The Indigo Dreamer

Vincent bolted through the darkness. His flashlight thrashed between thorns and trees feet ahead, scant time to duck and weave. Bony branches — nature’s blades — snapped against his chest, whipped his arms, scraped his face. His heartbeat deafened all but the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.

Vincent ran. And he kept running. Even when a jagged branch sliced the side of his neck, tore through his bag, he didn’t dare stop. His body burned and his arms stung from hundreds of cuts, but everything begged him not to stop.

He was not alone.

That one thought rebounded through his head. It tossed aside pain, direction, exhaustion, even coherence of the hazards battering his aching body. That thought was his sole reason to keep running. If he stopped or tripped or struck a tree, he would die.

Seconds, minutes, hours — time blended together as Vincent’s body spewed adrenaline. He just kept running. He didn’t have time to look behind; spotting and dodging obstacles happened in reflex, like his brain and body had disconnected. Like he was an observer to the final moments of his existence.

At some point in that endless mire of terror, his eyes noticed the sudden lack of trees, of dangers to avoid, yet his mind didn’t stop screaming at him to run. It cared not for the forest’s sudden disappearance. His body wavered, knowing the scenery was wrong, but his brain refused to listen. Vincent would not be torn from his trance.

Not until his flashlight lit an abnormality his eyes couldn’t comprehend. A barrier his body stood no hope of escaping.

A wall.

Vincent twisted his heels into the soil, trying to stop. He barely shielded his face before he slammed into solid wood.

His senses returned when he needed them least — as a crumpled sprawl of limbs writhing in the dirt. Blood dribbled between his lips, spreading iron over his tongue. Silence returned to the forefront of noise, an eeriness that had dwelled since the sun died. Then came that freakish heat. His body had shivered to it for hours, and now rivulets of sweat poured over his chin, stinging his scratched neck.

After many a moment of huffing and wheezing in the murk, he crawled to his flashlight. As weak as it was, that orange glare was his only weapon against a forest filled with nothing but darkness. He staggered to his knees, then his feet. He held his flashlight towards the wall, though his arms — weak like twigs — trembled as much as his legs.

The light jerked across horizontal boards of wood, which stretched onwards into the darkness. More objects — familiar objects — revealed themselves, though he struggled to assign terms to them. The reflective glare of glass. Sloped logs of wood laid above.

His brain finally returned. He smacked his tongue over his cracked lips, mouthing the words over and over. Only after a cough did they leave his throat.

“A cabin.”

Just a wooden cabin, lost in the woods with him. Possibilities flashed through his mind — shelter, a phone line, someone to help. Good things.

They always started as good things.

Vincent stumbled against the wall, searching for an entrance. He rounded a corner and neared a window. He lifted his flashlight to peer inside, but the glare brandished only his watery eyes and a bloodied, dirt-smeared face.

Vincent kept moving, and his light soon rolled over a darker shade of wood. The lack of a handle made him ignore it, but the sharp glint of hinges along its edge made him stop.

A door.

Vincent readied himself to push it open, but then the rational side of his brain — his inner fatalist — reared its ugly head. This could be someone’s home. What if they were here, asleep? The last thing he wanted after everything else was twelve balls of buckshot tearing apart his chest.

But out in the open, something was following him. Though he had run as fast as his shaking legs allowed, he carried a beacon, his flashlight, a glowing arrow pointed right at his neck.

Was he being followed?

Or was his paranoid mind hard at work, heaping stupidity on top of fear until his brain mulched them together? Noises happen in the woods. What shouldn’t happen is a grown man darting into the darkness at the mere crack of a twig. The countless grazes across his face and arms were well-deserved, a painful reminder of his delusion. Of what he hoped was a delusion.

But Vincent couldn’t take that chance. He needed shelter. He needed to make his presence known. Cutting the silence, knowing this hypothetical something or another could be listening, made his stomach churn, but barging into a random cabin was a poorer decision than breaking from the trail all those hours back. Of that, he was certain.

Vincent clenched his hand, his fingers slipping as semi-congealed blood squished between them. He took a deep breath. And swung.

“Hello? Is anyone—”

On the second bang of his fist, the door rattled inwards. The pitch-black entrance groaned wider. With a dreadfully loud thud, the door struck something and shuddered backwards. Vincent stayed still, straining to pick up any scrap of sound. The shuffling of feet. The cocking of a shotgun.

Nothing. Only a gasp when his lungs reached their limit.

He leaned into the doorway, not daring to shine his flashlight in. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

No sounds in reply.

“I’m lost. I’m trying to find my way back to the start of the trail.”

Again, nothing.

Vincent crept past the threshold, casting his flashlight over the interior. On the right, his light brushed over a single, solitary armchair facing an empty fireplace. A dim rug — its colour engulfed by orange — separated the armchair from a chairless table.

He stepped inside, keeping his flashlight aimed forward. His light didn’t find the far wall, illuminating the edges of a hallway, leaving him to gaze into a long abyss. He lifted his flashlight to the roof and almost toppled backwards as it struck the thorny antlers of a deer skull, mounted just beneath the ceiling. The recess of a bygone nose cast a demented shadow across the wall.

Vincent swung the door shut behind him — and flinched as it rattled against the frame. It didn’t close. There wasn’t a way to bar it. Anything could enter just as easily as he had.

He turned to the cabinet beside the door — its edge dented from repeated bashings — but it was too large to shove without making ungodly noise. He instead hurried to the armchair. Deep gashes had mangled its dusty brown skin. He pushed it. Tested its weight. Its wooden stumps screeched over the floorboards with little effort. Anything stronger than a gust of wind would knock it aside, but the scraping legs would give Vincent time to react. To do what, he didn’t know.

But it was better than nothing.

Vincent carried over the armchair and shoved its backside against the front door. The slight obstacle made him feel a little safer — for the briefest of moments. What if he needed to get out? Was he barring his only escape?

The flurry of negative possibilities rotted what little energy Vincent had left. He let his backpack fall to the floor and sank into the armchair, flinching as air hissed through the many tears. His chest heaved as he wore down from his adrenaline-high. He lifted his soaked shirt — teared it unstuck from his skin — and swabbed at the grimy sweat rolling down his neck. When he swallowed the gunk under his tongue, the stickiness of his mouth made him retch. More blood than saliva.

Vincent reached for his backpack, but his breath hitched. The top half hung on by a few strands of thread. Something had almost scalped off the zipper slider. He lifted the tear and looked into his bag. His trail mix covered the compartment’s bottom, no doubt spilt during his frantic sprint. A lid peeked from the assortment of nuts and sultanas. He pulled it free — his empty water bottle.

Vincent clawed through the mess, desperate to find his other bottle — his half-empty bottle — buried beneath the rubble.

He didn’t.

“How?”

Vincent knew how; he sprinted through the woods with a gaping hole in his backpack. He just didn’t want to believe it. He buried his face in his hands and sank into the mouldy armchair.

