Bloomborn

Deep in the forest, twixt blackest boughs,

Upon a verdant hill,

By bones of suited suitors scorned,

A hidden grove sleeps still.

Few may enter in its midst;

Fewer still may leave.

Yet many come to seek the hand

Of a damsel wreathed in leaves.

They say she never ages nor

ever leaves her haunt.

From age to age her beauty grows,

With green eyes full of want.

Some say she was a duchess once,

Who lusted after treasure.

Some say an actress and a whore,

Well-versed in plays of pleasure.

Eternal youth and beauty lies

For whom the woods deem fit.

But go not child upon this quest

If thou cannot submit.

Excerpt from the “The Lady in Leaves”; found in 7th Age Ballads from Torin and Govina, as collected and edited by Sabor of Monith

Chapter I: Of the Forest

Leaning against the trunk of a great, looming blackmur tree was a suit of armor, streaked with rust from the rain that showered it for well over a century. Evidently, it had protected the skeleton encased within better than it had the knight when he was still alive. The fist-sized hole in the cuirass where the heart would be revealed part of the yellowing but intact rib cage, just barely visible through the cloak of vines and leaves that enwreathed the body in so elegant a matter it almost seemed deliberate.

The knight’s spear was long gone. None had dared loot it, but it wasted into nothingness in the span of but a single year. And yet, even now, the hands still clutched the shield tightly, just as the knight had in his dying throes. If one were to clean the mud smeared over it, they might just be able to make out a faded coat of arms depicting a silver stag pierced by a long spear – though they would be hard-pressed to say what noble family it belonged to, its bloodline having been snuffed out long ago, with the death of this very knight. Out of the eye sockets in the skull bloomed two great blue flowers, their petals just beginning to part as the sun waned. Above them, on the forehead, was carved a rune, blackened with ash.

The silence of the woods was disrupted by the sound of hooves striking the soft, dark earth. The skull had not moved – the dead don’t tend to do so – but it just so happened that it was facing the white stallion that emerged from the thicket, and the young man astride atop it.

The man, barely more than a boy, paused to examine the scene. It was not the first corpse he had found this far into the depths of the First Forest, but none had been quite so perfectly preserved – or so strikingly staged. He dismounted his horse with a flourish of his long, fine cloak of silk, making sure it didn’t graze the mud, and leaned in to examine the rune.

“Whoever used to live in these woods sure did like their skulls, didn’t they, Basil?” he said out loud, turning to his horse. His voice, though gentle in timbre, sounded harsh against the backdrop of soft rustling leaves and muted birdsong, so that he found himself moved to lower his speech to a near-whisper. “Well, whether it was intended as ritual or warning, if the old songs are correct, we should be nearing the grove. 'By bones of suited suitors scorn', and all that.”

The horse neighed. Lyle paused, though not out of fear. In truth, the scene, though macabre, carried a certain decadent beauty in its composition, and he would have liked to spare a while to sketch it. But night was fast approaching, and he preferred not to spend it in the woods if he could. Besides, if he was as close as he thought to his goal, he would soon have a much more rewarding subject to draw.

The trees grew thicker here, and so he proceeded on foot into the copse, guiding his horse by the reins. After a hundred or so paces, however, Basil stopped and refused to go any further. Lyle tried to tug on the reins, whistle, and even push the horse from its rear, but he would not budge. It was then that Lyle noticed a strange disruption in the air just before him. A stillness.

He breathed in, and could both smell and taste a faint floral aroma – sweet and tangy like perfume, but not as overbearing as that worn by the women at his father’s court. He put his hand forward, towards the rift in the air, and felt an odd pressure against his palm, as though he were attempting to push through a stretched sheet of fabric, except there was no tactile sensation against his fingers.

He removed his backpack from Basil, before returning to press against the sheet of air once again. A cool tremor ran up his spine, but one not altogether unpleasant, and he pushed harder, determined. When one hand wasn’t enough, he used both. This must be it, Lyle thought, the grove, and lying within, the Lady of the Forest – of blessed beauty and eternal youth.

He could feel the pressure reach a breaking point and half-expected the air to tear apart and for him to fall in – but instead, he sank, as though he had dived into a pool of clear water. For the briefest of moments, it even felt like he was swimming. But immediately he found himself on the other side of the strange barrier – within the sacred grove.

Lyle gasped. The trees around him were no longer green and vibrant – they were dead, and bare. The grass was covered in slivers of twinkling hoarfrost, and the trees wreathed in snow, with icicles hanging from a few of the branches. Lyle turned around, and saw that his horse was still there, right where he left him, inside a similarly wintery scene, as though the forest entire had shifted in a single moment. A breeze rushed through the woods and Lyle shuddered, clutching his chest, wrapping his cloak over him. He was dressed for the start of summer, nor for this.

Still, he felt elated, remembering his studies. Sister Anara’s Canticles of the Bloomborn, heretical though they may be, hint at the fact that the seasons function differently in the so-called “sacred” grove, bound to the whims of the First Forest. And looking around, he was entranced by the landscape. The trees here were taller than any he had ever seen: thick trunks rising erect like towers; their branches, though bare, like majestic crowns; each one a work of art.

He kept walking, the frost crackling under his shoes in an almost melodic tone. Though the trees were dead, the air still smelled of flowers, and the scent seemed to grow stronger with every step. Along the way, he noticed birds on the branches: sparrows, crows, doves and larks, all watching him, surprised to find a human in their midst. How long had it been since a human came through here, Lyle wondered, and breathed in the chill air, realizing what rare a sight this must be. He let his nose guide him, following the scent until it led him through a copse of trees and into a wide clearing – an altar at the middle of it.

At least, it seemed to be an altar. A great stone slab, easily the size of a horse, was placed right in the center of the clearing, inside a patch of withered flowers, coated with a faint dusting of snow. Around the rectangular slab were four grey bushes, one at each corner.

Lyle approached the altar, slowly circling around it. The stone was rough: barely hewn, and black as night, and yet oddly alluring in its primitiveness. Lyle noticed imprints in the rock – of palms and feet. Was it sculpted? How long ago? Oddly, the scent seemed to be emanating from the flowers surrounding the slab, though none still bloomed. The closer he got, the colder the air became, and an odd sensation gnawed at him, as though something was following closely by, almost breathing down his neck. He remembered the songs and tales – whispers of the forest being alive, of watching for intruders – but whenever he turned his head, the air was empty. Until he touched the altar.

He put his hand down on the rock, drawn to one of the palm prints which seemed to almost perfectly fit his own rather small hand. The freezing cold of the stone rushed up along his arm, biting the flesh, and at that very moment he felt a firm grip upon his shoulder, and a breath like a sharp winter wind against his ear, forming into words: “You should not be here.”

He turned around with a whirl, and saw a tall, looming figure standing before him. It was a woman, with dark hair, cascading loosely upon her head; her skin bronze; eyes narrow and piercing, with a strangely warm, reddish brown. But most notable was her height: she stood at least seven feet tall, with Lyle’s head not even reaching up to her shoulders.

She snarled, eyes alight, and he stumbled back, his body leaning against the stone slab. But then there was a shift in the woman’s expression, from a cold, dark fury – to surprise, and a moment later, a glint of curiosity flashed in her eyes.

She turned her gaze, searching. At first, it looked to Lyle as though her eyes were darting around the air at random, but soon he noticed she was examining the birds, and then the branches, and finally, individual leaves. She let go of his shoulder. It felt now surprisingly warm, despite the winter wind. Lyle watched the creature with curiosity.

“How did you enter here?” she spoke. Her voice lost its previous bite, becoming more natural. Grave, and oddly low for a woman, but not nearly so terrifying.

Lyle realized his teeth were chattering, whether from the cold or from fear, and so composed himself, dusting the snow off his cloak. “What do you mean?” he asked, following her still darting gaze around the clearing. More and more birds were gathering now, on the trees and on the ground. Lyle watched them. He had studied many guidebooks about birds when teaching himself how to draw, but here were some species he had never seen before.

“The barrier is intact. How did you slip through it? Did you use a spell of some kind?” the woman asked. She leapt from side to side, examining him. “Are you wearing Murvain’s talisman? Are you the son of one of the disowned?”

