Chapter Text
The dull glow of sunset was upon the tree hollows, the first day of the harvest festival was upon the forest. An air of anticipation and excitement painted the faces of the creatures that called it home; but not everyone was as enthused by the season. Sprig nervously crept from his soft pillowy nest, crafted from the finest bird down, mosses, and lichens collected by his own paw. As he left his home he walked with a hunched posture and an anxiety filled gaze, the other inhabitants briefly side-eyed his apparent unenthusiasm before going back to chatting within their circles of neighbors about the festivities to come. This only worked to worsen Sprig’s mood, he just went back to staring at the ground, his face screwed into an intense thinking-face. Unfortunately he couldn't stay within his own thoughts for long; his lapse in attention had caused him to bump into someone. Looking up he was met with a stern, unchanging gaze, the older fellow looked annoyed and disappointed “Sprig.” The creature stated coldly “Charcoal.” Sprig sighed back, Sprig definitely didn't want to chat with him for longer than necessary. As Sprig stood up the older creature’s gaze followed, “You seem more antsy than usual, why can't you ever just celebrate like everyone else.” with the way he had stated this it definitely wasn't a question; Charcoal was the oldest, and sternest, creature in the village identifiable by his unusual gray and black patterning. He and Sprig never saw eye to eye. Sprig opened his mouth to speak but Charcoal just rolled his eyes, with a huff he walked off Charcoal could pester somebody else for the morning.
The Creatures went about their day, preparing for the first celebratory activity at dusk, at the moment it was mid-noon. Sprig had just finished his duties, he could now go visit the stalls in the center of their village, marked by an intricate mosaic of the sun and the stars. He tiredly walked past the entrance to the field of crops, glancing irritatedly at the tall plants, he didn't believe any of their rituals actually helped them grow. Turning away he glanced at the heavily-built guard Lilypad, Lilypad stared back with an annoyed expression, Sprig decided not to greet him. As Sprig walked into the center of town he saw the voting box, he decided it was the right time for himself to cast a vote. He scribbled characters foreign to our eyes, spelling Charcoal of course, and cast it into the box, He then left to pursue the wares of his fellow creatures.
Sprig’s expression lightened as he glanced upon one particular stall, standing behind it was Morning Dew, his only friend, her fur was softly colored reflective of her bubbly personality. She sold beautiful fabrics and figurines she made from only the finest craft materials, she was responsible for many of the painted entrances and murals around the village. Nobody would vote for her, she was the light of the village, this thought eased his mind a little bit, He wished he could always feel this serine. Sprig decided to walk over and see what she’s recently crafted, amongst her typical wares he spotted several blank figurines in a box next to the stall, these were intended to be painted with a visage of whoever got the most votes, it brought back the soup of anxiety and dread he’d been feeling throughout the day as he nervously eyed them. He gulped and tried to push his feelings back down, looking away as he'd taken notice of the fabrics he’d seen her working on moons ago it calmed him a little, he knew Morning Dew was talking to a customer so he refrained from talking but these fabrics were absolutely gorgeous of course he expected nothing less from the skilled artisan. His favorite was a pattern made to resemble the crops the village grew, each row looked like a different growth stage through the seasons. She looked from the customer and met his gaze; she smiled, he smiled back.