Three days; that’s how long the human body can last without water. Usually. That doesn’t account for his constant walking, his mad run, his loss of blood, or the sickly heat and humidity. Pessimism — his trusted friend — said a day, give or take.

But foolish hope welled in his chest, fighting back. He swung his flashlight around the barren room. No refrigerator — why would there be? Not even a kitchen or a sink, nor the convenient miracle of a water bottle sitting atop a rotting cabinet.

Vincent left his bag where it lay and stumbled towards the dark hallway. But in only a few minutes of sitting, his legs had stiffened. He pushed through the pain, but in just a few steps, his knees trembled — he was about to collapse. He lurched for the table to brace.

When he caught his breath, he lifted his head — and met a curious sight. Scattered atop the table was a jumbled mix of feathers and flowers, hundreds of each. The feathers, he didn’t recognise. Most were grey and brown. Rarer were the glossier reds, blues, and yellows that shimmered under his flashlight. He picked up one that sparkled like gold. Though the underside differed, shifting from white to black, the shaft glowed on both sides, as if someone had dipped it in molten gold and stuck the bristles on after the fact. Vincent slipped it into his pocket; something had to bring him luck.

The flowers were more familiar — windflowers. He had seen many along the trail. Like the feathers, they had striking variations, with petals ranging from reds, pinks, and whites — even some rarer blues and purples.

Though beautiful, those flowers made Vincent uneasy. Why? It wasn’t the strange care and deliberateness of their positions atop the table. Perhaps it was the contrast of their existence in such a drab, lifeless cabin?

Vincent shook his head. He rounded the table and stepped towards the unexplored hallway, tensing as he walked beneath the mounted deer skull.

And then he backtracked. He shined his light across the table, his eyes darting between the bright petals as a realisation brewed in his tired mind.

None had wilted. Someone cut them recently.

Vincent steadied his hand against his chest and faced the dark hallway.

“Hello? Is anyone else here?”

He took slow steps into the blackness, then stumbled, slamming his shoulder into the wall. With that as a brace for his aching legs, he advanced. His hand slipped into his pocket and squeezed the soft bristles of his golden feather.

“I’m lost. Hurt. I was hoping to stay until morning, get my bearings then.”

The creaking floorboards underfoot seemed his only company. He wanted to believe he was alone, but he had made that mistake earlier. Or had he? He was too tired and thirsty to remember if it was real — whether he blamed himself.

His shoulder met the edge of a doorless doorway. Just inside, a dresser nearly blocked the room’s entrance. Vincent peeked his head into the room. He blinked.

He blinked again. When the perplexing sight didn’t recede into the ether of his mind, he squeezed past the dresser. The roof slanted at a sharp angle, coaxing him to duck as he paced to the sliding window on the opposite wall. He brushed his fingers over the glass and, confirming it shut, crept to the back of the room, towards the neatly made bed. Its burgundy quilt offered the second touch of colour in this barren cabin of browns.

The bed didn’t unnerve Vincent. What dangled above the bed, however, forwent explanation. A dozen or so charms swung from rusted hooks jutted into a wooden beam. Behind them, a second beam — with unused hooks embedded throughout — had snapped from the ceiling like a bone.

Vincent took the closest charm into his hands. They all had a wooden hoop, their centres weaved with a spiderweb of white silk. Where the charms differed were feathers that swayed beneath each hoop, attached to coloured strings, all glistening in varied colours under the beam of his flashlight.

Vincent let go of the bizarre decoration and crouched beneath the shimmering cluster. He leaned towards the bed and braced for the stench of mould. Instead, soothing rain on parched earth wafted from the quilt, inviting Vincent to collapse onto the mattress. It didn’t creak, nor did worn down springs jut against his chest; the bed simply sank under his weight.

He was so tired.

Though his heart hadn’t stopped to rest, his body was heavy and sore. His head fogged from running through his every fear like a catalogue. It was absolute stupidity to sleep in a stranger’s home, a freakish cabin, but the part of his brain responsible for self-preservation had given in. His body would do the same sooner or later. Everything needed rest.

Vincent slid his flashlight under the pillow and rolled onto his back. But his eyes couldn’t look away from the blackness of the window. It lacked blinds, shutters — anything he could use to hide. He slipped under the quilt and clenched his eyes tight.

But he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop tossing and turning. The heat hadn’t let up, and sweat oozed over his body. His soaked clothes chafed against his scratched skin.

Vincent sat up and pulled off his shoes, socks, pants. Staying dressed served some meagre reassurance — a safety net in this realm of nightmarish unknowns — but what would be the point if he never fell asleep? If he could only dwell on his fears until his body withered away?

He eventually twisted his shirt off, jerking it past where it stuck to his skin, grimacing as it dragged over his many cuts and scrapes. His underwear was the dampest of the lot. But sleeping naked in a stranger’s bed crossed some line he never knew he had. He fished through his pocket for the golden feather, slid it through his sweat-clumped hair, then tossed his clothes over the foot of the bed. They unsettled the dangling charms. Feathers twirled silently above his head like a nursery mobile.

Once more, Vincent clenched his eyes. He thought the serenity of nature would make sleeping easier, but now, experiencing it firsthand, true quietness brought only eeriness. Perhaps he had been poisoned by the city. Here, the silence made his thoughts all too loud — and him all too vulnerable.

He tried to distract his mind by counting his breaths — the only noise other than his heartbeat. It worked for a time, though the numbers blurred together after thirty, and he lost count somewhere around forty-seven. He had to start over.

One, two, three…

The wind picked up during the night. It brought no relief from the heat, however; an oppressive wave of humid air whistled between tightly packed trees. That stickiness swirled around the cabin’s bedroom, battering Vincent’s sweat-soaked face. As he stirred awake, the stickiness of his mouth — drier than sandpaper — made him swallow a large wad of nothing. So much moisture in the air, and not a drop to drink.

With a groan, he pulled the sheets down to his chest and glared at the open window — or where he thought it was in the dark. Why didn’t he close it? At least the clouds had cleared, for faint streaks of moonlight drifted through. Silver and the burgundy quilt mixed to form a deep, vibrant purple that shimmered at the foot of the bed.

Vincent squinted as the glow brightened. His parched throat was bad enough, but how could he sleep with all this light? Isn’t nature meant to be dark?

Closing the window would be a good start — or so said his sleep-addled brain. But as he lifted his head from the pillow, the light shifted away as if scared by his movement. A ray of moonlight interwove with the purple, revealing off-white ridges surrounding the light.

Vincent’s breath snagged in his throat. A hollow indent of cracked bone slid past the moonlight. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he was seeing; that deer skull hanging on the wall — why was it here?

Without turning his head, Vincent grabbed at his pillow, feeling for his flashlight. He squeezed the metal handle, held it in front of his face, and pushed the button. The bedroom lit up in orange.

