistinguishable from any other of the hundreds of villages he’s been to before from this distance, except…

There’s something odd about it.

It’s not a strong feeling. Not enough to make him turn around, or even for him to pick out just what it is that makes this village off, but still. Enough to ruffle his feathers, the feeling prickling at the hair on the back of his neck. 

The kit is asleep, exhaustion settling in after the fear and adrenaline had faded. Phil can feel him purring against his back. Poor thing, he must be dead on his feet. 

He doesn’t need confirmation that this is his home, he had already missed one village on his travels, what are the odds he had walked right past another? So, with a swish of his tail, he steps out from the shelter of the trees and into the fields.

The tall grass sways around him like an uneasy sea, catching on his clothes and crackling under his boots. Just as he’d thought, the village is an easy walk away, though he’s slowed significantly between the weight on his shoulders, and the heat of the sun. The lack of a visible path to take doesn’t help either, leaving him trampling through grass that touches his waist, at some points. 

It's a wonder the kit made it to the forest at all, much less as deep as he was. Though, having been around kits and raising a fledgling of his own, he knows all too well how easy it is for them to wander off a bit too far and get lost. 

The kit had probably been too caught up in chasing a butterfly or the like to notice how far he had gotten from his home. Little creatures like him are naturally curious, after all. 

Still, the walk from the tree line to the village isn’t an easy one. Walking through the expanse of grass and wildflowers is harder than it looks, the grasses and stems tangling around his legs and pulling at his feet, his wings are going to need quite a bit of preening after all this is over, he already knows. At Least on the way back he can fly. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he can finally trade grass for a solid path under his feet. 

Even up close, the village is painfully ordinary. Cobblestone buildings and paths, thatched roofs, likely made from the grasses he had waded through, people milling about here and there. The air smells like smoke and strangers, coating his tongue with the taste of earth and dust. Even the smells are boring, bread, wheat, something dry and musty that dries out the inside of his mouth. Nothing like the fresh scent of the forest of pine trees he’d just left behind.

Or, curiously enough, like the scent of the kit on his shoulders. 

The villagers give him a wide berth as he starts to make his way through town. He pays them no mind, keeping his gaze determinedly ahead. He always did have a way of attracting attention to himself, after all, between the wings and the general oddness of a Winter creature this far out of season. The injured kit on his shoulders is the cherry on top, really. 

The villagers are all dressed plainly, muted browns and tans, every once in a while another color, but never more intense than a pastel shade. Their furless faces twist in distrust when he passes, sharing whispered words behind furless hands, beady eyes watching his every move. 

In fact, no one around seems to have any fur at all , another thing that makes his ears twitch under his hat. 

No fluffy ears, no feathers, horns, or tails. All the villagers look almost the exact same, as a matter of fact, not a bright color or whiff of magic to be found. Huh. Strange. 

It’s been a very long time since he’s been somewhere like this place, somewhere without magic. Even that place had some, a few forest spirits lingering around, a water nymph taking care of the well. 

What a horrible place to live in, somewhere without magic. How anyone can stand it, he’ll never understand. 

He’ll leave quickly. As soon as the kit is taken care of, he’ll continue his journey North just like before. No point in sticking around where he’s clearly unwanted. As much as fun as stirring up trouble could be, traveling with injuries is not an experience he’d like to repeat. 

Picking up his pace a bit, he scans the buildings. He can’t make heads or tails of whatever weird language most of the words are written in, but luckily, the signs had pictures as well as words. So long as the symbol for ‘healer’ hadn’t changed since the last time he had been in a village, he’d be fine. 

He follows the signs, ignoring the whispers and glares that follow. You’d think they had never seen a traveler before, by the looks he was getting. He returns their looks with a cool gaze of his own until they jerk and turn away. 

How rude. Hadn’t their parents ever taught them not to stare? 

Thankfully, the healer's home isn’t too hard to find.

Even without the signs help, their front window is open, the tangy smell of crushed herbs and fresh linen easy to pick out and follow. It’s the only shop he’d passed with a box of flowers on the windowsill, yellow and bright, sweet-smelling and radiant in the sun-washed afternoon. 

He knocks on the door, once, twice, thrice, before it swings inwards. 

The woman who greets him on the other side is… Something , he can tell. Finally, it’s good to see there’s some magic here, after all. 