As Sprig perused the other wares at each stall the sun got lower and lower, the fairy lights began to glow brighter as the sun set giving the village a whole new appearance. Like something out of a children's fairy tale. Sprig saw many different crafts, from baked goods to jewelry to stuffed toys children were begging their parents for. As the sun continued to set the last few inhabitants casted their votes, it brought back Sprig’s nervous fearful thoughts, as Charcoal walked up onto the raised platform, especially as he started to speak, it rose higher and higher bubbling up as more and more of the village gathered round. Eventually Sprig was so out of it he didn't even notice Morning Dew walk up and sit next to him, even as she looked worriedly into his eyes. His breathing was ragged and he was getting odd looks from the surrounding creatures. Morning Dew glanced around quickly and nervously, and as she pushed her paw onto his back trying to help him; it wasn't the first time this had happened after all. Luckily her gentle touch had brought him out of the panic, “Hey are you alright? Do you need some water?” she whispered kindly, he was still trying to calm himself, he swallowed breathing still heavy “Yeah…” he paused for a moment to gulp again “... I’m alright I-I don't think I need anything.” This news calmed Morning Dew and her face softened from worry to a kind smile “That's good, just let me know if you need anything alright?” They’d both turned their attention to the speech which was wrapping up, everyone else in the village was buzzing with excited chitter as well ‘Who was going within the vote?’ they gossiped, Sprig did not view this as winning in the slightest, though the speech seemed to be wrapping up “.... and as our ancestors hundreds of moons ago we will bless our harvest….” his voice sounded monotone, and a bit strained like when one talks for long period of time “.... and now finally the sun has set and it is time to….” Charcoal’s voice was so monotone and boring that he didn't catch most of it, however he definitely paid attention to what was about to happen. The villager’s eyes stared with attentive curiosity and anticipation as Charcoal and lilypad counted the votes for each creature, barring children and teens. At last they’d counted them all, Sprigs blood ran cold and his heart stopped beating as Charcoal calmly walked towards the podium, stood on his hind legs, and spoke one word “Sprig.” he said flatly, only a stoney neutral expression on his face. Sprig looked towards Morning Dew. She looked back with horror and sadness, her chest hurt, she was near tears. She couldn't say a word as Sprig was walked by Lilypad towards a barred tree hollow on the other side of the woods. Her face froze as she heard someone behind her Whisper good-riddance, her face screwed into an expression of anger as she heard several of her neighbors, her comrades, make snide remarks and terrible jokes at the expense of Sprig. She was going to make the most beautiful figurine that she’d ever made in remembrance of her doomed friend.
In what was to be his prison for the next two days Sprig sat in the uncomfortable nest, the bedding hadn't been crafted with comfort in mind and he was extremely uncomfortable. The door had no window, the windows were cut in the wood in a way that made them appear barred. Even the tree itself seemed more gray than the ones in the village. He attempted to push the thoughts of his impending doom aside, curl up in his uncomfortable bed and fall asleep, there was no use in trying to escape. It’s not like if he did he’d ever be able to return anyways, that night he had no dreams, he felt hollow. In the morning light began to seep through the bars in a way that made his eyes hurt, he fought the feeling of his body waking up, not wanting to face reality. He could fight no longer when he heard the opening slide open and an unappetizing meal pushed through. It looked like plant mush, and it smelled like sour milk and rotten fruit. He scrunched his nose and pushed the bowl as far away from the nest as he could. He slumped back down in his uncomfortable bed, if he listened he could hear the happy conversation and cheering from the festivities the rest of the village was partaking in. It made him depressed and lethargic, most of the day was spent moping over his own life and how out of place he felt. The door had opened and closed a few times to bring cups of water but other than that he’d had no socialization, although he wasn't expecting any. Finally as the sun went down he was able to slip into the void of sleep, he had a very foreboding dream.
He was in the village again, but as it was when he was a child. Void of the murals painted by Morning dew, it was spring Sprig’s favorite season. Sprig was happy, calm, and serene. His smaller body was trailing behind someone who he can't quite remember the face of, she turned around, despite the view of her face being blurred to a point where he couldn't make out any details he could feel in his heart that she was smiling. He ventured throughout the square with his mother, he can't quite tell what’s happening, he feels floaty like a cloud and fleeting like smoke. Even if this isn't real he wants to stay here, he realizes. This isn't real. Suddenly spring turns to fall, the bright greens turn to drab browns, the leaves fall and the trees die for the winter. They’re still in the square and he’s only a little taller, he feels pressured to feel excitement for what is to come but he’s only nervous and fearful. His mother sits next to him, he doesn't know what her expression means, the blur is worse though he can tell it’s not happy. A Charcoal in slightly better shape is speaking, he looks slightly younger, his voice going in and out of audible and understandable. The speech stops and suddenly they’re counting the votes, then he’s walking to the podium. “Pine, you've gotten the most votes.” Like a flood grief washes over him and he feels like crying out ‘No, no you can't take her.” but he just freezes and watches them, they walk his mother out of the village and–
Sprig jolted awake, he couldn't relive that horrible memory. Out of the window it looks to be midnight, his bowl of mush cold and uneaten. Sprig wished he could have slept through the night, he doesn't want to be here, he wants to be home in his nest, worried for next year or whatever poor soul got the most votes. Unfortunately he wasn't and Sprig had to accept that he’d never see the soft nest ever again, he’d never talk to morning dew, and he’d never walk free again. The day’s boring routine from that day repeated as he pondered what exactly death would feel like, would it be painful or freeing? Maybe it would just feel like nothing. As the day wore on a slip of bark was pushed through the barred windows; it had drawings of happy memories he shared with Morning Dew, this made him perk up and stand to peer through the window. His gaze fell upon a figure running back to the village. It was sad but it brought him joy that she didn't completely abandon him like the others.