As did the creature in front of him. A cracked orange skull, dishevelled orange fur, and glinting orange claws digging into the bed.

Vincent screamed and thrashed backwards. An unearthly screech and the gnashing of bone against bone pierced his ears. The beast lurched away and fell behind the bed just as Vincent toppled off the side and smacked his temple against the floorboards. That garbled shriek rolled on, stabbing his eardrums while blades scraped through wood.

Vincent clutched the side of his head and kicked backwards. He kept kicking even after his head struck the wall. He tried to hold his flashlight steady, aimed at the monster huddled against the far dresser. Its legs were too long. Its arms were too thin. Hunched knees covered its skull, and two hazy purple orbs, set deep in hollow sockets that once held real eyes, peeked through the gap between its legs. Its crown of antlers — a bramble of knives — cast twisted shadows over the dresser. Its claws clenched through the floorboards. The demon quivered, readying to attack.

“Stay back!”

Vincent’s flashlight was his only weapon, a feeble tool against a monstrosity of hair and bone. Light could bring an end to nightmares — if only it could do the same for this fiend. As much its horrid appearance roused long-repressed terror, Vincent didn’t dare look away. He kept the flashlight aimed at its face. Even as his lungs burned from lack of air, he didn’t dare falter.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

His body forced him; Vincent wheezed and sucked in humid air. Another retch rolled from the beast, like water garbling down a drain. It snapped its bony jaws over and over as it flattened itself against the dresser, cowering much like Vincent.

Why wasn’t it attacking?

“För mycket ljus! Snälla sluta!”

It spoke! A bizarre jumble of ethereal chimes filled the tiny room. The walls were ringing.

“What?”

Vincent replied before he processed the absurdity of this monster communicating. Of understanding. Of course it couldn’t understand. The next thing to roll from its throat was a vile gurgle, as stressed and jittery and wretched as the beast itself.

“Light bright!” It smacked its skull against the dresser. “Hurt.”

Those words, Vincent understood.

“Stop. Please.”

Please? It was pleading?

The realisation came as sudden as a snapping twig. Vincent’s gut roiled. Oh, god, how it had recoiled off the bed, shrivelled up against the dresser—

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” Vincent mashed his fingers over the flashlight, trying to find the button.

It shut off with a click. A growl rumbled through the room as the monster’s body vanished into the darkness. Its purple gaze, a light source of its own, lingered only feet away from Vincent. A reminder of its position.

Its existence.

Vincent hovered his finger over the flashlight’s button. Had the monster tricked him? He left himself blind, entirely at the mercy of this bizarre thing — just because it said please? His stupidity would finally be the end of him; it could kill in a single swipe. He needed to fight — before it lunged for him first.

Then, from the darkness, it spoke.

“Thank you.”

Vincent’s chest burned. Nothing made sense. He had hundreds of reasons to be terrified, thousands of horrifying unknowns. For once, they were all real.

And those two words wrenched him free of every single one. This monster — creature — meant him no harm. Vincent was certain. So certain, he let his flashlight slip from his hands. It smashed against the floor, shattering both its lens and the silence.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” Vincent said between gasps. “Are you okay?”

A low groan came from the other side of the room. “Okay.” The light of its eyes brightened. The shimmering particles melded into a solid clump of purple. “Light blind. Light pain.”

“I… I didn’t know.”

“I scare. Also sorry.” Its English voice was distinct to its… other voice; jagged yet gentle, it articulated every syllable as though they were separate words.

The pair said nothing for quite some time. In the silence, the deep rumble of the creature’s breaths mixed with Vincent’s; for how alien it was, knowing it breathed the same air brought simple comfort. While Vincent eventually stopped his hands from shaking, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that purple glow. It was mesmerising. Almost royal. Was the creature observing Vincent’s eyes in much the same way? His own didn’t glow, of course, but surely eyes of literal light could see in the dark. 

The creature ended their standoff with a soft clink, like the clicking of a tongue. “Can… can I… närma mig?”

“I’m sorry,” said Vincent. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The creature gargled and twitched. Vincent tensed, afraid he’d upset it, but then its noises softened to more clicks. “Can I… closer. To you. Together.”

Vincent suppressed a croak. “You mean, can you come closer to me? Next to me?”

“Yes, yes.”

A terrifying request. The assurance of distance — no matter how spurious — would dissolve. He would see its face. Its skull. While those disembodied eyes floating in blackness were unnerving, yes, compared to a deer skull for a head… Which was worse?

No. Vincent had chosen to be brave. He couldn’t succumb to fear, to his ordinary failings. He swallowed what little saliva remained in his mouth and answered in a near-whisper. “Sure.”

“Sure.” The creature clicked twice.

It spoke without inflection, but it seemed like a question. “Uh… sure means yes — or okay.”

Three clicks this time. Wood creaked as the purple orbs shuddered, approaching. The creature soon shifted into the moonlight from the window. Its skull — its head — stooped forward, eyes in line with Vincent’s. Its steely claws then fell under the light, gouging the floorboards as it dragged itself closer. Knees scuffed over the wood, slender compared to the broader torso following behind.

Despite its unnatural features, its chest brought strange, familiar comfort. Beneath its skull flowed an enormous mass of fluff, coating neck to torso. Light-grey tufts flowed from the larger heap. They waved in the breeze from the window.

It stopped feet away. Its antlers remained hidden, just out of the moonlight’s glow, but Vincent could make out the faint pink of a flower on its rightmost horn.

“Name.” The upper jaw of its skull parted upwards, but then stayed still; it projected words from the ether.

“Name?” A glint of claws made Vincent hesitate. “You… want to know my name?”

“Yes, yes, name. Vad heter du?”

“My… my name is Vincent. What’s yours?”

It clicked thrice. “My name, Sven.”

Vincent had to ask — it was the most pressing question of all. “What… are you?”

“Sven.” Its round eyes remained still, focused on Vincent. Though they were the furthest reach from human — even a natural animal — he could somehow sense innocence radiating from their purple glow.

A trick of the light, perhaps. “Yes, your name is Sven, but… what species is Sven?”

“Species.” Sven tilted its skull to the side.

Vincent paused, jumbling the different ways to word this question in his head. Nothing seemed right. How do you phrase such an intrinsic query about the nature of one’s being — in plain English?

He decided on a different approach. “I am a human.”

“Sure, Vincent human.” The staggered syllables of Vincent’s name had a surprising sweetness to them. Sven also seemed a fast learner; he had already picked up a new word.

“Vincent is human.” He pointed at himself, then at Sven. “And Sven is?”

“Sven wendigo.”

Wendigo. Vincent repeated it to himself, though the word immediately blurred with another — Svendigo. Best he not say that; introducing Sven to both humour and portmanteaus would only baffle it.

It. Given Sven could speak, that they knew each other’s names, it felt wrong to think of the wendigo as ‘it’.

“Sven, what gender are you?”

Two clicks. “Gender.”

