In The Middle Of
The Perennial Forest
He on one rock. Me on another.
The river bubbles quietly between us.
'' I'm Antic by the way..' he sneers.
Finally, he says, softer this time: "You look lost, No Eyes."
"I think I am."
"I was supposed to be on watch," he mutters, "but instead I was makin' music… and now look—you happened. Like a glowing, barefoot crime."
I tilt my head. "Are you mad?"
He smiles.
But it's a tired one.
"No. Just cursed with taste."
Antic keeps wiping his nose with leaves.
He's bad at it. His nose is still bleeding.
Or maybe it's new blood.
I don't know how noses work.
"I'm not used to talkin' to pretty girls in cursed forests," he mutters. "They don't train us for that. Not really part of the syllabus."
I stare.
Then I say, "Do noses usually do that when you meet someone?"
He stiffens. "No."
"Maybe you're ill."
"Not the point," he says quickly, and throws the leaf into the river. It floats away like a defeated idea.
We sit in silence again.
The water makes gurgling sounds.
I listen to them instead of him.
He keeps glancing at me.
His foot bounces.
He's not very still. Or quiet. Or smart.
"So…" he starts, pretending to stretch, "you're really not gonna ask who I am?"
"You already told me."
"Right, but like—you don't wanna know more?"
"You said your name is Antic," I repeat. "You're training to be Top Chief of a place I don't need to know. You're supposed to be watching something. Instead, you were playing the flute. Then I came. You fell. Then bled. Then chased me. Then gave me a name that isn't mine."
He stares.
His mouth opens.
Shuts.
He blinks.
"…Okay, that's kinda hot," he says under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing!"
He leaps to his feet suddenly. "Right. Okay. Shelter. Fire. Logistics. You're a person in the middle of the scariest forest in the known realms and I'm the only thing keepin' you from gettin' turned into soup by talking ferns."
"I haven't seen any ferns that talk."
"Yet."
He finds a space under a weeping willow. The branches curl like fingers.
He starts gathering dry wood and bark, muttering to himself about "protocols" and "romantic emergencies."
"I don't think this is romantic," I tell him as I sit cross-legged on a dry patch.
He freezes.
Turns slowly. "You don't?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I consider. "There hasn't been any singing."
His expression goes blank. "What?"
"I read that romantic situations involve people singing about feelings. With background instruments. And dancing. Sometimes candlelight."
Antic looks down at the sticks in his hands. Then at me.
"Do you… want me to sing to you?" he asks, slowly.
"No."
"Okay. Thank the gods."
He starts rubbing two sticks together, and I think he might be crying a little.
Later, there's a fire.
Small. Warm. Orange-bright against the cool blue glow of the mushrooms around us.
Antic plops down beside me.
He smells like bark and minerals.
I stare at the fire.
It makes my eyes hurt.
Or my face. I can't tell.
"So," he says. "What do you remember?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I know what a bird is. A book. A chair. Language. My name's gone. My home's gone. My dog is gone."
"Dog?"
"Floof. He's an English sheepdog. His eyes don't match. He's afraid of corn."
Antic blinks.
He actually blinks a lot.
Then says, softly: "Sorry about your dog."
I nod once. "Thank you."
"I'll help you find him," he says quickly, too quickly, like it costs him something to say it but he still wants to.
"I don't know if he's real."
Antic pauses.
Looks at the fire again.
"…Yeah. Me neither, sometimes."
We sit.
I feel his elbow brush mine.
He doesn't pull away.
Ten minutes later he pulls out his flute.
"Wanna hear somethin' pretty?"
I nod.
He plays a melody.
It's strange.
Not sad. Not happy. Not anything really.
But it's beautiful.
Like glass floating.
I lean forward, listening harder.
My body stills. My breathing slows.
"You're really good," I say, quiet.
He stumbles on a note and chokes on the mouthpiece.
"Thanks—thanks—I mean—I practice—I'm not blushing, you are—"
"You're definitely blushing."
"No, I'm sun-kissed!"
"It's nighttime."
"Internal sun!"
I stare.
He grabs a pine cone and throws it at the fire. "Okay. Okay. You're very good at this."
"At what?"
He waves a hand at me. "This. Being like. You know. Ethereal. Quiet. Making a guy feel like his skin's inside out."
I tilt my head. "Should I stop?"
He puts a hand over his heart.
"No. Keep doing it forever."
A pause.
"…That was flirty, wasn't it?"
"I don't know what flirting is."
He falls over backward into the grass.
I sip more water from the stream.
Eventually, he lies beside the fire, staring at the stars.
I sit upright, hands folded in my lap.
"You don't sleep?" he asks.
"Not when I'm thinking."
"What're you thinking about?"
"I'm wondering if I'm supposed to fall in love with you."
He sits up so fast he falls back over again.