Lyle shook his head, confused. None of those words meant anything to him. But before he could say as much – the woman lunged forward, bringing her face so close to his that he could smell her breath. It reminded him of roasted chestnuts, and blueberry wine.

“Are you a man?” she asked.

“Of course,” Lyle answered, unable to suppress a smile. Though it quickly became clear she wasn’t joking. Just who was this woman, he wondered, who could not tell he was a man?

Suddenly, the woman’s hand shot forth to grab his face, making him gasp and his muscles turn taut as the strings on a harp, as her long and powerful fingers stroked his cheek carefully, before letting go. “Where is your beard?” she asked.

Lyle smiled again, this time to mask his embarrassment. “You sound like my father,” he said. When he saw the woman eye him quizzically in response, he added: “I can’t grow one.”

She took a step back, bringing up her thumb to her lips and biting her brown nail, as she eyed him pensively for a long time, in silence. He watched her too, with rapt attention. Finally, Lyle mustered the courage to ask: “Are you the Lady of the Forest?”

The woman smiled for the first time – a close-mouthed smile. “Do I look like the Lady of the Forest?”

Lyle paused at the question. It was only now that he had a real opportunity to remark upon her figure properly. Her height aside, it was hard to see her body through her garment: it was a bit like a robe in form but consisted of long strands of a shimmering metal of some kind, almost like a chainmail but thinner, more delicate, and reaching down past her knees like a gown. Festooned upon the strands were small leaves in grey and black, so well-wrought that they could pass as the real thing. Looking back at her face, he noticed that while she was certainly comely in appearance, her high brows, narrow eyes and unnatural stature weren’t quite what he imagined from the ballads about the “blessed beauty” of the Lady of the Forest. Even farther from the legends, were the slight crows’ feet around the corners of her eyes, and the strands of silver threaded between her otherwise dark tresses: not exactly the characteristics of eternal youth. Still, her appearance fascinated him, even though he felt ill at ease the longer he looked at her. “I suppose not,” Lyle said eventually.

“Good eye,” she said, and leaning in once more, her warm gaze examining every shade of the verdant green of his irises. “And such big and pretty ones too.”

Lyle drew back, embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time he had been told he had pretty eyes, but he could not remember anyone having ever stared into them quite so deeply. He caught his reflection in her pupils – fragmented and unstable.

“So, you’ve come looking for the Lady of the Forest… Looking to ravish her beauty or beg for her gift of eternal youth, I presume. And of course, you saw the corpses of other brash men on their supposed quests and thought ‘I can succeed where they have failed’, didn’t you? I’m always amazed at how astoundingly stupid men can be,” the woman sighed.

“I didn’t come to do either of those,” Lyle said after a pause. “I came to ask to paint her, if she’ll let me.”

The woman cocked an eyebrow, not bothering to mask her surprise, or her amusement. “Paint her?”

Lyle nodded. “I’m an artist,” he said. “I fell in love with the songs about the Lady of the Forest when I was still a child. I’ve always wanted to see the beauty of the grove – and of the lady, to be the first to put it to canvas!” He lowered his pack, and opened it to reveal sketch papers, oil paints, chalks and pieces of charcoal. The woman snatched the papers from his hand, ruffling through them, pausing to examine the depictions of things he encountered in his travels: landscapes, trees, flowers, birds, still life, a bar maiden, a young girl dancing, a woman hawking her wares at a village market. She seemed most intrigued, however, by a drawing of a doe sipping water from a pond, and eyed it at length, biting her thumb.

Then, suddenly, her head darted up. She tossed the papers aside, and Lyle scurried to pick them back up. “How old are you?” the woman asked, a new vibration in her voice.

“Twenty-two.”

There was a dark glimmer in the woman’s eyes. Her lips parted just barely, into the slightest of smiles, as she asked: “What star were you born under?”

“Zamirus,” Lyle said, feeling increasingly wary of the way she looked at him. “The Moth.”

The woman let out a funny sound – something between a chortle and a gasp. She jumped up and clapped her hands, biting her tongue between her teeth. Something about her smile seemed odd to Lyle, though he couldn’t place his fingers on what.

“The midwife was correct after all!” the woman cried out. “Just as I had begun to doubt her.” A flutter of wings filled the clearing, as scores of birds briefly erupted into the air, making Lyle cover his head, only for them to land once more, all at once, a few moments later.

Lyle’s unease was beginning to overcome his natural curiosity. Placing his hand on the hilt of his dagger, he asked: “If you’re not the Lady of the Forest, who are you? And where is the Lady? Is she even real, or just some fairy tale?”

“Real?” the woman said, with a strange blink. Lyle noted that her eyelids opened horizontally, rather than vertically, and felt his blood quicken. “Yes, yes, of course she’s real. But she has to be summoned. She hasn’t been here in quite a while. How long has it been? Centuries to be sure, by your count. For, perhaps even five of them… Could it really have been five hundred mortal years…?” her voice trailed off, and she turned her face in an almost despondent manner, that Lyle found oddly moving for a moment, before remembering the most pressing question.

“But who are you?!” he cried out, nearly shouting.

“QUIET!” the woman screamed as her head spun back to face him, and the air turned black. The birds let out shrill cries and a sharp freezing wind cut through the clearing, nearly making Lyle topple over, as he cowered under the weight of the horrid shriek. Her speech lowered in volume, but maintained an unnatural tone, as though she were speaking in two voices at once: “You will not raise your voice against me in this place – do you understand?”

Lyle swallowed, ashen-faced, and nodded slowly.

The woman exhaled. Gradually, the wind subsided, and the sky turned grey and dark red again, the last light of the sun bleeding into it. “I am the forest. And this is my home,” she said. “And you are welcome to draw that weapon you are holding, but it will not be of any use to you here.”

Lyle looked down at his hand, still clutching the hilt of his dagger. It felt lighter than usual. He drew it – only to find that the blade had wasted away into dust. What strange, sublime magic.

The woman sighed and smiled once again. “Good,” she said, her voice back to normal. “Now, undress.”

“What?” Lyle said, confused, letting the empty handle of his dagger drop into the snow.

“You want to meet the Lady of the Forest don’t you? Well she needs to be summoned. Undress so we may begin the ritual!”

Lyle hesitated. “I only wish to paint her,” he said, slowly.

The woman approached with slow, heavy strides “You can’t paint her if she isn’t here. And she will only come for the right person, at the right time. If you are who I believe you to be, you will have all that your songs promise: blessed beauty, and eternal youth, treasure, pleasure… And yes, you will get to paint her. But first, you need to undress.”

Lyle froze, looking into her eyes was like staring into a burning hearth visible between two thin slits. He hesitated. Was she really the forest? Or perhaps some kind of witch? He knew he should not so readily trust her. But had he really come all this way – three weeks of riding, against his father’s wishes, venturing into the furthest recesses of civilization, sleeping in ugly and abject inns in the most remote of villages – only to leave now?

He began to unfetter his cloak. He threw off his shoes, standing barefoot against the frozen ground, unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, before finally peeling off his undergarments too – standing starkly nude in the biting cold, with the woman staring at him with her finger on her chin, like a painter studying her model.

“Fascinating,” she said, circling around him, and pausing to lean down to look at his crotch, making him close his legs together in embarrassment. “How novel! And you’re sure you’re a man?”

“Clearly!” Lyle stammered, shuffling uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around his body to try to warm up, though he could not keep from shivering.

“And you were born a man?” she pressed, eyeing him uncertainly.

“Yes, of course!” Lyle said, jumping up and down to stay warm.

“I haven’t seen a nude male in quite some time…” she said, and pointed at his crotch, “but aren’t most men’s bigger?”

He reddened. “I don’t know… I suppose… But believe me, I’m a man!”

She shrugged. “If you insist. But this is all very novel, as I said. Anyways, lay down on the slab.”

Lyle turned to face the black stone. “You aren’t going to sacrifice me to some heretic god or something, are you?”

The woman let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Do you think forests often sacrifice human beings to strange deities?”

Lyle considered pointing out that forests don’t often speak, but was too cold to belabor the point, and so, hesitantly, lay his back down on the stone – which felt like a slab of ice.

The woman approached. She lay her palm flat on his left thigh. A warmth emanated from it, and radiated out to the rest of Lyle’s body, making him relax slightly, straightening his legs. “Now, what is your name?” she asked.