This would take some getting used to. “Is Sven male or female?”

“Male,” he said. “Vincent is.”

“Also male.”

“Both male.” Sven rocked his skull — was he nodding?

His jaws suddenly snapped shut, chomping at the air. Vincent flinched away, but the wendigo only tilted his purple eyes towards the open window. “Vincent drop. Sven find.”

Before Vincent could clarify, the wendigo lurched at the wall. He slithered up the wood like a snake, his torso silently snapping in the wrong direction to match the ninety-degree angle. Vincent didn’t expect him to fit through the narrow window, but Sven twisted his head with absurd precision, feeding his antlers through branch by branch. His torso slid out after them without pause, proving to be more fluff than flesh.

Unsure of what to say or do, Vincent lifted himself from the floor, ignoring his broken flashlight. He rubbed the side of his head, still throbbing from his fall, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Little time passed before the faint sheen of purple glittered through the windowpane. Sven crawled back into the cabin, something now wrapped in his silvery claws. He landed on the floor with a soft plop. Rose to Vincent’s eye level. His claws — much less threatening than minutes earlier — held out the object within.

Vincent couldn’t believe it. “My water bottle?”

Sven clattered his teeth. “Vincent drop when run.”

“When I ran?”

“Yes. Run from Sven.”

So Sven was following him. At least he didn’t imagine it. He could actually trust himself. Sometimes.

Vincent grabbed the bottom of the bottle. His knuckles brushed through the silky fur of Sven’s hand before the wendigo let go. He tore off the lid and gulped down the litre remaining while Sven observed with apparent curiosity.

With that painful thirst quenched, Vincent had only one thing to say. “Thank you.”

Sven clicked three times. He certainly loved his clicks. The wendigo stretched an arm towards the window pane, tapping his claws over the glass before sliding it closed. The warm wind dissipated all at once.

“Do you… always come through there?” Vincent shifted his finger between the window and Sven.

“No. Door stuck.”

“Ah.” Vincent coughed and scratched the back of his head. “And this is… Sven’s home? Sven’s bed?”

“Sure, sure. Sven home.”

Vincent felt compelled to apologise — both for breaking in and sleeping half-naked in Sven’s bed. He took a deep breath and practised the wording in his head. “I’m sorry for… coming into Sven’s home. I was lost and scared.”

“Lost.” Two clicks.

“I got lost in the woods.”

Sven shuffled closer. His antlers flickered through the light of the moon. Tucked between the tines and on the pointed tips were dozens of colourful windflowers, enlivening the dull brown of his branch-like horns. “Sven also scared for Vincent.”

“You were scared for me?” Not of him?

“Vincent not have ward. Worse than lost. Dream not safe.”

“Wards? You mean these?” Vincent pointed at the charms dangling from the ceiling. The faint twinkle of a feather danced through the moonlight.

“Yes, yes. Dream safe with ward. These mine.” The wendigo scampered backwards, not turning away from Vincent as all but the purple of its eyes vanished back into the darkness. “Vincent need ward too.”

The creak of wood. A soft thump from the dresser. Then the eyes floated back towards Vincent. As Sven’s body came into view, he dropped several items onto the bed — a white ball of yarn, coloured rolls of string, and a wooden hoop.

As Vincent squinted through the dark, looking between them, a flash of white brushed over his face. He recoiled as Sven shuffled onto the bed, his fluffy thigh coming to rest on Vincent’s leg. Sven’s fur was as soft as it looked. But though its touch was warm and delicate, that familiar flurry of fear built in Vincent’s chest as the wendigo huddled closer. His lifeless skull loomed down at him.

“Sven protect Vincent. Make ward.”

Vincent swallowed, his voice suddenly lost. Almost in a trance, he touched a hand to Sven’s claws, which had dug into the quilt. They were as smooth and white as polished marble, elegant despite their inherent danger.

“What… what do the wards do?” Vincent asked, meeting Sven’s purple gaze.

“Let Vincent sleep safe.”

He had no idea how to interpret the wendigo’s words. Though if Sven had his own wards, that meant he needed to sleep. Similarities, no matter how slight, brought comfort to the indescribable. And if light harmed Sven, he must be nocturnal. But without blinds on the window, was it even safe for the wendigo to sleep here?

Vincent was about to ask, but Sven raised his finger to meet his hand. He froze as a claw slid between his index and middle finger. It pressed into his skin, its razor tip coaxing both a shudder and sharp jolt of adrenaline.

Vincent took a quick breath. He looked up at Sven, uncertain of the wendigo’s intentions. But those eyes — they were so bright, so gentle. Sven hadn’t once looked away from him.

Was the flutter in Vincent’s belly really one of fear?

Keeping his eyes steady on Vincent’s, Sven reached back to grab the hoop and yarn. Despite the sharpness of his claws, his fingers moved deftly, a silent blur of white. They swivelled around the hoop’s circumference, threading yarn and intersecting white with more white. The strings camouflaged with the grey fur of the wendigo behind them.

The shape in the hoop started formless, the logic of Sven’s motions inexplicable. But as the minutes passed, the patterns tightened; a spiderweb of supple rhombuses formed, spiralling smaller and smaller as they approached the centre of the ward.

Not slowing his pace, Sven tied three coloured strings around the bottom of the hoop. Curiously, he then slipped a hand between his thighs. His fingers returned with a faint brown sheet, a slight glint to it under the light of the moon. Feathers were woven around its edges. Sven wiggled out a red, tied it to the string, then reached for a blue.

Oh, how the dark hid so much from Vincent. That strange square of fabric was the latest mystery. What was it? Where did it come from? He leaned forward, sliding his fingers through the wendigo’s soft fur, and rubbed his thumb over a crease in the fabric. Fuzzy, yet smoother than silk.

Sven reached down, but instead of grabbing another feather, he glided his fingers over Vincent’s hand. Much like Vincent to the cloth, Sven seemed to be taking in the texture of the human’s skin. The soft fluff of his fingers gave Vincent goosebumps as they tickled his hands.

Vincent pinched his fingers around a feather. He slid it out and held it up to Sven. The wendigo took it and brought it to the ward. That left Vincent to continue stroking the soft fabric, enjoying the lovely mix of fur and silk against his bare skin.

“Sven touch too.” the wendigo suddenly said — or asked, as two subsequent clicks confirmed.

“S-sure.” Vincent’s voice trembled. The thought of Sven’s fingers once more brushing over his hands made his chest fuzzier than the fabric.

He braced himself as those gentle hands reached down, the gleam of their claws no longer registering as a danger. But Sven’s arm reached past the cloth. Past Vincent’s hands. They rolled up his thigh. Before Vincent could question what was happening, Sven pressed his fingers into the sweat-sodden bulge of his underwear.

“Whoa, whoa! What are you doing?” Vincent’s hands shot out and grasped Sven’s arm.