"I—wh—What?!"
"You're the first boy I met in the forest. And you have a nice voice."
He's sputtering now. "No—no no no—don't just SAY that. You're not—supposed to just SAY that like it's math!"
"You said I'm weird."
"I DID, and I stand by it, but you can't just—ACK—" Another nosebleed. "You can't just diagnose romance like a cold, okay?"
I hand him a leaf.
He stares at me through the blood and leaf and moonlight and says, "I'm not ready for you, No Eyes."
"I'm not sure what that means."
He flops back onto the ground again.
"Of course you're not.
I wake before the fire dies.
The world is still. Dark blue. The kind of quiet where even the wind is scared to move.
Antic is asleep on his back. His mouth is open. A stick bug is crawling on his cheek.
I nudge him with the flat of my hand. "Wake up. You're drooling."
He shoots upright, flailing.
"AH—what—WHO—DID I WIN?!"
He gasps. Stares at me.
Then at the fire.
Then at the bug on his face.
"…Why're you like this," he mutters.
"I'm always like this."
He rubs his eyes. "You're very pretty and extremely stressful."
I tilt my head. "Thank you."
"Not a compliment!"
He wipes his nose. No blood this time.
Progress.
We walk through a fog-soaked meadow.
The trees creak like bones thinking about their past lives.
The wind hums a note that makes the back of my neck itch.
Antic walks a few steps ahead, pretending not to look back every two minutes.
"Where do you come from?" I ask.
He hops over a root. "Trick question. I'm from the Other End."
"What's that?"
"Land past the Perennial, babe. Think bark that bites, rivers that lie, and one very tragic goat named Crispin. It's chaos, but it's home."
He scratches his neck. "Well. Was."
I walk beside him. The mud is cold between my toes. I don't mind.
"Was?"
He doesn't answer right away.
Then: "My family was loud. You'd like 'em. Big teeth. Louder laughter. They were the best kind of monsters. The kind that scared the dark away."
I nod.
He adds, quieter, "Then the war came."
My brow furrows.
"What war?"
He glances at me like I've just fallen out of the sky. Then realizes I don't know. Not pretending. Not evasive.
Just… gone.
"Oh right," he says. "Memory loss. Right. Forgot you forgot."
I don't say anything.
Antic walks a little slower.
He kicks a rock. It hits a tree and explodes into glitter. He doesn't notice.
"My folks were Breathers," he says, "Guardians of the rhythm. Heart of the realm. Y'know—soul-binding stuff."
I say nothing.
He goes on anyway.
"Then the Void Walkers came. Bad guys. Crawly. No mouths. Just teeth and fog and envy. They don't like the way we sing."
He laughs, but it's empty.
"They cursed the Breaths. Took our songs. Twisted 'em into poison. My family tried to protect them. And died for it."
The wind hushes.
Even the birds pause.
Antic's voice is flat now.
"And so I train. To be Top Chief. Not to lead. Not to protect. Not for glory."
His eyes flash.
"I do it for revenge, No Eyes."
A pause.
I say, "That's not very healthy."
He stares at me like I've stabbed him in the soul.
"THANK YOU for that," he snaps. "I hadn't considered therapy. Thank the stars you're here to psychoanalyze my generational trauma, forest girl."
"I'm just saying. Your heartbeat got very fast. I thought you were having a stroke."
He groans and throws himself dramatically into a patch of moss.
We reach a river by midday.
The water is silver. The fish glow. There are mushrooms humming lullabies nearby. I ignore them.
I kneel by the bank.
My reflection is strange. Glowing white eyes. Blank. My braid down my back, heavy with dew. My face unreadable.
"Do you remember who you were yet?" Antic asks from a rock above.
"No."
"Well, you're doing a very good job of being confusing."
"Thank you."
He sighs. "Again. Not a compliment."
As we walk, the trees begin to lean.
The light fades.
Antic slows. His voice gets lower.
"You feel that?" he whispers.
"Yes. The pressure changed."
"It's them," he says. "The Breaths. Close now. Hungry for attention."
I step forward.
The wind whistles around my ears. The trees twist above us like ropes.
Then—
A hum.
It builds under my skin. In my teeth. My ribs.
Antic grabs my arm. "Careful. This one's old."
I don't move. My glowing eyes stare into the dark ahead.
It forms slowly—light dripping like water.
A figure. Shimmering. Its face is a thousand faces.
Its body, woven from fog and gold.
A Breath.
"Free us…" it whispers. "The pact… broke… the bond… frayed…"
Its mouth doesn't move.
But I feel its pain.
Deep. Hollow. Familiar.
Antic steps forward, hand on his blade. "You see what I mean now, No Eyes? They ain't just whispers. They're wounded.They're us. And they remember."
The Breath turns to me.