Lyle hesitated. Every holy book he ever read had told him to never reveal his given name to a stranger, lest he lose it and himself.

“Basil,” he answered.

A twitch formed in the corner of the woman’s mouth, and her palm pressed down against his thigh. Its warmth turned into a scalding heat, burning his skin, making Lyle cry out in pain. “Do I really need to point out that the ritual will not work if you are lying?” the woman asked, before loosening the pressure, and making the heat disappear.

He winced, panting as the pain subsided. He knew he should get up and go, run. But he felt a gnawing desire – not only to see the Lady of the Forest, but to find out just who or what this woman was… had anyone ever painted her? Perhaps he might. Finally, in a strained voice, he said: “My name is Lyle Avarim, son of Reithur Avarim, Count of Gathau.”

“Lyle is enough,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. “Though… rather a mismatch for your pretty eyes and plump red lips, isn’t it Lyle? If I ever meet your father I’ll give him quite an earful about that, Lyle.”

When she spoke his name for the third time, four pale hands erupted from the bushes surrounding the slab, and grabbed onto his four limbs, stretching them out, not enough to hurt, but enough to prevent him from thrashing around as he screamed out in terror.

“Quiet,” the woman said, and he stayed his tongue, though he still tried – and failed – to struggle against the gripping hands. The woman reached past his head, and picked out a particularly sharp thorn from one of the bushes from which sprouted the arms currently gripping Lyle.

“What is happening?” he whimpered. His body was shaking.

“Stay still,” she said, “And try to relax. Though this may hurt, I promise no harm will come upon you. This is all part of the summoning ritual.”

She pricked the forefinger of her right hand with the thorn and squeezed forth a drop of near-black blood. Then she moved to his thigh – where, he now saw, was a burn mark in the shape of her hand – and pricked it as well, drawing out his much lighter blood. It didn’t hurt much – his fear overwhelmed the pain, and his eyes watched her hands with rapt attention.

She tipped the thorn to and fro, letting the blood mix, and reached forth to grip his head with her left hand, pushing down on his forehead. As he felt every muscle in his body tighten, she began to drag the point of the thorn along his neck. It burned and made him groan in pain. It felt as though she was singing his skin with a scalding needle. It lasted for a dozen or so excruciating minutes, as she turned his head to work the side and back of his neck as well, in careful and deliberate pricks and etches. When she was finally done, she leaned down, and blew across his neck, a chilling sensation soothing the pain, though he could still feel an odd presence on his skin, almost like an engraving.

“Almost finished,” the woman said, and she leaned in. “Now, I need you to say, three times in a row: ‘The Lady of the Forest arrives’. Do that, and she will come.”

A single tear lay upon his cheek. Though hesitant, he felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, and began, his words trembling, his voice fractured. “The Lady of the Forest Arrives,” he whispered. “The Lady of the Forest Arrives. The Lady of the Forest Arrives.”

As he spoke, he could almost see the words leaving his lips, wafting into the air, and her fingers right above his mouth, weaving through the words, sculpting them in the air. She gathered each string of invisible speech up to her lips and blew on them, sending them up into the winds. Each time she did this, birds flew forth as well, in a different direction, in unnatural formations.

The woman clapped her hands and let out a prolonged moan. “Oh, darling, you have no idea how long I have longed to hear those words again,” she said. “Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting to hear them from someone such as yourself, but I suppose that there’s a first time for everything. Even a twelve-thousand-year-old tradition was bound to change at some point, no?”

The hands let go of his wrists and ankles, withdrawing into the bushes, and he got up slowly, shakily. In the distance the faintest sound of a gong being rung could be heard. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What happens now?”

“Visitors,” the woman said. “Come along.”

She started to move out of the clearing and back into the trees. He stumbled after her, still naked, but strangely, not nearly as cold. The snow didn’t even hurt to walk on anymore. He shot a glance towards his clothes and pack but left them behind as the woman disappeared into the forest and he rushed after her. There was still so much left unanswered.

“What are you? A spirit of some kind?” he asked, eyeing her fearfully as he caught up.

“Spirit, demon, god – all different words for the same thing really,” she said. “I told you already. I am the forest, take your pick which title you prefer.”

“That’s blasphemy,” he said. “The gods are three and three alone: life, law, and love.”

“Well, I grant eternal life, I mete out laws, and I am beloved. Sounds right to me.”

Her brazenness was shocking, but it also impressed him. He thought of Brother Lem, who instructed him in religious thought as a boy. Had he heard such a thing, his heart would have seized right then and there. Lyle remembered Brother Lem’s horror when he once caught Lyle reading a religious scroll which a foreign merchant had given as a gift to the castle library. Lyle was simply admiring the odd depictions of foreign gods and goddesses, drawn in a manner unlike any he had seen before, but Brother Lem called the scroll heretical and had it burned. Lyle wished he could see Brother Lem’s reaction to this creature.

“So then this visitor is the Lady of the Forest?” he asked.

The woman glanced back at him for a moment, furrowing her brows. “No, the visitors are coming to prepare the Lady of the Forest, for the Bonding.”

“Well, when does the Lady come?” he pressed, exasperated.

The woman stopped and turned around, all but lunging at him. “Are you really so ignorant? Do your songs really not tell you anything? No wonder I had to wait for so long.” He simply stared, unsure what to say, and she pushed forward to grab him by the throat, her hands running over the raised markings she had left upon his skin: a series of reddish-brown runes encircling the entirety of his neck. “You are the Lady of the Forest. Or at least, you will be.”

His eyes widened, dumbfounded. “That’s… not possible,” he said. “It makes no sense.”

She let go of his neck and kept walking. “And yet it is so. Come along, little lady.”

He hesitated, but seeing as the sun had all but sunk and the sky was quickly darkening, he hurried after her, afraid of being lost, and struggling to keep up with the long gait of her enormous legs.

“But the Lady is… There have been songs about her since time immemorial,” he said.

“Sometimes there is a Lady of the Forest, and sometimes there isn’t. She comes and she goes. It’s quite hard, to be honest. I’ve rather missed having a Lady around. I don’t know if she’s ever been away for so long.”

“But I’m a man!” he cried out.

The woman looked back with a wide grin: “That’s the odd thing, isn’t it? You seem to be, and yet you’re not! Well, not anymore, anyhow.”

He shook his head, scoffing nervously. “That’s not possible! You can’t change such a thing!”

The woman turned around again, her lips twisted between a grin and snarl: “What part of the Lady of the Forest don’t you understand? You – Lady. Me – Forest. Of…” She reached her hand forward from afar, snapped her fingers, and beckoned him forth with her forefinger. The tattoos around his neck began to warm and glow, and he felt his body stiffen, as it slid against the snow, dragging towards the woman in one slow but direct motion which he could not stop, until he was standing right in front of her.

She leaned down, kissed his forehead softly (her lips felt warm and damp), and snapped her fingers again, the runes around his neck cooling back down.

“You’re mine, or you will be very soon. I decide who you are and what you are. Do as you are told, and you will have all that you were promised: youth, beauty, and the chance to sit in front of the mirror and paint lovely little portraits of yourself whenever your heart desires!” She smiled, and after a pause, added: “Well, whenever you’re not busy with other things, that is.”

At that, her tongue darted briefly between her teeth, and Lyle finally realized what was odd about it: her tongue was split in two, like a serpent’s. A cold shudder ran down his back. None of this made any sense. This supposed forest was clearly mad. And yet, the life she described… It was hard not to pause and imagine it. Ever since Lyle came of age, his father made him spend increasingly longer hours in diplomatic meetings, attending dinner parties, court proceedings and budgetary discussions. When he tried to find time to paint, or simply take a stroll in the woods, his father scolded him for neglecting his duties, insisting it was time Lyle grew up. And now, Lyle wondered, whether it might be easier not to?

He opened his mouth, about to speak, when she pointed and cried out: “Ooh look! Our visitors have arrived!”

His gaze followed her pointing digits, to see scores of women, young and old and in-between, all shabbily dressed, standing just before them – and next to them, his horse. An elderly woman, dressed in a grey robe decorated with many different types of feathers, turned the horse around and slapped its rump as she shouted: “no males allowed in the grove, human, horse or otherwise!”