The sun was setting, the beginning of dusk had fallen and a cup of tea had been pushed through the opening in the door. He knew it was brewed from a mushroom used to make one fall asleep; it relaxed the muscles, made one calm. Though Sprig really didn't want to drink it, he’d rather be lucid, in his mind he would be braver for facing his demise head-on rather than using a substance to escape the reality of the situation. Some other more primal feeling also prevented him from taking the drug, he couldn't tell what it meant but it only pushed further into his mind that he could not drink that tea. Carefully, making sure whoever dropped it off had returned to the festival he poured the liquid through the furthest window from the entrance then he set the bowl down by the nest. He thought this made it look like he’d drunk it and layed down for a nap.
Sprig waited until he heard the door open, trying to seem as asleep as he possibly could. Whomever it was fooled by his feigned sleep and left to bring the news to Charcoal. Both creatures returned within minutes, they’d brought a cart, which Sprig was hoisted onto, and they set off into the woods on this side of the field. As a child the village warns of the dangerous creatures in the woods, this is why only the chosen are brought to face the wargs, a necessary sacrifice is what children are told. Sprig himself never believed these obvious lies.
The cart rolled on and the three grew nearer and nearer to a specific spot in the forest only Charcoal and his heir knew about, a clearing thick with the smell of death and rot. The stench was built up from hundreds of moons of harvest festivals, Sprig grew more and more fearful but forced himself to keep still, at last he was dumped unceremoniously into the center of the clearing and the two others hurriedly left, pawsteps could be heard quickly falling and growing more and more distant. Sprig was all alone, waiting to meet his fate. He opened his eyes and shakily stood; crouched in a position where his back was poised. An instinctual response to make himself appear larger. He heard them before he saw them, distant yips that sounded almost like giggling, like a group of children had just played a cruel prank on another. The second thing he noticed before he could see them was their smell, they smelled like death, blood, and slobber. Finally his eyes picked up the yellow pairs of eyes in the shadows, he saw the glint of teeth through their snarls, and he saw their large bodies trounce through the brush. They were sniffing, their maws and eyes splayed in an expression of vindictive glee as they spot him. In that moment Sprig’s instincts kick in, he’s running even as the mass of teeth, eyes, and laughter is upon him snapping its many jaws. The flow of each individual with each other linking into one mass that can split like water.He continues to run, run through the bushes, adrenaline through his veins, he’s so focused on running that he doesn't notice the ground stopping. He falls into the freezing water gasping for breath, desperately paddling to keep his nose above water so as to prevent water from flooding his tiny lungs. He paddles ashore coughing and sputtering; he slinks onto land; he gazes back towards the cliff; the pairs of eyes staring at him halt his shivering body. Frozen as ice with fear, luckily the predators show no interest in crossing the freezing water as the snarls drop and heads turn, they walk away one by one. He’s a tiny meal to them, not worth the effort. As the relief of not being hunted spreads and the adrenaline wears off he breaks down, he hunches over and cries. How long can he survive? He can't return to the village, everyone believes him dead, he’s stuck cold and shivering in the middle of nowhere with hungry mouths nearby. He’s never going to see his friend’s comforting smile, Never going to sleep in his soft nest, hell he even misses Charcoal’s disappointed gaze and monotone voice. As he sniffles and sobs, goveling in grief he thinks, Maybe I should have let myself be eaten.