The wendigo seemed startled; he clicked twice as his purple eyes went hazy, yet his grip stayed firm. “Sven… touch too.”

“Not that!” Vincent tugged at the arm, but the fur hid some otherworldly power. It refused to budge. “That’s my… you don’t touch that.”

“Vincent touch Sven loincloth. So Sven touch Vincent loincloth.”

The dark hid so much from Vincent. “That, that cloth, with the feathers — that’s your loincloth?”

“Yes, yes. Sven loincloth.”

It hid way too much. “Oh, Sven, I’m… I’m sorry. I just, I just didn’t see. Didn’t know.”

“Vincent not be sorry.” Three clicks. “Sven gillar… Sven like Vincent. Vincent like Sven.”

“No. I mean, yes, I do like Sven, it’s just, I-I didn’t…” Vincent gasped for air, having forgotten to breathe again. Plain English failed him; it was an accident, a misunderstanding, I didn’t mean to fondle your dick — what the hell could he say that Sven would understand? An easy out flashed through his head — Vincent not like Sven — but he couldn’t lie like that, not when Sven’s eyes were peering at him with what he could only interpret as pure earnestness.

While Vincent panicked, Sven brought his other hand, the one with the half-finished ward, to the human’s face. “Hold.”

Vincent looked down at the fluffy hand pressed into his underwear. Just as Sven hadn’t let go of him, he hadn’t let go of Sven. Maybe if Vincent kept pulling, Sven would eventually get the message.

“Trust Sven.”

Vincent slowly raised his head. Sven’s eyes, still holding their gaze, were as bright as ever, bathing Vincent’s face in indigo. They coaxed calm when everything surrounding them ought to have stoked terror.

Vincent let go of Sven’s arm. He took the wooden hoop of the ward into his trembling hands. Sven clicked thrice and shuffled closer. He reached towards his loincloth and plucked out another feather, and all the while, his other hand firmed around the wet impression of Vincent’s bulge.

Vincent tensed, sucking in air as the wendigo’s slender fingers pressed deeper into his underwear, gripping around the growing outline of his penis. With two fingers braced against it, Sven kneaded back and forth. His claws tickled Vincent’s belly as he rubbed. Sven’s middle finger joined to stroke the top of the outline, adding pressure as Vincent’s cock hardened.

Even with his eyes locked to Vincent’s face, Sven joined the feather to the string with a single hand. Not even Vincent’s unsteady arms, unable to hold the ward still, proved a hindrance to the wendigo.

As Sven reached down for another feather, he asked, “Vincent like.”

“Y-yes.” Vincent dared not move, yet he couldn’t deny that Sven’s affections roused something primal — a lurid mingling of fear and lust.

Sven tied on another feather, but instead of reaching for the next, he grasped Vincent’s arm, enveloping his wrist in soft fur. “Vincent touch too.”

Vincent let Sven guide his hand to the loincloth. Now that he knew what it was, rubbing his hand along the silky fuzz brought more heat to Vincent’s already flushed face. Sweat rolled over his lips — no longer metallic, only salty. The darkness made the act more obscene; Vincent was searching for something he couldn’t see, something that may not even exist — but something his fingers would recognise immediately.

And recognise it they did. His fingers ran over a solid crease in the loincloth. They returned for another touch as Sven’s hand squeezed tighter around the bulge of Vincent’s cock. Despite what was happening, the wendigo pulled another feather from his loincloth. He seemed intent on finishing the ward. No matter what.

The two huddled against each other in near silence, broken only by husky breaths. Both stroked the firming outline of the other’s penis. Both rolled their hips to grind against the other’s hand. As Sven slowed his strokes to mimic Vincent’s speed, Vincent could feel his cock tenting his underwear. A shame he lacked a spare hand to set it free.

A sudden gurgle from Sven, sharp and throaty, ended the hush.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent asked.

“No more feather. Ward not balanced.”

Vincent sighed; at least it wasn’t something of his doing.

“Sven get feather.”

“Wait!” Vincent clenched the loincloth, not wanting their closeness to end. But then he had a brainwave — a solution he had tucked away. “I have a feather.”

Sven scrunched his fingers over Vincent’s sweat-soaked underwear. “Sven not find feather.”

“N-not there.” Vincent let go of Sven’s loincloth and rifled through his slick hair. He pulled out the golden feather and held it to Sven.

It really did bring him luck.

Sven took it and brought it to one of his purple eyes, tinting the golden bristles a vibrant magenta. “Gilded Flicker.”

“What?”

“Bird name. Pretty bird.” Sven clicked quickly as he hunched closer to the ward.

“Does Sven like birds?”

“Yes. Bird friend. Bird watch forest when day.” He began tying the feather — the largest of the set — to the middle string.

“And these…” Vincent reached up to touch the fuzzy velvet of Sven’s antler, just beside a pink flower. “Does Sven like windflowers too?”

“Windflower pretty. Gentle.” With the final feather in place, Sven took the ward from Vincent. Their hands met.

Sven truly was the embodiment of the forest. A harmonious mix of beauty and unkempt wildness. Those windflowers, seemingly sprouted from his very antlers, completed his appearance by soothing his unearthly features.

“They are pretty,” said Vincent, “but why do you wear them?”

“Sven scary. Windflower make Sven little scary.”

Vincent rolled his finger down Sven’s antlers. He glided it over the cracked smoothness of his skull, down to the indent of his erstwhile nose.

“I don’t think Sven is scary.”

The wendigo made three soft clicks. “Thank you.”

Sven let go of Vincent’s underwear and lifted himself, reaching to the tangle of wards above the bed. As the skull moved out of view, Vincent came face-to-face with the grey fluff blanketing the wendigo’s lower body — what had first comforted him about Sven’s appearance.

Vincent wanted to do more than touch that soft fur.

He wanted to bury his face in it.

He found that jolt of courage he needed and face-planted into Sven’s belly. A loud click sounded as luscious fur swept over his face, reaching back to his ears. Vincent kissed on the toned belly hidden beneath the fluff before taking a deep breath. Like the forest itself, Sven’s fur entwined richly contrariant scents, from the nectar-like sweetness of honeysuckle to the bitter odour of pine resin. A subtler smokiness lingered in his throat, reminiscent of recently burnt wood.

Sven clicked twice. “Vincent.”

Vincent curled his arms around Sven’s hips. Thick fur breezed between his fingers like silken strands. His hands traced Sven’s loincloth before meeting at a fluffy lump emerging from his backside, the loincloth’s rope resting above it.

“Sven has a tail?” Vincent mumbled into the smooth fur as he squeezed the small nub.

“Yes, yes.” The tail wiggled in his grip. “Vincent like tail.” Two clicks.

“Tails are so cute.”

“Cute?” A sudden inflection; an obvious question.

Before Vincent could explain, something came to rest on his head. Slender fingers weaved through his hair, and claws scritched at his scalp. He shuddered as they traced around the curve of his ears.