“Basil!” Lyle cried out as he saw the white stallion disappear between the trees in an awkward gallop.

The tall woman g at him. “Really? You used your horse’s name as your alias?” she asked with a mocking smile, before adding: “Girls and their horses, I suppose.”

Lyle blushed, but before he could think of a retort, the woman in the feathered dress rang a gong that deafened his ears. She cried out: “Lord of the Forest, we heed the call. We come to greet your Lady and prepare her for the Bonding. Your midwife stands at the ready!”

Lyle couldn’t help but notice she was shaking as she spoke. He also saw that none of the women were looking at them but rather staring blankly into the air. Lyle had almost forgotten he was naked until now, but realized, suddenly, that none of these women could see him.

“Loyal Eremethea, come, and bring your protégée. The time has finally come,” the tall woman called out, but the visitors on the other side seemed to not hear her. Rather, a rabbit darted out from behind Lyle, swooping through his legs, and out into the trees where the women knelt. They gasped when they saw the creature. The elderly woman leaned forward, watching it hop to and fro, and nodded.

“Nuri”, she called out, and a young woman, with a ruddy face and straw blonde hair stood up, nervously. The elderly woman grabbed her hand, and both moved forward. Eremethea pressed her palm against the invisible barrier, whispering a brief prayer, and pushed but a moment before slipping in and bringing Nuri tumbling in after her.

As soon as they entered, they saw Lyle – and froze. Nuri even cried out loud, covering her mouth in shock. Lyle’s cheeks turned red and covered his privates with his hands. Eremethea snapped out of her momentary surprise and turned her attention to the tall woman in the robe of chains.

“My Lord,” she cried out, a beatific smile upon her face as she knelt before her.

“Eremethea, my devoted servant.” The woman reached out with her hand, and the elderly woman kissed it, stroking the long fingers. Then she turned her head and tugged at the dress the younger woman – who quickly kneeled as well, bowing her head.

“I apologize for my niece,” Eremethea said. “She’s a bit in shock.”

The tall woman smiled with closed lips, handing her hand to the maiden, who kissed it as well, trembling visibly as she did so, and mumbling an apology.

“Greetings Nuri”, the tall woman spoke. “I hope you can serve me and tend upon my Lady as well as your aunt has served me for so many years. Your shock is understandable. I too was surprised, as you can imagine. She is not quite what Ladies of past have looked like. And yet… Twenty-two years of age, and born under the Moth… Just as you predicted, Eremethea. And what eyes… And what lips!”

Lyle touched his lips briefly. He didn’t speak, however. He listened instead, trying to find out all he could.

Eremethea spoke slowly, her lips trembling. “So, you are still pleased, my Lord? Despite the… strangeness… You will reward us?”

The woman laughed and nodded, “Of course, loyal Eremethea, your calculations were correct. Your people will not go hungry this year, I assure you. You have made your Lord very happy.” She pet the older woman’s head patronizingly, almost like one might a dog or a horse, making Lyle wince uncomfortably, especially as he saw how Eremethea kissed her hand over and over again, muttering endless sycophantic praise.

“I know how odd it is, but this one is it. I can feel it. Just as I had felt it with those who came before. Fate has brought her to me,” the tall woman said. “There are flaws, of course… But they all had their flaws, didn’t they? And if the Bonding goes well, such flaws can be fixed. If she proves to be the one I have waited for, you and your people will have wonderful bounties for many years and generations to come, Eremethea.” She moved away from the groveling woman, and towards Lyle, gripping the back of his neck and making him tense up, but applying no pressure.

Eremethea got up and signaled for Nuri to do the same. “I admit this is a rather different situation than those I have read of in the past,” she said. “But I am sure that after the Bonding your will shall be worked, and her form will turn a more pleasing one for you, your Lordship, in due time. And Nuri has already proven a wonderful student, albeit green. She even chose the dress herself. Show her, Nuri!”

The younger woman looked up at the two, nervously, before reaching under her cloak to bring out a bundle of fabric, which she untied and unfurled to reveal a long, blue velvet dress, with puffed up sleeves and a parting slit along the sides of the skirt, reaching nearly up to the waistline. Silver flowers were embroidered along the bodice and bust.

“It is beautiful, Nuri! Don’t you think so, darling?” the tall woman asked, stroking the back of Lyle’s neck, sending an oddly comforting tingle along his spine.

Lyle hesitated before answering: “Well, yes… Although, I mean, it is rather simple… And those sleeves haven’t really been in fashion since I was a child.”

Nuri and Eremethea shot each other a nervous glance. For a moment all was quiet, until a boisterous laughter erupted from the tall woman, so loud it made an icicle drop and shatter on the ground nearby.

“Oh! Oh my!” she cried out, clapping her hands. “So pampered and picky. I love it! Don’t take it to heart, my dears, she is an artist, a rather flighty sort. Did you know that Eremethea? Did you see it in the signs? And a countess too, just like Vetessa! No, wait, she was a duchess, wasn’t she? Oh, she had to have everything just so; and so much complaining... but those hips… They made it all worthwhile. Do you remember Vetessa, Eremethea? Do you remember her hips?”

Eremethea chuckled nervously: “Well, she stepped down 3,000 years before I was born, my Lord, so… no. But I know the chronicles as passed down to me by my mother. I know she was among your longest-serving Ladies. I will make sure to light a candle in her honor when I return.”

“I’m not a countess,” Lyle felt moved to interject. “My father is Count of Gathau, and I am his heir.”

“Oh, Eremethea, is a countess greater than a duchess? Does she rule over more people? So many different titles humans have, so hard to keep track!” the tall woman laughed.

“Uhm, no, your Lordship. A duchess is greater,” Eremethea answered, with an ever so slight smile.

“Ah, well. Hopefully my countess will best her in other ways. In any case, the dress will do. But be sure to find something more luxurious for my spoiled little noblewoman next time you come, yes? Travel the villages on the forest’s edge, gather a tax if need be.”

Nuri and Eremethea both bowed and nodded, but Lyle took a step forward and cried out: “No, really, that isn’t necessary!”

A strange silence fell. Eremethea and Nuri looked up at their Lord with nervous eyes. Lyle followed their gaze and saw the woman was staring at him with a tight-lipped expression that seemed like it could but hint at the full extent of the fury mounting within, making Lyle shrink back nervously.

“My Lord, if I may…” Eremethea moved forward, still bowing. “She knows not what she speaks. Please do not be angry, though you have every right to be. She will learn, I assure you. I will see to it, and Nuri as well. She is the one, you said so yourself. She will make you happy. Please…”

The woman exhaled slowly. The freezing air made her breath come out of her nose like fumes from a sleeping dragon. She nodded. “See to it, Eremethea. I have been merciful with you once before, as I am sure you remember; I will not forgive a second mistake. I have been alone for far, far too long. If this one doesn’t turn out to be the Lady I have been waiting for, you will be lucky if a quarter of your village last the next winter, understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Eremethea said, bowing her head solemnly. Behind her, Nuri was ashen-faced and trembling. Lyle watched the scene unfurl without a word. What had he done to upset the woman so, he wondered.

“Very well, prepare her. The Bonding will be held at midnight. I go to mediate upon a name,” the woman said, and disappeared among the trees.

Eremethea turned to Lyle with a grave look in her eyes and hissed: “she is your Lord, and you are her Lady! You grew up in court and you do not understand your role?! Never contradict the Lord’s commandments, certainly not before mortals!”

Lyle was stunned. After a moment, he approached. He was shaking, glancing nervously over his shoulder as he spoke in a hushed, desperate tone: “Are you really so blind? Can’t you see that I’m a man?”

“Your body is strange, true. Though the omens did hint of a woman of a different sort... and you were able to enter the grove, after all. And since you survived the marking” – Eremethea ran her fingers across the raised tattoos on Lyle’s neck – “there cannot be any doubt, you are the Lady. Or you will be. You must be. For years I searched for the right omens, the ones to reignite my Lord’s hope. It cannot all have been in vain. This prophecy must come to pass. Besides, the Lord chose you. She is master of this grove, and she decrees what is. I must make preparations for the Bonding, go with Nuri, she will get you ready.”