Her appearance is simple, dark skin, curly hair pulled away from her face with a ribbon. The apron she’s wearing is smudged with green, as well as her hands, the smell of freshly-ground peppermint strong enough to make Phil’s nose twitch. It’s not strong enough to cover the smell that lurks underneath, however, daffodil and clover, and does nothing to hide the way the flowers by the front door lean in her direction. 

Why anyone would care to hide who they are is beyond him. Nymphs, even a lesser one like her, aren’t creatures to be taken lightly. 

The glare she’s sporting, likely from being interrupted, melts like winter frost in August heat the moment she sees the kit on his shoulders. 

She ushers them inside, talking all the while, hands waving about as if she didn’t know where to put them first.  “Come in, come in. Good heavens! What happened to his leg?”

“A hunter’s snare.” He answers, quick and to the point. “He fell asleep a while ago, I figured it best to just let him be.” 

The healer grimaces, “Hunters snare. A horrible way to get yourself injured. I have an extra bed and a spare room, bring him this way.”

It’s a small cottage. Cozy. Potted plants scattered about here and there, windows open to catch the breeze and chase off the heat. Lived in, a little messy, but more the disorder that comes with being interrupted before you’d had a chance to tidy up then actual mess. The sharp scent of herbs mixed with the sweeter, honeyed smell of nature magic at work immediately puts him at ease. 

The spare room in the back is nothing special. A bed with clean white sheets, neatly made. A bedside table with a few candles, only a little melted. A chest at the foot of the bed, closed, and a window, open. 

He lays the kit on the bed, slow and careful of his wounds, and the healer begins her work the moment he’s out of her way. Feeling his forehead, unbundling the bloodied scarf, reaching for handfuls of herbs and bottles of who-knows-what. 

Her hands move faster than he can keep up with, working with an ease that comes with years of practice and repetition. He watches from over her shoulder for a while, the quick work of her hands almost mesmerizing, eventually clearing his throat to catch her attention once the worst of the wound has been dealt with. 

“I trust you can take him from here then? I really must be going, and I’m afraid I don’t know where he lives.” 

The healer blinks, hands frozen midair as she’s momentarily stopped from her work. “Oh, I thought…” She clears her throat, “Well, nevermind. If he’s from this village, I’m sure his parents are around here somewhere. I’ll make sure he gets home safe.”

Phil nods, tips his hat to the healer, and drags his gaze away from the kit, small and still slightly trembling, on the too-big bed. 

He slips a few coins from his pocket and leaves them on her table, right next to the peppermint plant, for her trouble, and makes his way out the way he’d come.

Another person might have stayed. Another person might have made sure the kit was taken care of by the healer, maybe even taken him to reunite with his parents. Phil, however, can’t afford the luxury. He had done his part in saving the kit's life, and he trusts the healer to return him to his parents safe. 

Unless he wants to stay for a whole Summer, he can’t risk hanging around the village longer than absolutely necessary.

The longer he stays with the kit, the more attached he’ll get. It’s best he leaves now, before he wakes and realizes he’s gone. 

Goodbyes have… Never been his strong suit, anyways.

The fur on the back of his neck is still prickling, wings rustling over his shoulders as he makes his way out into the street. The townsfolk are still watching him, that look of distrust echoed in every one of their faces. He stares back, eyes narrowed and unblinking. Let them stare. He has nothing to be ashamed of. 

They probably just haven’t seen a Winter creature like him, not this far south in this secluded little village. Still, he isn’t that strange looking compared to a deep Summer creature. You’d think they’d at least attempt to be polite. 

Now, without a kit on his shoulders to worry about, he lets his wings spread to their full length the moment the path fades into grass. 

The southern winds have never liked him much, but today, they seem to be willing to make an exception. It only takes a few flaps, and then he’s up, up, up, soaring far above the wild, wind-tossed plains he’d crossed before. The late afternoon sun paints the whole field in orange and gold, lighting it on fire behind him as he makes his way back to the forest he’d left. The bready, smoke-smell fades the further away he gets, replaced in favor of heather, and then pine trees. The air around him finally smells wild again, filling his lungs and guiding his wings. 

He has to land once he reaches the forest, but once more, he can’t find it in him to really mind. He feels better the moment he steps underneath the towering pines, the fresh-green smell greeting him like an old friend and chasing away the last clinging scents of the village. 

There was something about that village. Something odd, something wrong. 

