Trembling, beneath the cool gaze of the moon, the child slept beneath the damp bushes, curled tightly in the shadows. A few days had passed since his birth, and though his body had not fully adjusted, something in him had begun to settle into this strange, wild world.
He awoke just before dawn.
The child didn't know why. He didn't need to. Thought had no place in him yet—only sensation, instinct. Around him, the forest stirred. Birds chirped. Small animals rustled. The sky was lightening, a faint glow brushing the treetops. A new day had begun.
The child, though injured and exhausted from the day before, felt something close to freshness in his mind. Not strength, not health—but a lightness of spirit, fleeting and strange.
He peeked through the bushes toward the water stream. Quiet. Empty.
No threat in sight.
And so, with caution, he moved. Rolling, faltering, cradling his injured sides with the lower arms emerging from his back, the child pushed forward. The injury hadn't healed much—but it no longer bled. That was enough.
He reached the thin, winding stream and lunged forward, sipping from it with urgency, swallowing dirt with every mouthful. The water was muddy and cold, but filled his hollow belly enough to appease his hunger.
And once the water filled him, something new took hold.
Curiosity.
The stillness of the forest, without predator or threat, invited wonder.
The child lay there for a moment, taking in the warm hush of safety. But safety wasn't enough to hold him. Curiosity, slow and persistent, began to push at his ribs, his skin, his small mind.
He rolled—toward the other side of the clearing. Away from the stream, away from the place where he had always huddled. Across the great, gnarled roots of the old tree. Into the deeper forest.
For the first time in his short, trembling life—the child began to explore.
The trees ahead were vast and ancient. Their trunks towered and twisted, their forms so similar they blurred into one another. And still, the child rolled forward. No fear. No confusion. No sense of how he would return—only the pull of the unknown.
The smell of damp soil grew stronger as he pushed deeper. The ground clung to him—mud, blood, fragments of leaf and root. He passed trees he'd never seen. Mossy rocks. Vines. Budding plants.
Then—something caught his eye.
Scattered at the base of a nearby tree were small, round objects. Curious, the child rolled closer. One of them—a dark, black fruit the size of his tiny palm—he grasped with both hands. He clawed into it.
The fruit burst.
A spray of sweet liquid hit his face. He licked at it—sweet, strange, addicting. He couldn't chew, not yet—he had no teeth—but he could tear and squeeze the fruit open with his fingers.
He delighted in it.
Time passed. The sun rose higher. The forest turned warm and gold. The child, now sticky-fingered and full, began to drift into play.
Then—a sound.
A faint clack, followed by a low trickle. Something tapping. Dripping. Familiar, but distant. The child turned his head, alert.
His ears focused. His hands tightened around two of the black fruits. He could not use the extra arms on his back—they were shielding his wounds—but that didn't stop him from moving. Slowly, carefully, he began to roll toward the sound.
And then—his senses rang.
A sharp, inner pull. Not danger. Not yet. But a warning.
The child froze.
He scanned the trees. The ground. The roots. And then, through the foliage—
He saw it.
Thick. Muscular. Not a branch. Not a root. It slithered between trees, dragging itself across the forest floor. Its long, limbless form etched a winding trail behind it.
As thick as a tree limb. As silent as breath.
The child stared, unblinking. Something about its motion… It didn't move straight. It didn't glide. It dragged, zigzagging, brushing against soil and stone.
A deep, primal fear took hold.
Unlike the Olf… unlike the AshFeather… this thing felt wrong.
The child began to sweat. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. The thing vanished into the undergrowth, but the dread remained, curled in his belly like a thorn.
Curiosity had vanished.
Fear had returned.
The child turned.
He needed to go back. Back to the bushes. Back to that tiny patch of thorns and damp soil where he had slept, drunk, hidden. Where he had—survived.
He rolled, faster than before. Over roots and fallen leaves. Past strange formations, ridges in the earth, trees he didn't recognize. He no longer cared to observe them. His eyes no longer widened at the unknown.
Only one thought filled him—home.
But it was gone.
Nowhere to be found.
Tree after tree. Rock after rock. Bush after bush. The child searched—desperately. He rolled farther than he'd ever gone. It was dusk now. Shadows stretched and swallowed paths.
Still—nothing.
No bushes. No water stream. No familiar scent.
Darkness came quickly, cloaking everything. The child was lost.
He pushed through thorned plants, their spikes raking his skin. But he didn't stop. Wounds reopened. Blood seeped from his sides.
He didn't care.
This was no longer hunger. No longer pain. This was something else.
For the first time in his life—he had lost something.
Not safety. Not food. Not even shelter. But something he had never known he needed until now:
Assurance.
That if a predator came—he had somewhere to run. That if the pain overwhelmed him—there was a place to curl up. Even if it was just a patch of thorns and damp leaves—it had been his.
And now, it was gone.
The fear was not in his eyes. It was not in his breath. It was in his bones.
His senses rang again—but not from danger. Not from hunger. They rang because he had no answer to the forest anymore.
And so, he cried.
But no sound came.
A soundless cry, in the middle of the dark, endless jungle. His tiny form barely visible against the roots and undergrowth. His tears did not fall. He was too dehydrated. His throat made no sound. But his body cried—from desperation, from terror, from the realization that something he'd never understood could be lost.
Home.