---

The spring proved warmer and more comforting than Lyle could have imagined. The sun had set, and the moonlight now danced along the surface of the dark water – but it remained warm, providing much needed succor not only to his muscles, but to his mind as well.

Nuri scrubbed his body with her hands and with a sponge, lathering him in soap and washing it off twice over, making his skin glisten and redden from the heat. She worked nervously, especially when she had to clean his crotch – though was unable to hide a blushing smile when she noticed the beginning of an erection in response to her touch, for which he apologized, blushing as well.

The waters appeared like a darkened silver mirror where still. As he looked at his reflection, he examined the symbols etched around his neck, and touched them, feeling the curvature of the individual etchings. “It’s permanent, isn’t it?” he asked.

Nuri lifted her eyes in surprise. “Of course,” she said, resuming her washing. “It marks you as of the Lord. From now to eternity, so the mark must last eternally.”

“Why do you keep calling her Lord?”

“That’s just how we refer to her in Amanou,” she shrugged. “In the southern reaches they call her the Forest King.”

Lyle scoffed. He felt as though he was sinking further and further into absurdity, as though language itself had turned inside out. “But she’s a woman!” he exclaimed. “A woman can’t be a lord, much less a king.”

“A woman is a human being. Our Lord is the forest itself. She is neither man nor woman. That is simply a form she assumes. I’ve never seen a man or a woman so tall in my life, have you? And she is the ruler here. Lords rule; Kings rule.”

She signaled for Lyle to get out of the spring, and he did so reluctantly, sad to leave the comforting warmth of the waters. This corner of the grove was even quieter than the rest of it. As Nuri dried him off with a soft towel, he asked: “So what does that make me, her Queen?”

“You’re not her wife!” Nuri giggled.

“Well, what am I then? What does she want of me?”

Nuri paused, considering the question carefully: “It is hard to put such things in mortal terms. My aunt always says the language we use is a mask for the forest’s true self. The Lady is not married to the forest – a forest cannot have a wife – she is of the forest, belonging to it. Sort of like the concubines in the stories about the old kingdom.”

Lyle winced visibly at the analogy. Nuri sat him down on a stone stool overlooking the spring, and knelt beside him, unfurling a tightly wound packet of brushes, powders, and pastes. “Hold still, my Lady,” she said, as she began to apply a heavy layer of pale foundation upon his face.

“I don’t understand why this is happening to me,” Lyle said, keeping his eyes closed as she proceeded to contour his face using a bronzing paste. “All I wanted to do was paint a portrait.”

“It is a blessing. It’s natural to be nervous. I’m nervous too… My aunt always told me the Lady would come in my lifetime, and that I would spend my entire life waiting upon her. But I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I’m not sure I ever truly believed it would happen – but don’t tell her I said that,” she smiled. Lyle forced a smile back. He found her crooked teeth charming. “In any case, there’s no reason to speak in such despair. You will have eternal youth, and beauty, and spend your life serving the Lord of the Forest – it is a wondrous thing.”

Lyle eyed her in surprise, while she began to pinch his cheeks to add color to them. He tried to mask his pain. “Well, then perhaps you can take my place?” he asked.

Nuri was taken aback, and quickly shook her head. “I wasn’t chosen – you were. I’m to be your handmaiden. I’m not nearly pretty enough to be the Lady!”

“And I’m pretty enough?! I’m a man!” Lyle cried out. His voice rang through the forest, and a few birds fluttered away. Nuri looked around nervously.

“You really shouldn’t say such things,” she said. “You cannot be a man. No men are allowed in the Sacred Grove, and the Lord of the Forest detests lies. Nature is honest, and so must we all be. Besides… she hears and sees all.” She pointed at the birds watching them, at the trees bent towards them, at individual leaves curled like tiny ears. Lyle felt a knot form in his stomach. Since entering the grove, he could not shake the feeling of being watched, and now he knew the reason why. How long had she been stalking him? Since the moment he set foot in the First Forest?

“In any case, you are beautiful,” Nuri said. “You must be, if the Lord chose you. And you have gorgeous eyes – the Lord loves green eyes; all her Ladies have them. That’s what my aunt says, at least. We’ll make sure to emphasize yours.”

She brought out a thinner brush and began to decorate Lyle’s eyelids and paint his lashes. Lyle struggled to keep his face still as she worked. “So, everyone who was offered this… blessing… They all accept it gladly?” he asked.

“Well… Not all,” Nuri said, and as she moved to paint Lyle’s nails and toenails turquoise, she described how in the first days of humanity, the Lord is said to have ridden through towns and villages astride a great black stag at midnight – and snatched up her chosen Lady, riding off into the darkness with her prey. The people feared her, retreating from the forest and hiding away at night. But when brave knights came to rescue damsels in distress, they found a Lady comfortable and delighted in her supposed captivity, and refusing to leave. Most knights did not make it back.

In later years, those living nearest to the First Forest learned to appreciate their Lord. When the Lord had a Lady at her side, fruit was easier to come by, and deer easier to hunt; children didn’t disappear when playing among the trees, and women were more fertile. When a Lady stepped down, and the Lord left alone, winters dragged on, and food was scarce. And so spread the songs, like whispered invitations, summoning forth the most beautiful of women to serve the forest; and sometimes, greedy and lustful men, seeking to take the forest’s property for themselves.

But people spoke of at least one who struggled against the yoke. Different places have different stories about what happened to her. In the darkest versions, the Lord bound her to the tallest of trees, and let crows peck out her eyes, leaving her there until she starved. In another, the Lord made the woman’s sister her Lady instead, and cursed the one who refused her to a lifetime of solitude. To make matters worse, she was forced to come the grove once a year to visit her sister – and wash her feet; to see the Lady stay young and beautiful and happy in service to the Lord, while the woman grew old and bitter, alone.

“But my favorite version is the one I heard in the southern reaches,” Nuri said, leaning in close. “There, they say the Forest King accepted the woman’s refusal, and did not even take back the gifts bestowed upon her. She was allowed to stay forever young, and made more beautiful than she could ever have hoped, but the King vowed to never lay a hand upon her flesh. She was made into a sculpture, to overlook the Sacred Grove, and see how lonely the Forest King was without her, and how happy the King became when a new lady entered the grove. She will spend eternity seeing all that she had could have had and chose not to.”

A quiet fell between them, and Nuri smiled and said: “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“In a way…” Lyle said. He wasn’t sure if the girl was stupid, or rather wise, in her own, simple manner. If there was beauty to the tale, he was in no condition to see it. He felt nauseous. He had read all he could find about the Lady of the Forest in the libraries of his father’s castle and had come across many tales about the First Forest, about it being alive, and alien, and dangerous. But he had never connected between the two legends. He was so entranced by the songs celebrating the wondrous beauty of the Lady, and the images they conjured, that he had not seen the forest for the trees, so to speak.

“Now your lips, face towards me,” Nuri said.

Lyle was so absorbed in the stories he forgot about the cosmetics. Nuri leaned in to paint his lips a matte, sapphire blue, complementing the dark shades of blue and purple she used for the eyeshadow and mascara, and the lighter shades of his nails.

Then they heard a rustling from the trees, and Eremethea emerged. She shook her head as she saw the two: “She’s still naked? Nuri, it’s nearly midnight. Hurry up!”

Nuri apologized and brought forth the garments. She slid up a pair of white panties around Lyle’s legs. He didn’t resist, though he looked away in embarrassment, especially when Nuri reached forth to tuck his penis back between his thighs so the panties would fit more snugly. He heard her giggle as she felt it stiffen in her hands, and blushed.

“Nuri!” Eremethea scolded her. She came forward and whispered, too low for Lyle to hear: “The Lady is the property of the Lord, and you serve at the Lord’s behest. The Lady is your ward, not your mistress and certainly not your friend. Understood? Besides, believe me, when you lay with a man for the first time you will think back to the moment you were excited by that thing and be embarrassed.”

Nuri straightened her face, her cheeks still red, and nodded gravely. She lifted the panties up until they clung tightly to Lyle’s hips, and dressed him in a matching, small white bralette, though it had nothing to hold – a fact Lyle did not bother to point out. Finally, Nuri and Eremethea helped their “Lady” into the long blue dress, which fit surprisingly well, requiring only slight adjustments, and put on her shoes for her: flat, white ballerina shoes, decorated with little blue ribbons.