Sven seemed intent on replicating Vincent’s affections, patting at his head while Vincent kneaded his fingers lower to stroke the wendigo’s buttocks. The fur was thinner there, and Vincent found himself playing with the cheeks, grasping at the plump softness and spreading them apart. He pulled and released, slowly inching his hands together. As he fondled the inner curve of each cheek, heat oozed over his fingers, intensifying as they closed in on where Sven’s hole would be.

“Vincent?” Did Sven learn to replicate the inflection in Vincent’s voice for questions?

Vincent mumbled an acknowledgement into Sven’s belly.

“Under loincloth.”

With nothing more to go off, Vincent treated Sven’s words as an invitation. Still blinded by fluff, he stroked his fingers down Sven’s taint. He didn’t know what he’d find between the wendigo’s legs, so the telltale fuzz of a dangling sac brought sudden relief. He and Sven weren’t that different… save for everything else.

Vincent groped the weighty pair while sliding his other hand down the underside of Sven’s length. The thin fur tickled his finger as he stroked against the grain. As he neared the tip, Sven’s head pats grew faster. Rougher. A growl built deep within his fur, kneading Vincent’s face. By the time his hand touched the silky loincloth, the heat had risen threefold, and Vincent couldn’t stop himself from gliding his index finger around the cock tip. A sticky glaze warmed his knuckle and trailed over his palm.

They really weren’t that different at all.

“Vincent?”

Perhaps as a side effect of being submerged in fluff, Sven needed to confirm Vincent could hear him at every opportunity. Vincent signalled his attention with a gentle tug of the wendigo’s nuts.  

“Sven have idea.”

Again, Vincent made a sound of approval that tickled his lips against Sven’s fur.

“Lay on back.”

The keenness of his incorporeal voice gave Sven’s words a certain authority, so much so that Vincent obeyed without a second thought. He planted one last kiss on Sven’s belly before resurfacing from the mound of fluff. He caught the swaying glint of a golden feather — his personal ward, hanging from the ceiling — before his head hit the pillow.

Sven leaned forward, hovering his purple eyes above Vincent’s. His palms and claws spread wide over the mattress, bracing his weight as he lowered himself.

Vincent was expecting him to rest his fluffy chest on his face. He wasn’t expecting something silky to brush between his thighs. He wasn’t expecting something firm to rub against his underwear.

He craned his neck up. Sven’s loincloth covered his crotch, the fabric bulging near the top. Sven’s skull chattered as he lowered his hips and arched his back, slowly rolling forward, grinding his bulge over Vincent’s. Vincent gasped, trembling as his wet underwear compressed and stuck tight around his cock. Sven made a series of high-pitched clicks before sliding backwards, rubbing their covered cocks together in a slow frot.

As Sven coasted forward again, he lowered his skull closer to Vincent and clicked twice. “Like?”

“Love.” Vincent wrapped his arms around Sven’s back, yearning to pull the wendigo in. “More.”

Sven fell into Vincent’s embrace, and Vincent sunk into his fluffy mane. Enveloped in warmth, Vincent took deep huffs of his rich fur, smoky ash imbued with the gentler scents of the forest.

Sven bucked his hips. Sped up. He added more pressure, grinding the bulge of his loincloth between Vincent’s sensitive thighs. With a few back-and-forth thrusts, Sven had kneaded down into Vincent’s sweat-drenched underwear, shuffling Vincent’s cock to the left while his own squeezed beside on the right.

“Together,” Sven said, a rumbling churr to his voice.

Though two pieces of cloth separated their manhoods, that somehow made the embrace more sensual. Both their cocks throbbed beside each other, almost in tempo. Vincent curled his legs around Sven’s back, his feet tucking beneath his little tail and coming to rest atop his soft butt. He moaned into Sven’s chest, his kisses wetting the fur.

Vincent soon learned Sven’s rhythm. He rolled his hips backwards when the wendigo stroked forward. Never wanting his lover to pull away, he drifted his fingers through the silky fur of Sven’s back, running his nails over the hide beneath. Sven returned the favour; he slid his hands under opposite sides of Vincent’s back, lifting him from the bed and gliding his claws in half-circles towards the centre of his back.

The two moaned — Sven’s an otherworldly croak, Vincent’s muffled by heavy fur — as their slow rubs hastened to firm thrusts. Vincent inched his fingers up the wendigo’s slender neck, pinching at the fuzzy velvet of his antlers. As wonderful as it was to have Sven’s cock so tightly packed against his own, Vincent wanted more. He wanted to be even closer.

“Sven?” The fur’s embrace made his voice soft.

The wendigo clicked.

“Could… could you take my underwear off? I want them to touch.”

“Touch?”

“Our cocks… together. Touching.”

Sven’s bony snout snapped in response. He shimmied his claws down the length of Vincent’s back, guiding them to the human’s hips. With the gentleness Vincent had come to expect, they curved beneath the loop of his underwear, shifting the elastic down his thighs. But it hit a snag; the cup was too damp to slide over his hardened cock.

Sven shuffled to the side, prodding his cock against Vincent’s inner thigh. The wendigo’s claws curled around the human’s hips to his belly, tracing towards Vincent’s crotch. The sharp tips snuck under the cup, then folded it back. Vincent grunted as his cock sprung free, and a snap rang out from behind the mound of fur.

“Åhh-ergrr…” Sven clicked his tongue and shifted back into position.

Vincent huffed as warm precum dribbled over his belly. He thrust at the air, trying to find the smooth silk of Sven’s loincloth. Fuzzy fur brushed over his cock instead. He wiggled his face free of Sven’s coat to peer at his waist. Sven’s loincloth had fallen vertical, just above Vincent’s belly. As if to tease what lay behind the curtains, Sven rolled his hips forward, and two imprints formed in the light brown silk — Vincent’s near the bottom, and Sven’s right above.

A deep churr rumbled from Sven’s throat, tickling Vincent’s forehead. “Vi behöver båda detta. Är du redo?” His words were hushed and swift, rolling together like a growl.

“Sven?”

“Vincent ready?”

“Yes.” Vincent buried his face back into the incredible fluff of Sven’s chest, but the wendigo’s claws squeezed his shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed.

“Neck,” he huffed. “Visa mig din nacke.”

“My neck?”

Sven’s skull twisted downwards, stopping inches from Vincent’s face. His purple eyes hazed, darting between the human’s features. “Show neck.”

Vincent pushed his head back and arched his back, surrendering his neck to the wendigo. He was so vulnerable; Sven could do whatever he wanted. But putting his trust in such an otherworldly beast — one that barely spoke his language — made his heart flutter, his chest tremble. He held his breath as Sven leaned in, the light of his eyes soon engulfing all his vision. Vincent shut his eyes, awaiting Sven’s touch against his sensitive throat.