"You… were the vessel…"
"What?" I whisper.
The air shifts.
Antic's eyes go wide.
"Shit," he breathes. "You're not just cursed. You're the key."
I say nothing.
Because deep in my chest, something cracks.
A tiny memory.
A hand. A scream. A voice: "She won't survive this."
Then—
Dark.
I grab Antic's shoulder.
"I want to go deeper."
He stares at me.
His voice drops.
"…No Eyes. If we go deeper, we don't come back the same."
"I don't want to be the same."
He swallows.
"…Then let's go''
We walk for hours.
Or maybe minutes. The deeper we go, the more time becomes soup. Warm and slow and meaningless.
The trees here don't have bark anymore. They shimmer instead — like wet skin or pearl. Some tilt sideways like they're listening. Some whisper things I can't understand.
The air smells like old coins and cold tea. There's no sun. No moon.
Just a slow-glowing sky the color of bruises.
I think I'm thirsty.
I think I miss something. Or someone.
I look behind me. No sign of Floof.
Antic walks ahead, mumbling to himself, shaking water out of a pouch made of bark and folded leaves. He glances back when I stop walking.
"Oi—No Eyes. What's the hold up? Legs not working or is the existential dread catching up again, huh?"
I blink at him. "I'm trying to remember something."
He tilts his head, his eyes gleaming green. "Something useful?"
I shake my head. "A face."
He softens, just a flicker. Then: "Mine, maybe? I hear I'm unforgettable."
I squint. "No, yours is… mostly nose."
His jaw drops. "Mostly NOSE—? I take that personally."
"I take everything personally," I say flatly. "I don't know how not to."
Antic presses his hand over his heart. "Ouch. That was cold. I love it."
He offers me the water. It tastes like mint and sadness.
I sit on a stone that feels warmer than the air.
"Hey, uh…" he crouches beside me, suddenly serious. "You ever think about… who you were before the forest?"
"I don't remember."
"Not even a lil' flashback? A whisper? A ghost of a breakfast?"
I shake my head.
He chews his lip. "You ever feel like something wants you to forget?"
I nod.
His voice drops. "Me too."
We sit like that awhile. Nothing but the sound of the leaves breathing around us.
Eventually, he speaks again.
"This place is full of Breaths," he says. "Used to be people, y'know. Magic ones. Caught in between. Like half-memories."
I say nothing.
"I think they're drawn to you," he continues. "Like... you hum on the same frequency."
"I don't hum," I say.
"You do," he grins. "It's cute. Creepy cute."
I blink. "I think I was… someone else. A different name. I just can't find it."
He squints at me. "How's that feel?"
I touch my chest. "Like a door that should open, but doesn't."
He nods, and after a beat: "Well, 'til you remember your real name, I'm sticking with No Eyes. It's got flair. It's short. Marketable. Slaps on a T-shirt."
I look at him. "That's not my name."
He shrugs. "Until it is."
I reached out.
Not with reason. Not with confidence. But like my hand remembered something my mind did not. My fingers brushed his—Antic's. Rougher than mine, warm with that always-damp, always-alive energy he seemed to carry like a second skin.
Then—
A flash.
Not of pain, or light, or noise.
But of her.
Warmth. The scent of soap and earth. A voice like honey poured over sun-warmed stone. Something between lullaby and thunder.
A name spilled from my mouth without permission. "Ami."
Antic blinked. "What?"
"I… I remember someone. Her name. Her touch. Her smell. I don't know who I am… but I knew her." The words tasted like soft fruit, bruised and sweet.
He didn't move, didn't crack a joke. Just let our hands rest there between us, fingers loosely tangled like a forgotten promise.
"Well, shit," he murmured, quiet and strange. "She sounds like home."
A few mornings later, before the light had fully opened its eyes, I climbed a tree.
Fast.
Like a shadow sprinting up bark and bone.
"Hey—HEY!" Antic shouted from below, nearly choking on an apple he hadn't finished chewing. "You're blind! That's a death tree!"
The wind tangled around me like a shawl. I laughed.
A real laugh. Whole and unguarded and sharp at the edges.
"I feel the heartbeat of the branches," I called down, one hand against the bark. "I don't need sight."
Antic let out a long groan, dragging both hands through his messy hair. "Okay but that's still—fuck—it's hot and dangerous and you need to stop being both!"
I tilted my head. "Hot?"
He froze. Blinked. "I said not! Not hot. Knot. Like in the tree. Tree knots. You're… barky. And… rough. Rooted. Definitely not—uh—"
A single thread of red slid down from one of his nostrils.
He slapped a hand to his face and tilted his head back like he'd rehearsed the movement.
"It's allergies," he mumbled. "To your—uh—spiritual energy."
I didn't laugh. I almost did. My mouth twitched like the idea of smiling had tried to escape before I could catch it.