Nuri pulled Lyle towards the spring and pointed at her reflection in the waters: “See,” Nuri said, “beautiful. And your beauty will only grow.”

Lyle looked upon the moonlit reflection, where he saw a flat-chested girl clad in a long blue dress, the short brown curls upon her head framing a wonderfully painted face. He almost struggled to believe it was him. This all seemed so unreal. For a moment, Lyle wondered if by diving into the spring head-first he might awake back in the warmth of his castle bed, far from here – back as himself.

“Come quick!” Eremethea hissed, forcing Lyle out of his brief reverie. He followed the old woman, while Nuri stayed at his rear, holding the train of his dress so it wouldn’t drag through the dirt.

They arrived at the edge of the grove, where the other visitors still sat on the other side, lounging upon piles of leaves, knolls of grass and toppled logs. Eremethea turned to Lyle, and said: “Open your mouth, my Lady.”

“Wh--- hrk!” No sooner had his lips parted to speak, then a canteen was thrust between them, and an unknown, bitter spirit was poured down his throat. He coughed, but swallowed, until Eremethea pulled the canteen, and wiped the dribbling grey liquid from his chin. Lyle could almost immediately feel its effects, his head becoming heavy.

Eremethea turned to the border, where the air was still, and placing her palm forth, she whispered: “Lord of the Forest, grant your Lady but this one venture out, so your followers may witness the Bonding; so that we may celebrate her anointment – and your happiness. I vow to bring her back, never to leave your grove again.”

There was a shimmer in the air, and Eremethea walked through, with Nuri pulling Lyle after her. Lyle felt no pressure this time when walking through the invisible fence.

As soon as they were on the other side, the snow and frost disappeared, and the trees were once again full of green, and the air warm and humid. All the women got up, staring at Lyle.

“Why’s her hair so short?” a girl asked, “is she from Torin? I heard women keep their hair short there.” Another woman, perhaps her mother, shushed her.

Eremethea guided Lyle to a spot between two spindly, silver-barked ossiac trees, and told him to kneel. He looked at her, hesitantly, and then slowly did as she said. The elderly woman bent down next to him and began sprinkling what appeared to be a pink mountain salt in a circle around him. While she did so, Nuri bent down behind Lyle and whispered in his ears.

“The Bonding is of utmost importance. It is the people’s chance to see you become the Lady of the Forest. They will remember this moment and sing of it for ages to come. When the time comes, you must speak the vows exactly as Eremethea says them, word for word, and nothing else. Then you must kiss your Master six times.”

“Seven times!” hissed Eremethea under her breath.

Nuri winced: “That’s what I meant. Seven times. Only then may your Lord anoint you, and you will be known as the Lady of the Forest forever more.”

Eremethea took Lyle’s left hand in hers, and Nuri took the right. Then, suddenly, they stretched out his arms, and brought out a thick vine to tie his wrists to the trunks of the ossiac trees. Lyle gasped and tried to get up.

“No! Stay still!” Eremethea cried out. “Don’t disrupt the circle!” The crowd murmured with worry.

“Why do I have to be tied up?” Lyle asked in a worried whisper.

“The Lord commands it,” Nuri said, her tone apologetic, though she knew better than to apologize for obeying a commandment. “She said that your… unique nature makes you prone to confusion, and she wants to protect you from any rash decisions that may disrupt the Bonding.”

Lyle’s lips trembled, his eyes danced upon the heads watching him in the crowd, before looking back at Nuri, whose expression seemed to him to betray a degree of sympathy. She touched his shoulders, and leaned in to whisper: “Please, my Lady. If you do not take your rightful place, the forest will go back to being lonesome and unhappy. Many will starve, and you will have given up on a chance to serve a higher purpose – the forest itself. Accept your choosing, and you will realize it was a gift. The Lady of the Forest is ever happy in her lot. It is a strange life, but a wondrous one.”

Staring into the desperate eyes of the maiden, Lyle felt pressed to reassure her, and so, after a long pause, he nodded. What could he say? If they were correct, and his refusal would lead to even a single person starving, how could he live with himself? Besides, the horror stories Nuri told him of what happened to the one woman who dared scorn the Lord still rang in his ears.

A loud, raucous gong was heard from behind. Eremethea struck it again and again, seven times in total. The vibrations from the plate so close to his body paired with the strange drink he was fed to make Lyle’s head spin.

And then she appeared, emerging from the shadows of the trees, as though she were standing there the whole time, shade by shade gathering to form her sublime, towering figure, to the audible gasps and murmurs of the women, who all bowed their heads down against the earth. She was no longer dressed in the chain gown Lyle had seen before, but rather wore a sleeveless robe made of the vibrant green leaves of spring, sewn together by invisible thread. Her hair was tied back in a single, long braid, and upon her head lay a wooden circlet decorated with engraved pomegranates. Her arms, though lean, were sinewy and powerful, and slightly too long in proportion to the rest of her body. She approached Lyle, her narrow eyes aflame, a smile drawing wide: “How lovely she looks! You have taught your niece well, Midwife.”

Eremethea bowed her head, and Nuri mumbled a thanks before kneeling down just behind Lyle’s shoulder.

The Lord reached out to move a few strands of hair back from Lyle’s forehead. He looked up at her. The drink coursing through his veins made the treeline seem to swirl around the woman’s crown, and she seemed, somehow, even taller, looming over him like a great tree, her head shimmering in the moonlight.

Eremethea gathered her breath and spoke: “We have come to witness the Bonding, between the Lord of the Forest and her Lady. A happy forest is a happy winter.”

“A happy forest is a happy winter,” the crowd of women all replied, more-or-less in unison. The Lord closed her eyes, as though listening to a particularly pleasant piece of music. Lyle couldn’t help but remember the throngs of peasants who gathered every new year in the great chapel of Gathau, and their ecstatic cries whenever the cleric sang. Brother Lem would even cry. As a child, the tumult frightened Lyle, and he begged his father not to make him sit at the front, where the shouting was loudest – but his father said that as the son of the count he had a responsibility to be at the front, to lead his people in their sacred duties, and not just their earthly ones.

“My Lady,” Eremethea said, turning to Lyle, “repeat after me: I vow to serve the forest.”

Lyle swallowed, his matte blue lips trembling. Eremethea sucked in her lower lip, and nodded anxiously, urging him on. Finally, Lyle spoke in a fragile voice: “I vow to serve the forest.”

Eremethea continued: “The Lord of the Forest is my Master, and her Sacred Grove my home.”

“The Lord of the Forest is my Master, and her Sacred Grove my home.”

“I give up my name, my body, my soul – to become her Lady.”

Lyle paused again, his eyes widening. He glanced from Eremethea, who chewed her lip impatiently, to the Lord, towering above, smiling still. He felt as though he could hear Nuri’s nervous breathing behind him, though perhaps it was his own breaths he was hearing, as he forced the words out: “I give up my name, my body, my soul – to become her Lady.”

Eremethea nodded: “Now look upon the Lord; say: ‘I am yours, Master, for as long as the forest stands’ – and bestow the first kiss.”

Lyle raised his eyes back up. He took a deep breath and said: “I am yours, Master, for as long as the forest stands…” He waited, expectantly, but the Lord did not bend towards him.

“Bestow the first kiss…” Eremethea all but hissed. Lyle glanced at her in confusion, and then at the Lord, whose smile was beginning to fade.

Nuri crept forward, leaning in and whispering just loudly enough for Lyle to hear her. “Her crotch… Kiss her crotch!” Lyle blushed, and began to turn his head, but felt Nuri tug on his dress. “Don’t look away from your Master! Just kiss, don’t think about it too much! The rite is nearly done.”

Lyle closed his eyes. He had kissed women before – but never laid with one. And certainly, never kissed them like this. Still, he leaned forward, planting his lips against the Lord’s groin, through the covering of the leaf gown. He opened his eyes as he felt a surprising firmness behind the leaves, and an odd twitch, making him move back in confusion.

“Now it is the Lord’s turn,” Eremethea said in a breathless voice, smiling that same beatific smile with which she first greeted the tall woman.