Phil has been a lot of places, in all of the years he’s been traveling. He’s seen many things, walked forests and fields of every shade and color. He’s traveled the ocean, scaled the tallest of mountains, flirted with fae and dined with kings. He is a traveler in every sense of the word, seen just about every inch of this continent, and some. 

Still, even after all of those years, of all the places he’s been too, he’s never been to a village so deeply strange.

No paths in or out, despite him having walked one that must have skirted right around it, completely out of sight. Villagers that all looked the same, not a feather, scale or wing in sight. What kind of creatures they were, he has no idea. It’s the height of spring, and there wasn’t a single Spring creature in the village, or in the forest around it. In fact, the only magic he’s noticed at all has been the kit and the healer, and she was a nymph, not a seasonal creature. What kind of creature the kit was is anyone's guess. 

This forest is beautiful. Wild, untouched, brimming with life. There are dozens of magical creatures and beasts that make their homes in places just like this one, fae, nymphs, spirits, trolls… The fact that he’s not tripping over someone every other step is… just, odd. 

Where is everybody?

It’s strange. It’s so, so strange. If he wasn’t cutting it so close already, he’d try to figure out this mystery, but as it is, he can’t afford to make any more detours. He only has a few days to get far enough North to avoid the summer heat, and it’s getting late already. 

The warmer it gets, the weaker he becomes. If he doesn’t make it far enough North, in a few weeks, he won’t be able to travel at all. 

He can see the village from where he’s standing. The houses, from this distance, look like nothing more than a toy a child would play with. The windows have begun to light up as the afternoon blends into evening, the sunset painting everything red and gold. A world on fire, just out of his reach. His nose twitches, and he can almost swear there’s smoke on the breeze.

A strange, strange place. He’s happy to be putting it behind him. 

The kit should be back with his parents by now, safe and sound. If he’s quick, he’ll be far enough North to avoid Summer all together. A happy ending for everybody.

He turns, starting down the road North once again, stubbornly ignoring the tug he feels in the center of his chest. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find the path again. 

The more ground he can cover before night sets in, the better.

-

He doesn’t make it as far as he would have liked. 

It’s alright, though. He’s had a long day, and some rest would do him good. He’ll have to start moving again early tomorrow morning to avoid the worst of the heat, anyways. 

It isn’t hard to find a suitable tree to climb, from there. He doesn’t quite trust himself to maneuver his wings around the tightly packed branches, but he doesn’t need them for this. His claws are strong, and he’s been climbing trees since he was a fledgling. Picking the right tree is the hardest part, really.

The one he finally chooses is a beauty. It absolutely towers above him, thicker around than he is tall, but he can spot plenty of claw-holds in the bark, and he would be able to see so far from up that high. He unsheathes his claws, and begins the climb. 

Higher and higher, branch after branch, there’s a rhythm to it, a push and pull, stretch, grasp, heave. It’s easy to fall into, after years of practice. Soothing. 

The branch he finally settles on is perfect. High enough above the forest floor that it seems miles below his feet, but not high enough that getting down would be too much of a struggle. Thick, with plenty of space for him to stretch out and bask in whatever sun there is left. The perfect place to rest. 

He was made for heights, like this. To be this far above the world beneath him, leaving it behind in favor of wind and sky. 

A little distance can make anything seem so small, so far away. Harmless, distant. 

That’s what he loves the most about it, really. The distance. Like he’s on another plane of existence entirely, in a completely different world belonging only to him, leaving the one he knew so well on the ground far, far beneath his feet. He’s untouchable, one with the sky and wind he was made to touch, and before him, is the world. 

Sprawling out in every direction, an endless forest for miles and miles, and the mountains beyond that. Peaceful, serene. Wilderness that stretches all the way out into the red-painted sky. 

He had traveled far.

Sleep pulls at him, a lovely siren song, or more likely, a crash from the adrenaline rush from earlier. It’s been a long time since he had run that fast, after all, and he’s certainly feeling it now. 

He stretches, settling. The light is beginning to fade as the stars begin to blink into view, one by one. Constellations begin to connect themselves above him, some he recognizes, some he does not, and the forest around and beneath him settling in for the evening as well. The birds and other creatures finding their holes and burrows, the foxes and owls beginning to stir.

The air is warm and sweet, the ever-present bird song slowing into something like a lullaby, sung just for him.

Sleep claims him quickly, pulling him into its clutches the moment his eyes shut. As he drifts off he dreams, not for the first time, of home.