He groaned again, dramatically hiding behind his arm. "Kill me. Just—let a squirrel tackle me off a cliff. I deserve it."
That night, we sat by a fire.
The stars watched like gossiping old friends—loud and nosy.
I traced circles into the ash with one finger. It wasn't for drawing. More like… feeling something again. Trying to remember a language I only knew through my hands.
"Elara," I whispered.
He leaned in, his usual lopsided grin gone. "A name?"
I nodded. Just barely.
It felt cracked. Like glass held together by warmth and ache.
"I think she loved me. Or I loved her. It's… all broken."
Antic didn't smirk. Didn't joke. He just reached for my hand like he didn't know how not to. His thumb moved slow across my knuckles, careful. Like he thought I'd vanish if he pressed too hard.
"It's okay to crack," he murmured. "Even stars explode sometimes."
We sat like that. Just hands. Just heat. Just silence.
The fire popped, sparks trailing upward like they were trying to escape.
I turned toward him slowly. Not because I meant to. Just because something inside me needed to.
"You're close," I said. "Too close."
He didn't move.
"I know," he said.
His eyes dropped to my lips. He lingered there.
Too long.
Then—another nosebleed. Just a little streak this time.
He swore under his breath and tipped his head back, clamping a hand to his face. "This is stupid," he muttered.
I tilted my head, brows furrowed. "You're bleeding."
"Don't ask," he groaned.
But I watched. Quiet. My mouth twitched again.
"You're really bad at pretending you're not affected."
He peeked at me from behind his wrist. "And you're really bad at pretending you don't like it."
I didn't know how to respond to that. So I didn't.
Instead, I reached forward, fingers tentative, and touched the place just above his heart.
His skin was hot beneath my touch. Not feverish. Just… alive.
"You're warm," I said.
His breath hitched.
And then I pulled back. Just enough to make the space between us feel colder than it had before.
I didn't let go of his hand.
And he didn't ask me to.
The fire was low. Antic was curled on his side, one hand under his head, one over the hilt of his blade like he thought the trees might try something while he slept. His chest rose and fell slow and steady.
I stood.
I wasn't sure when or why, exactly. But something had started buzzing under my ribs. Soft. Directionless. But steady. Like a compass without a needle still trying to tell me something.
I didn't make a sound.
Didn't put on shoes—I never had any. Just walked barefoot into the woods, the ash still warm between my toes as I stepped over the firepit and past the moss.
I heard the rustle behind me just as the cold branches started to close in.
"Oi."
A whisper, tired and scratchy.
Then louder.
"Oi, No Eyes—seriously? You sneakin' off in the dead of night without a word? What the hell, I thought you were one of the quiet, respectfultypes."
I stopped walking.
He was behind me now. Shirt still off. Hair a mess. He looked like he'd just rolled out of a fever dream. But the dagger was in his hand, the blade low by his hip, casual but ready.
"I feel something pulling me," I said. "It's not a thought. It's just happening. My feet keep going. I can't stop them."
Antic blinked. The mist curled between us, soft and pale.
"Right. That's normal. Happens to me all the time. Wake up, feel the mysterious urge to walk off into danger barefoot in a haunted forest like it's a fookin' morning jog."
"I don't jog," I said.
He looked at me. Rubbed his temples. Sighed into his palms.
Then he kicked dirt over the fire and tightened the strap on his dagger.
"You're coming?" I asked.
"'Course I'm comin'. What am I gonna do, go home?"
"Why not?"
He shrugged once. "Need an excuse not to be in my realm. You're the excuse now. Congratulations. You're my entire emotional avoidance strategy."
I stared at him.
He grinned. "Don't overthink it. I've got a good ass and commitment issues. Let's go."
We kept walking.
The forest opened slowly around us, the trees groaning like old joints cracking. The fog rolled low, coiling through roots and around my ankles.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
The quiet didn't bother me. It never did.
But then Antic suddenly hissed, lifting one foot off the ground.
"Shit—okay—yep. Yep. Definitely stepped on a mushroom. A wet one. That was not a rock, that was a squish. That's gonna haunt me for days."
I looked down. The mushroom in question looked fine. No blood. No guts. Just… flattened.
"You're not dying," I said flatly.
"Oh no, I'm dying," he said dramatically, flinging an arm over his chest. "It's spreading. This is how it starts. Mushrooms today, spores tomorrow, full-body fungus by sunrise. You're gonna have to bury me in moss, No Eyes. Tell my story."
I didn't respond.
He stared at me, then slumped. "Gods, you're so literal. You're lucky you're hot when you're serious."
I blinked. "You said I was barky and rough."
"…I lied." he groaned
We walked on.
The trees swallowed us up, branch by branch, shadow by shadow.
And whatever was calling me deeper?
It was still out there.
Still waiting.