The Lord of the Forest reached up and began to unfasten her robe, gradually exposing a pair of small but firm, round breasts, and then, a flat, toned stomach – which, Lyle noted, had no navel. “I promise to guide you and to sculpt you into a beauty beyond compare,” she said, parting the final section of the robe – and making Lyle, Nuri and several of the women in the crowd gasp.

Between the Lord’s legs hung a thick, oversized, semi-stiff cock. It was almond brown, a bit lighter than the rest of her body, and extended out to a length greater than Lyle’s forearm. The base was crowned by a wreath of dark curled hairs, like gnarled roots, and on the other end, the head just barely peeked out from its hood. Hanging behind the member, was a weighty sack, that proved just as shocking in size, enwreathed in short hairs and housing a pair of unnaturally hefty orbs, straining against their fleshy covering.

Lyle could hardly believe his eyes. He had seen naked men now and again, when bathing, but he had never known any to have a member nearly so large. And this was a woman! Lyle had never seen a naked woman before, but he knew well-enough that this was not what he was meant to expect from one.

“Bestow the second kiss,” said Eremethea.

Lyle’s eyes shot in shock towards the elderly woman, who eyed him coolly. She seemed the only one unsurprised by the Lord’s revelation. Lyle tried to shuffle back, but felt a sharp pain in his shoulders, reminding him of the bonds on his arms, locking him in place.

The Lord took a step forward, her crotch less than a foot away from him now. Her aroma was palpable, and heady: a mixture of pine and petrichor, under a layer of damp sweat. The Lord reached her hand down and tapped the center of her trunk, just between the base and the head. “Bestow your kiss, darling,” she whispered, her narrow eyes blazing.

Lyle felt weak. If he were not already kneeling, he would have had to sit down. He could feel all eyes upon him – or else, upon the member hanging inches from his face. He tried his best not to look at any of them. Eventually though, he leaned forward reluctantly, extending as far as the bonds would allow. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, not until the very moment his lips planted against the flesh, in a soft, nervous kiss. The shaft weighed heavy against his mouth, and the alien medley of scents was stronger now, impossible to ignore. When he pulled back after a few seconds, the cock throbbed visibly, and Lyle realized it was stiffening even more – and still growing. What Lyle was more perturbed by, however, was a faint blue imprint that was left upon the brown skin, in the exact shape of his lips, reminding him of what he just did.

The Lord closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly, before speaking again: “I promise you shall never age inside my grove. Not in a year, not in ten, not in a thousand. You shall live forever and forever be young.”

“Bestow the third kiss,” said Eremethea.

Lyle was trembling. He made the mistake of glancing around and saw all the women watching him with intent, gathered much closer than before, squeezing against one another to get a good view, biting their lips in a mixture of curiosity and lust. The Lord took another step forward, and pointed once more – this time, to the base of her shaft.

Lyle winced, but didn’t hesitate for as long, leaning in once more. This time, when his puckered lips pressed against the member (it was harder this close to the base, he noticed), the Lord pressed forward as well, and his nose was pushed into the copse of damp, curled hairs. The scent here was deeper: musky but with an oddly floral aroma, not unlike that which he smelled upon first entering the grove. He closed his eyes, thinking of eternal youth; of blessed beauty. And then drew back quickly, almost having to cough from how powerful the scent was. But the kiss was long enough to leave another undeniable imprint of his lipstick.

“I promise you shall learn to find happiness in granting me happiness,” said the Lord, in a heavier voice, and took another step forward.

“Bestow the fourth kiss,” said Eremethea.

The Lord lifted her cock up with her left hand and used her right to point at the center of the shaft’s underside, sliding her finger along a particularly thick vein.

Lyle felt dizzy. He felt a need to turn and look into Nuri’s kindly eyes for support. But he knew he could not, and fought to overcome it – keeping his eyes forward instead, fixed on that member, closing them only as he moved forward. Maybe the Lord and Nuri were right, Lyle thought, maybe this way happiness lies. The underside proved damper than the top. It was slick with sweat, and left a tangy flavor on Lyle’s lips – which left another mark upon it.

The Lord took another step forward, briefly sliding her cock along Lyle’s face, smearing a tiny bit of sweat over the bridge of his nose, but careful not to smudge the lipstick staining her shaft. “I promise you shall want for nothing while in my care,” she said. “You shall have all a Lady of the Forest needs.”

“Bestow the fifth and sixth kisses,” said Eremethea.

The Lord kept holding her shaft up, and this time her fingers pointed below – to the sack, tapping each orb in turn.

Lyle suppressed a gasp. He blinked, staring in disbelief. His mouth parted, nearly speaking in response, but soon thought better of it (to the relief of Eremethea and Nuri, who watched him closely). This seemed… Worse somehow – base and vulgar. A woman kissing a man’s balls – or rather a woman’s balls… a forest’s… what have you – it was something he had not even thought to fantasize ever being done to him.

The Lord tapped the sack again, a bit harder, with an audible plap on each of those weighty nuts. Each one seemed about the size of an apple! And yet… He had come this far. Would it really be so bad? he wondered. He first approached the lower-hanging orb on the left, his lips nervously pressing against the fuzzy, wrinkled, folds of skin, able to sense the weight within. He tried not to think of what he was doing, and instead of what he was being offered. A life of frivolity… Of freedom… No meetings, no budgets, no chapel prayer… He drew back, and moved to kiss the right side of that sack. As he did so, the Lord let go of her shaft and it landed on the top of Lyle’s head with a light thud – just enough to make him feel the weight of it. He winced at the feeling, his kiss muffling a humiliated groan, before he separated from her balls, slipping his head down from under the cock – and realizing it was now fully erect, standing straight, the hood drawn back to reveal the bulbous head, more reddish in color than the rest of it. It was so close to his face – and he couldn’t move away. The blue lipstick stains were everywhere now: the entire cock, and each of those round orbs, were covered in the damp proof that Lyle’s fate was being sealed.

Eremethea inhaled sharply. Judging by the voice she sounded almost as tense as Lyle: “The Lord will now grant the Lady her name, never to be spoken outside of the sanctuary of the Grove.”

The Lord gripped Lyle’s shoulder, pushing forward so the lipstick-dappled member pressed against his cheek as she bent down, until her lips hung right by his ear, so he could even hear the sound of her tongue tapping her teeth. She spoke excruciatingly slowly, in a whisper so faint it sounded like a near-forgotten memory come to life – heard not without, but within: “You are Aveline, Lady of the Forest.”

Eremethea called out with near ecstasy: “Now, Lady, speak your name back to your Master, so that only she may hear!”

The Lord didn’t move an inch. Lyle swallowed, his body felt so heavy, and yet his spirit so light. He whispered, as quietly as he could muster: “I am Aveline…. Lady of the Forest.”

A powerful breeze buffeted through the woods, causing a few women to gasp as they grabbed onto the trees so as not to fall, and lifting up the hem of the blue dress, briefly exposing the panty-clad rear to those looking in the right direction – making Nuri cry out and lunge forward to grab at the garment, pinning the hem down. Something rang in the head. And the syllables rolled against the tongue like honeyed wine – A-ve-line. The name was so strange and yet felt so natural. A-ve-line. The tongue licked the blue lips, tasting the Lord’s sweat mixed with the name. A-ve-line.

“Good girl…” the Lord said, standing back up. She didn’t bother whispering now – she spoke loudly enough so all could hear, making Aveline blush beet red. “Almost done now.”

“Bestow the final kiss upon your Lord’s crown,” said Eremethea. “And be anointed.”

The Lord smiled. Her cock fully erect, the head was only an inch from Aveline’s face now, and it came as no surprise when she pointed at the tip, where a single off-white bead hung.

Aveline’s lips puckered, and he leaned forward trembling, but felt the Lord’s hand grab his hair and tug back on it softly, stopping him in his tracks. “Mouth open,” the Lord said, “and eyes up here.”

Aveline slowly lifted his gaze. The Lord’s white teeth seemed to glimmer in the dark, in a wide grin. Aveline swallowed. What point would there be in going back now, after all that had passed? He parted his lips, inching closer, until he felt his mouth meet the tip. The sticky droplet on the end smeared against his upper lip, and the head pushed in. It was larger than he had expected, and he had to open his mouth wider to let it enter, as the Lord moaned at length. “Use your tongue,” she exhaled, “like a proper kiss, and keep looking at me.”

Aveline felt tears forming in the corner of his eyes, but pushed his tongue up against that bulbous head – which still was only about half-way into his mouth. He gently licked around its curvature, tasting the salty, tangy outer layer of sweat.

The kiss lasted exactly one minute. The Lord reached down and stroked her long fingers through Aveline’s hair, while Aveline softly swirled his tongue around the head, unceasingly. He kept his eyes fixed on the Lord, but could hear the sound of the younger women whispering and giggling.

Finally, the Lord drew back, the head escaping Aveline’s lips – but still pointed at the Lady. The Lord reached down with her right hand, and began to stroke the shaft, her fingers running the entirety of it, from tip to base and back again, squeezing a bit every time they reached the head, pushing the hood up and down over it, her thumb caressing the blue stamp left on the tip by Aveline’s lips.

“So long I have waited,” the Lord said, in between pants, stroking faster, the timbre of her voice deepening and gradually building in volume. Aveline stared, knowing what was coming, and yet keeping perfectly still. “So much seed laid to waste. So many false hopes of false women. So many winters spent alone. And, finally you have come. Be anointed; be mine, Lady of the Forest!”

She cried out, and a moment after, Aveline did too, as a spurt of thick, warm seed erupted onto her face. No sooner had it struck her cheek, than there came another. And after it, another. Near-white streaks landed across Aveline’s lips, hair, chin, forehead, nose – not four or five, but closer to two dozen. Aveline couldn’t keep count even if she tried – and she very much preferred not to. After nearly two minutes, the Lord let out a final sigh, and let go of her shaft, letting it throb in the air as it slowly descended.

Aveline blinked, tearing away a film of sticky, surprisingly opaque seed which had landed on her left eye. She felt a warm glow on her neck, and looking forward, Aveline noticed for the first time the tattooed runes around the Lord’s right thigh, very similar to those around her neck. And they too glowed.

She wasn’t quite sure when it happened, but in place of the tattoo was now a golden circlet around that dark thigh. And from it extended a chain. It wasn’t until the Lord began to move that Aveline realized the chain was attached to a matching circlet around her neck – a collar.

The chain was barely three feet long. After the Lord took but a single step, it became taut, and Aveline gasped as she felt the tug on her neck, her body stretched out painfully, the bonds around her wrists holding her back. Eremethea, trembling visibly with excitement, quickly drew out her dagger and cut the vines, freeing Aveline – or rather, allowing her to topple forward on all fours, to be dragged along by the Lord.

Aveline heard the gong ring out behind her one last time, and Eremethea call out: “The Bonding is complete… The Lady of the Forest has arrived! May she keep our Lord happy!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. They thronged around the pair, forming two columns for the Lord to walk through, with Aveline crawling behind her on her hands and knees, unable to stay more than two steps behind due to the length of the chain.

The women showered them with rice and flower petals. Several of them leaned in and, through tearful smiles, spoke to the Lady, but Aveline heard not what they said. The sky and the earth both spun and the lines of seed festooned upon her face dribbled down still, past her chin, along her neck, under her dress. She struggled not to cry.

They went all the way to the end of the columns, and then turned around and walked the same route, the women still cheering, some crying from excitement – or relief. The Lord never spoke, nor did she bother closing her robe, allowing her breasts and manhood both to hang free in the warm night-summer air. Until finally, she proceeded back through the barrier, dragging Aveline with her, and Nuri and Eremethea at their tail. Aveline sank through with incredible ease, like a fish being cast back into the water.

Once in the grove, greeted by the now familiar hoarfrost, which fractured under her hands and knees, Aveline felt weirdly relieved. She knew that at least now the barrier hid her from the crowd, and their cheers were slightly muted.

She felt a hand upon her head and looked up to see the Lord of the Forest leaning down and petting her hair. “You did very well, Aveline, better than I expected.”

Nuri perked up: “Aveline? What a beautiful name!”

“Never to be spoken by you outside of this grove,” hissed Eremethea, “except to your future daughter, when you teach her the duties of a midwife. Names have power – most certainly the name of our Lord’s most cherished possession.”

Aveline said nothing. She merely stared at the ground before her. She could still feel the seed oozing down her hair and body. Even when the Lord unhooked the chain from her thigh and somehow added six more feet to its length with a snap of her fingers, Aveline stayed put. She felt numb and wanted desperately to wash, and above all, to sleep and forget.

“Nuri,” The Lord called out. The maiden leapt up, surprised, and approached nervously. “Lady Aveline must be tired from the Bonding, let her rest. Your aunt and I have much to discuss.”

The Lord handed her the end of the chain, and Nuri bowed. Very gently, she tugged at the leash, making Aveline raise her gaze.

“You may stand up now, Aveline,” the Lord said. “Follow your handmaiden. I will see you tomorrow.”

Slowly, the Lady got up on her feet, though her knees were weak. She wiped the dirt and snow from her hands on the skirt of her dress, and followed Nuri deeper into the grove, leaving the Lord and Eremethea to speak behind them in hushed voices.

“Thank you, my Lady. You will make the Lord very happy, I know,” Nuri said, after a long time of walking in silence. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Aveline winced at the question, and did not respond. Instead, she asked: “Can we go to the spring so that I may clean my face?”

“Not now. You were anointed. You must let the blessing dry and seep in. I will come tomorrow morning and can wash you then.”

Suddenly, Aveline realized they were back in the clearing where the stone slab was, except now it was covered in a bed of white flowers.

“What are we doing here?” Aveline asked, searching around the clearing anxiously.

“The Lord said you are tired. This is your bedchamber, is it not?” Nuri asked.

Aveline indeed felt tired. Exhausted even. Nuri handed her the other end of the leash, and Aveline approached the “bed”, though paused as she remembered the last time she lay upon it, and eyed the four bushes at the corners nervously. When she noticed the birds on the branches watching them, however, she mounted the stone slab and lay down upon the flowers with her face up. No sooner had she done so than she noticed something change in the air. It became warm and humid all at once, and the night seemed oddly dulled in tone.

Glancing to her side, she saw Nuri running towards her, seemingly distraught, though her footsteps were eerily silent. The handmaiden reached forward with her hand, Aveline realized what had changed: a solid but transparent glass case now surrounded the bed, trapping her within like a moth in a belljar, and Nuri’s palm pressed against the pane from the other side.

Aveline’s head shot up – bumping against the glass and making her cry out in pain. Even Nuri winced.

“I cannot move it, my Lady! It is the Lord’s magic!” Nuri shouted – though her voice was so muted through the thick glass that Aveline heard it as normal speech. “I will come back in the morning. Try to sleep! All will be well!”

The girl moved back slowly. She paused to wave. Aveline did not wave back. Nuri turned, and disappeared amongst the trees, leaving Aveline alone inside her glass-covered bed.

She tried to ignore the claustrophobic dread brought on by the solid encasement around her; tried to ignore the golden chain coiled around her like a snake; tried to ignore the memory of the leering faces of the women in the crowd; tried to ignore the nagging thoughts of what her friends and family would think if they had seen how she’s dressed, and what she did; tried to ignore the images of her lips imprinted on that cock, still emblazoned in her eyes; tried to ignore the sticky glaze still covering her face, and the salty flavor still weighing upon her tongue. Instead, she focused her gaze on the trees looming up around the clearing, framing her view, and breathed in and out, trying to relax.

It was then she noticed something strange. In one of the trees – growing very close to the bed – she could see a distinct figure carved into the wood: a nude woman, with round hips and a generous pair of breasts protruding out lewdly, framed by long tresses of hair winding all the way down the engraved figure’s body. From the sculpture’s eyes there ran down sap, like tears, streaking her intricately carved, wooden face.

Aveline felt her stomach twist and she clutched the chain, her hands pressing down on the links until her palms hurt. She shut her eyes so as not to look upon the figure, and tried to force herself asleep, even as tears ran down her cheeks, mixing with the drying cum.

And as Aveline slipped into a torrid night’s sleep, elsewhere in the grove, something had changed. In a spot at its very center, unseen by all, nestled between a few trees growing closely together, the frost had begun to melt. And for the first time in a very long time, a red flower began to bloom.

[To be continued in Chapter II: Sowing the Seed]