That skull pinched right above his jugular. Then came a prod from something wet; Sven had a tongue? Another nibble. Though gentle, Vincent groaned and shivered all the same, unused at having something so dangerous — so primal — teasing his most fragile part. Sven broke the bite before trailing his heavy tongue to the side of Vincent’s neck, above his collarbone, and nipped at the untouched, tender skin.

Vincent clutched at the fur behind the wendigo’s neck. He moaned as Sven added pressure — biting harder, licking faster. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

Sven clicked his tongue against Vincent’s neck, splattering hot drool over dry sweat. The wendigo upped his speed. He alternated between revisiting the most sensitive parts — nibbling around where he had bitten earlier — to lashing his tongue across the length of Vincent’s neck.

Sven must have enjoyed licking the most; a throaty churr rumbled from his chest whenever he dashed his long tongue back and forth, searching for dry sections of Vincent’s throat to moisten. To taste. He slowed his pace, savouring the flavour as he kneaded his tongue further and deeper.

While Sven’s tongue massaged Vincent’s jugular once more, he growled indecipherable words. “Want… behöver Vincent. Jag behöver dig. Jag vill göra dig till min, Vincent.”

Indecipherable, save for the passionate rumble of Vincent’s name. Though they were a slew of Nordic sounds and syllables his tongue could never hope to produce, Vincent didn’t need to understand them to know what Sven wanted. What they both wanted. It was so instinctual that it transcended the rift of language.

“Fuck, Sven, I’m so close.” Vincent dug his nails into Sven’s fur, scratching at the flesh beneath. “Kiss me, please.”

Sven guided Vincent’s arms to the bed, pinning the human’s hands underneath his own. Vincent clenched his fingers, interlocking them between Sven’s claws, soft fluff brushing between them. With their hands locked, Sven rolled his tongue over Vincent’s lips. Perhaps Vincent underestimated Sven’s language skills — he seemed to know exactly what a kiss was — or he just wanted the same thing.

Vincent opened his mouth, and Sven took the invitation; he slid his long tongue between Vincent’s lips and joined it with Vincent’s.

Sven tilted his skull and brought the kiss deeper. His jaws gently squeezed around Vincent’s cheeks, holding him in place. Vincent licked and sucked at the meaty tongue as it curled within his mouth, as more and more slipped between his lips. Vincent wanted to beg for more, but all he could manage was a wet mumble — his tongue found no space to move. Sven, however, clearly didn’t use his tongue to speak; he muttered chimes, each more reverberant and frantic than the last. His head shifted again, bringing his purple eye — now brilliantly bright — to consume all of Vincent’s vision.

The reality of the situation — that he was entirely pinned and at this bizarre monster’s mercy — made Vincent tremble. Pure euphoria rushed through his veins. He gripped his legs tighter around Sven’s hips, and the fluffy tail wiggled between his feet. Sven’s fuzzy cock twitched against his own as their frot frenzied to a feverish hump. With his purple glow flickering, Sven’s coherent chimes crumbled to sharp and sudden snarls, rabid and resounding growls that travelled down his tongue to thrum Vincent’s lips. Their bodies trembled from the force alone.

Not breaking the kiss, Sven reached behind his loincloth. Vincent shivered as a claw brushed across his cock, then groaned as a fluffy palm gripped their lengths together. He was brought to the edge from contact alone, and now those firm pumps promised to hurl him over the threshold.

Yet a blinding glare of royal purple stalled his climax. Paralysed from Sven’s gaze, an emphatic growl commanded Vincent’s body to do what it yearned to do. “Dela din essens.”

Vincent clenched his legs and moaned into Sven’s jaws as his long-awaited climax wracked the last bastions of rational thought. His load splattered onto the loincloth and dribbled onto his belly. Coaxing Vincent to give everything he had, Sven’s cock pulsed and jumped above his own. With an unsteady rumble, the wendigo entwined with Vincent in bliss; his cock joined with Vincent’s in erupting onto the loincloth. Their combined mess oozed onto Vincent’s belly, kindling his already flushed flesh with their collective warmth.

So rapt, Vincent could do naught but squeeze his legs, thrust his hips, and groan into Sven’s tongue. Words boomed beyond the unending bellow from Sven’s chest — “Mer, jag vill ha allt du har att dela med dig av” — and though beyond Vincent’s comprehension, he knew exactly what they meant. What Sven desired. What they both desired.

Minutes passed with their tongues and hands and cocks and bodies bound in ecstasy. Their orgasms didn’t so much end as fade to an enervated blur. Vincent returned to lucidity only when Sven’s tongue uncoiled from his own and finally left his lips. The purple-tinted white of Sven’s skull left his vision. Grey fluff took its place. With a long sigh, Sven lowered his silky neck onto the human’s face. Vincent breathed deep the scent of the forest — and gasped as Sven fell limp onto him.

The wendigo may be more fur than bone, but muscle counts for much. Vincent squirmed and shouted into Sven’s neck, “H-heavy! Heavy!”

Sven, thankfully, understood. His claws brushed underneath Vincent’s back, gripped tight, and flipped them both around, bringing Vincent to lie on his fluffy chest.

“Sven sorry.” Sven craned his skull up from the pillow, leaning in to nuzzle Vincent’s cheek. His tongue flicked across Vincent’s ear.

Vincent could never stay mad at such an adorable lug. His wide, disembodied eyes reminded him of that of a puppy… somehow. “It’s okay,” he said, scratching at the soft fur of Sven’s mane. “It’s much more comfortable on top of you, anyway.”

“Comfortable?”

“Soft… like a bed.”

“Sven bed?”

“Uh… maybe?” Well, why couldn’t Sven be his bed? It’s not every day one gets to sleep on a fluffy eldritch monster. “Can… can I sleep on Sven?”

“Yes, yes.” Sven clicked thrice and pointed at the fluff of his neck. “Rest head.”

Vincent couldn’t bury his face there fast enough. Again, he lost himself in that warm, fluffy cloud, wrapping his arms around Sven’s head and hugging him tight. With him nuzzled into Sven’s neck, the wendigo lowered his skull to tuck Vincent beneath his chin. He stroked his claws over his back. Vincent shivered from the conflicting sensations of sharp gentleness.

Then, with a soft growl, Sven lifted his skull to pat the human’s hair. “Vincent sleep.”

Vincent wanted to stay up. He wanted to spend more time with this incredible creature. Alas, the exhaustion of the hike and the emotional avalanche of the entire night meant his head would not move from his fluffy, eldritch bed. Sven’s neck proved the most blissful pillow he had ever laid on — which certainly didn’t help keep his eyes open.

“Goodnight, Sven.” Vincent kissed the fur. “And thank you. For the ward, for your kindness, for letting me meet you. For everything.”

He didn’t expect Sven to understand much of that, but the gist of the message — a warm thank you — must have got across; his pillow vibrated, and a soothing growl welled from deep within the fur.

“Jag vill att du ska vara lycklig. Älska dig själv, för jag älskar dig.”

