There’s something wrong with the forest; or maybe there’s something wrong with Oliver.
During an ordinary night, the Abyssal Forest is rife with life, even in the outskirts near the village. Plants and creatures alike wake from their quiet slumber, the darkness alight with cacophonous noise. Vibrant moonflowers unfurling, nectar sweet and enticing. Nocturnal hunters rising from their burrows to prowl the undergrowth.
But Oliver can’t see anything.
His senses have been changed. The ribbons of light and colorful mist haven’t gone away, despite how much Oliver wishes it so. Although he can’t see them, he knows there are eyes all around him. Hidden behind trees, and perched in the canopy far above, watching his slow, staggering journey out of the forest. He can feel each of his injuries keenly, the dried blood on his forehead especially so. He knows, on a normal day, his current weakness would make him the perfect prey.
Oliver should be dead; it goes against the natural order of the forest that he’s been left completely untouched. He stops to breathe for a moment and looks down to the innocently gleaming sword in his hand. It’s likely the only reason he’s still alive enough to have these thoughts.
He finds it hard to feel grateful.
Though he may come to regret it, Oliver couldn’t leave the blade behind.
There’s a tug underneath his skin pulling him forward. If asked, he’s not sure he could describe the path he’s walked since leaving the ruins, -beyond generally south- nor could he say for sure where it is that he’s going, anymore. He’s tired. He wants to rest; he can’t stop walking. He knows if he sits, he’ll die.
No ominously sealed, sword-magic will save him if he falls asleep here.
The forest around him is hazy. Beyond the colorful shapes that Oliver only recently became aware of, the trees and other plants seem to dance and sway around him. An unwanted heat crawls through his veins, making everything else feel bitterly cold. Despite the no-doubt balmy, nighttime air that’s common in this region during the summer, he’s torn between shivering and tearing open his shirt collar so he can breathe–
Correction, there’s definitely something wrong with Oliver.
The moon hangs high in the sky when Oliver next comes to his senses.
In the distance, warm, dancing torchlights beckon him home.
With the day he’s had, Oliver wants nothing more than to collapse and sleep for the next week. Longer, ideally, but he knows that’s wishful thinking. He wonders idly if he could just go straight up to his quiet, comfortable little room, mark an end to the third longest day of his life, and deal with everything else tomorrow.
The sound of familiar, fervent shouting drains away Oliver’s hopes of sneaking home without anyone noticing.
“-Let me GO!”
Marianna and Jean stand just inside the village gate, opposite to Martha and her husband, Dewein, who has his hands spread placatingly. His voice is much quieter. From this distance, Oliver has to strain to hear, “Be reasonable about this. If anything happens to you, he would never forgive himself.”
There’s a pleading note to his usually calm voice.
Oliver distantly agrees with Dewein’s words. If anyone was harmed while they were searching for him–
Martha chimes in, “If Oliver is still alive out there, the most important thing we can do for him is keep the two of you safe.” She punctuates her words by reaching to clasp Marianna’s hands in her own. To which his sister bristles, smacking aside the older woman’s hands.
“We can’t just leave him out there to die!” Marianna runs past their neighbors, only to stop sharply as her eyes land on Oliver. She chokes on her next breath, a look of horror spreading across her expression. The others follow her gaze. Martha catches Marianna’s hand to pull her back behind the fence-line.
It’s then, that Oliver’s body staggers.
He catches himself by digging the sword in his left hand into the soil, using it as a sort of cane. He wonders if the sword is cursing him for using it in such an undignified manor, after it’s many years of solitude. The image his fevered mind evokes startles a chuckle out of his sore throat.
“Oh god. Oliver, there’s blood-” Jean is the first to react, they rush to Oliver’s side to steady him.
Jean tugs on Oliver’s right hand to wrap it around their shoulder before he can get out a word. Oliver flinches harshly. White-hot pain blinding him for a moment as he bites back a wounded noise. He only partially succeeds, instead taking in a harsh breath. Mercifully, Jean understands him without words, and drops Oliver’s hand to instead wrap an arm around him. One of their warm hands resting on his other shoulder, comforting. Oliver sags into their hold, his legs finally admitting defeat.
Dewein approaches next, though he’s much less quick to get any closer. A wary light in his gaze, gloved hands right around the shaft of his pike, “Oliver, son, you’ve been gone for hours. What happened to you out there?”
Words, Oliver finds, are much harder than he remembers. “I fell. There was a Spore-“
“-Jean, get back!” Dewein’s barks, his voice harsher than Oliver has ever heard. In contrast, his eyes don’t seem to see Oliver at all, anymore. Instead they’re filled with a deeply personal kind of grief. “He might be infected.”
Jean stays. Oliver turns to look into their eyes— too quick, a wave of dizziness overcomes him from the sudden movement— he fights to focus again, only to see their determined gaze.
“Oliver wouldn’t have come back,” Jean says, their eyes filled with a grim sort of certainty, never leaving his, despite their words being directed at everyone else. “-if he thought there was a threat. You of all people would know that, Dewein.”
It’s then, that Oliver chooses to lift his left hand, showing off the sword he discovered in the ruins. Under the bright light of the moon and the flickering torchlight, the strange metal glows, casting an otherworldly shine. The invisible mist around them still seems drawn to the blade in a way that Oliver can’t trust, but whatever it is hasn’t killed him yet.
“I took care of it, with this.” Oliver rasps.
The world tilts. Oliver isn’t sure which direction is up, anymore. Darkness claims his sight, and he hears someone, several someones even, calling his name with panicked voices— triggering old, nearly forgotten memories. With his last bit of clarity Oliver bites out one last piece of information, his words slurred in a way he hopes is still legible. “Don’t touch it. ‘s probably cursed.”
Hysterically, Oliver hopes they don’t cut off his other leg, this time.
Sword of Famine 