After all this time, Vincent still hadn’t discovered the language Sven spoke. It sounded Nordic, so Finnish, perhaps? Is Finnish even a real language? Vincent should have asked earlier, for exhaustion made wording his query in plain English all but an impossibility.

Instead, Vincent turned his thoughts to the ward guarding him from above. What effect would that swaying charm have? Even if it acted only as a placebo, it already had an impact; he longed for this slumber, so much so that his ordinary thoughts — his doubts and fears — were non-existent.

Before he knew it, his consciousness drifted. His mind became an empty, hoary haze. The last lingering sense was that of the forest — of tranquil sweetness, of rain-soaked earth, of life-giving ash. He breathed deep, filling his lungs — his mind — with Sven’s calming scent, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

Sunlight streaked through the window. The hanging hooks above Vincent’s head cast shadows across the far wall. Light drifted across the bed, eventually falling over his eyelids. He twitched, then shot up.

“Sven?”

Vincent looked out the window. He leaned over both sides of the bed and checked underneath. He even opened the dresser.

There was no Sven.

The effects of his sleep lingered. He shook his head, trying to snap himself from his daze. Had he even woken up? His motions and thoughts felt disconnected, unreal, like he was controlling someone other than himself. He looked to the ceiling, searching for the potential culprit, his ward.

It was gone. All of them were gone. Rows upon rows of empty hooks remained, reddened from rust.

Was the entire thing just a dream? It couldn’t have been — nothing had ever felt more real — yet no evidence remained of Sven’s presence. His existence. No ward, no fur, not even an open window. No dried mess lingered on his belly. Even that thick, ashen scent that pervaded his lungs more than air had dissipated; aged wood and rusted nails took its place. Vincent ran his fingers across his neck, tracing the scabbing cuts from the forest’s many branches. Nothing resembled a bite — but then again, had Sven even bit him?

The more Vincent paced around the room, deliberating reality from fantasy, the more he stumbled. His feet weren’t sore, but seemingly weightless. They walked on air.

After scouring every corner and finding nothing but dust, he redressed and headed to the cabin’s main room. The once-dark walls showed their age in the morning light; faded wood, crooked and splintered. His backpack lay where he left it — in front of the armchair-bound door. He passed the table, still covered in feathers and flowers, and spun towards the mounted deer skull. It, too, remained.

But of course it did; Sven was no deer, after all.

“Sven?”

Vincent’s voice barely rose above a whisper. His eyes felt wet. It must have happened. Those feelings couldn’t have been a dream.

Sven must have left before morning — to avoid the sunlight. Though where a wendigo could take shelter in the forest to avoid light, Vincent couldn’t say.

But wherever it was, it wasn’t here.

That conclusion — that Sven had to leave to stay out of the light — did nothing to soothe Vincent’s regret. He hadn’t a chance to say goodbye.

He pulled the armchair away from the door, shouldered his bag, and took one last look at the dusty cabin. Maybe, just maybe, two purple lights would gleam back at him from the far hallway.

A foolish hope.

Vincent stepped outside. He shielded his eyes from the sun as he glanced between the several hundred trees before him, each identical to their counterparts. Even without darkness to hinder him, he was still lost deep in the woods. Where had he run from? Which direction would lead him back to civilisation? Where would he find water?

His eyes glazed as he took in endless rows of brown tree trunks. Perhaps he had left footprints he could follow back to the trail. Or he could yell for help; today’s hikers might hear him if he’s near a path. Both were terrible ideas, but what other options did he have?

A loud screech, that of a bird, pierced the silent forest. Vincent jerked towards the sound. He came to face a tree whose trunk differed from its neighbours, only slightly; at his eye-level, something small and purple blotted the brown. He approached, and it took shape into something recognisable.

A purple windflower. Vincent ran his fingers under the delicate petals, lifting them to look underneath. Sweet-scented sap stuck the flower to the tree.

He followed the trunk around, and a pink windflower — planted on a tree several paces away — added the next hint of colour to the dull browns of surrounding bark. He looked behind that tree, and a white flower greeted him, further away. Then another trunk with a red flower. And then a blue. And purple again.

Vincent followed the trail of flowers, weaving between trees as the forest grew denser. While the canopy left him in perpetual shadow, the vibrant windflowers brightened even the shade. They alternated always in the same pattern — purple, pink, white, red, blue.

Vincent, enthralled with the beauty of their petals, lost track of not only the time, but his location, his predicament — even his own thoughts. His feet simply glided him from one tree to the next. Though they burned from fatigue last night, his legs now showed no feebleness, puppetting him from flower to flower with the grace of a fox.

Hundreds of windflowers — thousands, even — passed him by in the shade of the forest. As if accompanying Vincent on his aimless journey, birds high in the branches above chirped and squawked from the next flower-adorned tree, always out of sight. Their sing-song voices grew bolder and stronger as more and more feathered compatriots joined the symphony, each offering lively trills and tweets, flourishing the forest in their collective melody. Some were deep and chittery. Others rich like a chiming bell. A chorus soon followed Vincent overhead, singing in tune with the rhythm of his steps.

And then they stopped. Sudden silence. Not even the branches rustled.

Ahead stood a solitary tree, a purple windflower, and bright blue sky beyond. Vincent hesitated; without birds or flowers to lead him, uncertainty welled anew. He shuffled around the last tree, his legs suddenly in agony, only for his heart to jump at the sight that awaited him.

He was on a hill. In front stretched an empty highway. A shrubby knoll separated him from a parking lot. With a dashboard covered in leaves, his lonely car awaited him.

He half skipped, half stumbled down the hill before leaping onto the tarmac, grunting as his legs stung in protest. He bent over the dashboard, panting as exhaustion caught up with him. The sun — at the highest point in the sky — warmed his sweaty face. How was it already midday?

Another screech tore through his thoughts. Vincent jumped back as a small bird with a deceptively powerful voice soared overhead, its underwings glinting gold. It landed on the roof of his car. That golden sheen vanished into white and black as the bird folded its wings and jumped in place, bringing its red-striped head to face Vincent. The elongated beak suggested it a woodpecker, but Vincent had never seen a bird with such odd plumage, certainly not this close.

More incredible than the bird’s vibrant colours, however, was the object that dangled from its beak. A wooden hoop with strands of woven white. Feathers swayed on strings. On the middle string, a golden feather shined brilliantly in the sunlight.

His lucky feather.

Vincent couldn’t move. How can a bird, of all things, deliver him a ward? It made no sense. It made no sense, unless—

“Sven?”

The bird did not reply; it was only a bird, after all. It dropped the ward onto the windshield and took off into the sun. Its golden underwings shimmered for a fleeting moment. Then it vanished into the forest.

Vincent took his ward with shaking hands. He held it close to his chest and breathed deep of gentle honeysuckle and ash. Without another word, he lowered himself into his car, rested Sven’s parting gift on the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition.