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Marinette was tired. Or close to it. Her legs didn’t ache. Her lungs felt fine. Her heart beat. Her tears had dried, but the trails they left on her cheeks felt cool against the slight breeze created as she walked. Her eyes were still swollen, hot and slightly stinging, the world around her a blur as she followed the one flickering spot of color in her vision.
Tired wasn’t right. Bored wasn’t either, though maybe closer. It must have been hours that she’d walked. One foot in front of the other, over and over and over again.
Numb, perhaps.
Empty.
She blinked, eyelids hot and wet, light smeared across her vision for a split second, then darkness, then light, then back to normal in a small eternity, the dancing, flickering colors burned into her retinas so she couldn’t lose track.
It was so quiet here. Still and peaceful, soothing against the open wounds of her mind and heart. Even her footsteps against fallen leaves were nearly silent, no wind, no sounds of conversation or motors or construction, not even birdsong.
Her feet stopped. The rest of her body did not. It took a moment for her eyes and brain to catch up, realizing that her trajectory had changed from forward to down in an arc, her hands belatedly raised in an attempt to catch herself as the bright colors finally left her field of vision to be replaced by the rapidly approaching ground.
Marinette yelped in the last instant of her fall, cut off by dirt and leaves as she landed face-first on the forest floor. Her palms slipped and scraped against rocks and wood, doing nothing to break her fall.
She lay there for a stunned moment, facedown in the dirt.
“Ow,” she said, muffled. Then, as though the word had activated all her nerves at once, reminding them what’s supposed to happen when you trip and fall, pain flooded in from all directions - the impact on her head, the sting on her face and palms, the pull around her ankle where it was still caught in the tree root that had made her stumble.
“Owww!” she said again, loud and drawn out, and sat up to grab at her aching head. She’d had worse falls, sure, her ego was bruised more than her body, but there was something humiliating about how out of nowhere it was despite the lack of witnesses.
She tugged her leg free of the tree root, scowling at it. With a sigh, she checked herself over - hands dirty and scraped, but not bleeding, same on the knees and probably her face, though she couldn’t be sure without a mirror, only ashy dirt coming away as she wiped it with her sleeve. Her ankle thankfully moved fine when she rotated it, seemingly not twisted or sprained. A relief, since it had taken her so long to walk here. Going back with an actual injury would not be fun.
Going back.
Marinette looked up and around, her brow furrowed. Surrounding her in all directions were trees, tall and plentiful, far into the distance and stretching above her to block out the sky. Grasses, shrubs, bushes and flowers covered the ground, along with fallen leaves and stray branches, a dense, untouched forest, silent and imposing.
She had noticed it before, but it hadn’t really registered in her mind. How long had she been walking? It must have felt longer than it actually was, because there was no way an actual forest existed in the middle of Paris. She’d sat down in a park, with a small copse of trees, she must have somehow wandered to the dead center of it, just enough to block out the sights and sounds of the city.
Something moved in the corner of her eye. Marinette blinked, turning to face it, and watched as the butterfly gently landed on the branch of a shrub in front of her.
It flapped its wings, slowly.
“I’m okay!” Marinette assured it, waving her hands in front of her. “I just tripped, it’s nothing. I’m totally fine.”
Her face flushed in embarrassment as she talked to the insect, which continued to placidly move its wings and otherwise made no reaction. But there was nobody else here, and the silence was starting to feel oppressive, so Marinette continued as she carefully got to her feet, using a tree trunk for balance.
“Totally fine,” she repeated, brushing herself off. She carefully shifted her weight to the ankle that had gotten caught, and sighed in relief when there was no pain or soreness. “No big deal. I, um, fall a lot, kind of.”
She wiped her hands on each other, then on her jacket. The dirt was mostly gone, but some of it was caught in the rough parts of her scrapes, stinging slightly if she tried to rub it off.
She looked around again. The forest was slightly less imposing from higher up, though no less strange. It wasn’t just the size, and the density of the trees. There was that silence she had noticed before, and the absolute stillness. There was no wind, except that created by Marinette herself when she moved. Nothing rustled in the branches or leaves, no squirrels or birds or even insects, excepting her present company.
Despite the lushness of the plants, everything felt….dead. Everything was pale, desaturated, hardly even casting a shadow. The sunlight didn’t make it through the canopy, and light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, making the world washed out and dim. It was almost white enough to seem like winter, though there was no snow or ice, and the air was, if not warm, not really cold either.
Her eyes were drawn back to the butterfly, and it was no wonder. Its deep, vivid purples and pinks seemed to almost glow against the emptiness of the forest.
Marinette turned away, eyes scanning the ground as she patted her pockets, making sure she hadn’t dropped anything in the fall. “I should probably go back,” she said aloud, as much to herself as the butterfly. She winced as she looked down, where the impact of her body had made a clear, nearly cartoonish silhouette in the leaves. “I really lost track of time, but it’s probably getting late, and-”
She paused as she pulled out her cellphone. The screen remained dark. Still broken, of course, despite Marinette’s desperate attempts to dry it before the circuits fried. Tears stung behind her eyes again, and she quickly put it away, sniffing and wiping her face on her sleeve again before turning in place to get a good look around.
“Okay, so I don’t know the time, and no GPS or calling someone either. No big deal. This place can’t be that big.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking. All the directions looked the same. If not for the mark she’d made falling, she’d have no indication of where she came from. Had she turned at all before? She must have, because, again, there was no way there was an actual forest just out in the middle of Paris. If she just walked in a straight line, she’d probably see the lights of the city soon enough, and be able to get her bearings.
There was movement again, and Marinette’s eyes caught on the butterfly as it took to the air. She tracked its movement, dancing back and forth around the trees, never quite going out of sight. Like it was waiting for her.
“Well, it’s not like I have any better ideas,” said Marinette, after a moment of hesitation. “And I’m already talking to you. Lead the way.”
The leaves crunched gently under her shoes, and Marinette stayed uncomfortably aware of the sounds of her own breathing as she walked. The stillness of the forest was oppressive. Not just the silence, but the fact that no matter how far she walked, no matter how sure she was she hadn’t backtracked, that every tree and shrub and leaf on the ground was different and unique, never repeating, it all felt like that same, endless grey and white, stretching on forever. The sky - or, the canopy, rather - never darkened or changed. The air didn’t get any colder. There were no signs of the city through the trees, nor people or animals. Only herself, and the trees, and the bright flickering of the purple butterfly.
She was nearly startled, as she realized there was another sound - one so quiet and gradual that she hadn’t noticed she could hear it. Running water. A gentle trickle, with no splashes or anything, constant and nearly inaudible except that there was nothing else in the forest to cover it.
She jogged to catch up with the butterfly, having stopped to listen. The insect never went completely out of sight, staying just within her vision despite the ample foliage for it to disappear behind. This time, when she reached it, it darted around a tree, a sharp turn from the slightly clearer grounds that Marinette hesitated to call a path.
She obediently followed, clambering over a fallen log and through the thicket, her trail immediately swallowed by the plants as if she had never been there.
Marinette stumbled out onto a terrain of small, smooth rocks, the plants finally thinning just enough to make way for the shallow stream that flowed through. The water was crystal clear, devoid of any rapids or even bubbles and running smoothly over its path. Maybe it could be called a real river in wetter times of year, as the slight slope and the path of river stones indicated its presence beyond its current scope, but at this size, she thought maybe she could jump over it, with a running start, or just wade through and barely get the bottom of her rolled-up jeans wet.
She stopped by the water’s edge, kneeling down to dip in her hands. It was cool, soft, and refreshing on her scraped up palms, gently freeing the small stones and dirt she couldn’t get off before. She splashed it on her face as well, sighing with relief as it did the same there. She didn’t drink any - and wasn’t it strange that she wasn’t thirsty after all that walking? - not knowing its source or any bacteria or chemicals that might be inside, despite the clear appearance. She just enjoyed its gentle presence, finally soothing her eyes that she hadn’t realized were still swollen, clearing the tear tracks from her face.
“You shouldn’t be here,” said a voice, suddenly, and Marinette nearly toppled into the stream in surprise.
She caught herself, albeit with one hand now in the water, and turned in her awkward position on the ground to face behind her.
A boy, about her age, staring at her with as much surprise as she had, eyes wide, his hand resting on a tree trunk as he stepped out from somewhere beyond it.
“I - what are you doing here?” he asked. It didn’t sound accusatory so much as genuinely baffled. He looked around, blue eyes flitting from her to the butterfly and back.
“I’m so sorry,” said Marinette. She scrambled to her feet, wiping her wet hands off on her trousers. “Is this private property? I got lost, I’m trying to get out, but I -”
“No, nothing like that,” he interrupted. A slight frown creased his brow, and he came fully out from the trees to join her on the river bank. He offered a hand to pull her up.
His hand felt strange in hers. It wasn’t warm, or cool, somehow exactly the same as the air around them. His skin was pale, nearly white, and his feathery hair so platinum blond it was almost the same. Even his clothes, white and washed out pastels, and his soft voice gave off that same impression as the forest itself.
Desaturated. Empty.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I’m fine!” she said, and her voice was far too loud in the silent forest. She cleared her throat. “I’m fine. I tripped earlier, but it’s barely a scrape, nothing I can’t handle.”
“How did you get here?” he asked, gently leading her up to more solid ground, smooth stones slipping under their shoes down to the water as they went.
“Oh, um,” Marinette stuttered. She couldn’t very well tell him that she had been following a butterfly. “L-like I said, I got lost. I mean, I came in, and just kind of wandered for a long time, I guess, and now I can’t find my way back so I was just trying to go in a straight line and assume it’d thin out eventually, but I heard the water so I came down to rinse off my hands and-”
“No, I mean,” the boy interrupted, and he still seemed confused but he had a slight smile now, “I mean, how are you here? How are you still you?”
“What?” said Marinette, feeling very stupid.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Oh. Um. M-Marinette,” she said, and felt even stupider, stumbling over her own name.
“Marinette,” he repeated, and she could feel heat flowing into her face. “That. How can you be this deep into the forest and still remember who you are?”
She blinked. Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of the question. “What do you mean?” she said, quietly. “I just…kept walking. And then I fell.”
“You must be very strong,” the boy murmured, more to himself than to her. He blinked and looked up from where he’d been frowning at their joined hands. “I’ll take you out of here. Follow me.”
“Okay?” Marinette squeaked, and followed when he turned and gave her arm a gentle tug.
In the corner of her eye, the deep purples of the butterfly danced along beside them.
“What did you mean, how am I still me?” Marinette asked.
The boy huffed, blowing his bangs out of his face. He slowed enough for her to walk nearly side by side, half a step behind to follow his lead.
“This forest… takes,” he said. He glanced at her. “What made you come into the forest in the first place?”
“I…” Marinette dodged his gaze, looking down at the grey of the ground passing beneath them as they walked. She didn’t want to talk about it. “It was dumb. Just something stupid at school. Some stuff the other kids said and did. I over-reacted, I know, it just got to me. And I wanted to be alone after that.”
“It must have been painful,” said the boy, “to drive you to this place.”
“It… it happens a lot,” said Marinette quietly. “I guess it is pretty bad.”
“That means you must be even stronger than I thought,” said the boy, and that made Marinette look up, seeing that he was looking at her with an impressed smile, subdued like the rest of him but enough for her heart to bubble in her chest and her face to heat up again. “To fight it off, even with the weight.”
“To fight what off?” Marinette asked, and took a stumbling jog forward a few steps so she was at his side and didn’t have to look at him directly. “You keep saying things like that.”
He sighed again, and reached up with his free hand to pull a leaf from an overhead branch. It snapped back into place, sending a rustling sound up through the trees, intensely loud in the unnatural quiet of the forest.
He showed it to her. Pale green, nearly white, but not from any fungus or lichen or even ice, just devoid of color, nearly the same value as his pale hand.
“The forest pulls in people who are hurting,” he said. “It offers them relief, or power, or vengeance, or justice…whatever it is they want to ease the pain. But it doesn’t actually give anything back. It only takes.”
He dropped the leaf, and it tumbled to the forest floor, instantly lost among thousands of others.
Marinette glanced around her. The forest had seemed strange and uncanny, but never really frightening or threatening. It was more sad and numb than it was ominous. Like how she had felt more numb than angry by the time she’d stumbled over that root.
“They don’t mean any harm, really,” the boy went on, and he reached his arm in front of her, turning to walk backwards for a moment as the butterfly landed on his hand, wings softly waving their deep, heavy purple.
He stopped, and Marinette stopped too, facing him as he looked sadly at the butterfly. “They weren’t meant to hurt. They’re attracted to negative emotions, but not to hurt people or take away what makes them themselves. They’re just supposed to help carry the weight, to make it lighter or easier to bear. Not to take it away entirely.”
“To… take the emotions?” Marinette repeated. Her free hand came up beside his, and the butterfly gently stepped onto her finger instead. “What’s so wrong with that?”
“They’re your emotions,” the boy said. “Not for anyone else to use. Not for you to give away until there’s nothing left inside.”
His voice was pained and harsh. His hand squeezed hers involuntarily, and she looked up from the butterfly to his angry blue eyes.
“Who’s using them?” she asked quietly. “Did…did someone take yours from you?”
He blinked in surprise, then looked quickly away, guilty.
“No,” he said, and pulled her along as he continued walking. “No, it’s…different, with me. I’m not trapped in the forest, or lost. I’m just… a part of it.”
“A part of it?”
He glanced at her, and with the shadows of the branches above and the paleness of the tree trunks and plants and ash-grey dirt around him, he blended in perfectly, nearly invisible.
“It might have created me,” he said. “I don’t really remember. If I had a life before the forest, it’s long gone now.”
“You said someone else was using the emotions,” Marinette said.
“My father.”
She frowned. “But if the forest created you-”
“If the forest created me, it was for him,” he said. “I doubt he remembers either.”
“Then why-”
“He’s trying to accomplish something. The forest has power, and gains more with each soul he feeds to it. He hopes to use it for himself, someday.”
A shiver ran down Marinette’s back.
“If…if you’re a part of the forest, and he’s using the forest to take people…”
He looked over his shoulder at her again, then stopped suddenly.
“I don’t want to be used for that,” he said firmly. “I don’t always have a choice, but… but I’m not going to stand around when there’s hope for someone to get out.”
Marinette clutched her hand to her chest. The butterfly still stood on her finger, its wings beating in time with her heartbeat.
“Thank you,” she said.
He looked up at her, surprise in his pained eyes.
“Are we nearly out?” she asked, quietly. They hadn’t been walking that long, certainly not as long as her journey in, but…
“It’s… not really about distance,” he said, uncertainly, searching her face for something. Eventually he straightened, squeezing her hand once more, since neither of them had let go. He pulled her firmly forward, and she walked beside him, over roughage and fallen logs.
They stepped over more bushes, around trees, and distantly, there was the sound of a car horn, the sulfuric smell of the sewer on the wind, squirrels leaping out of their way as they fumbled their way through the tangled branches onto manicured green grass.
“Here you are,” the boy said, and led her by the arm into the orange light of the setting sun. The shadows were long, but the air was warm from the updrafts of the nearby asphalt.
“Thank you,” she said again, and turned to face him. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course,” he said, again with that slightly painful, crooked smile, and backed away until he reached the limit of their outstretched hands and she squeezed his, stopping him from going.
“Will I see you again?”
“...I don’t mean any offense, but I hope not,” he said, glancing back towards the dense trees.
“Under different circumstances,” Marinette clarified. “Can’t… can’t you leave the forest?”
He blinked, and his eyes shifted away from hers, guilty. “I… I can occasionally sneak out for a short time,” he said. “But it’s doubtful you will see me.”
“Well, I’ll look!” she said, and stepped close to him again. She grabbed his other hand. “It must be lonely all the time in there.”
“Sometimes…my father brings me ‘friends’,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “But they don’t stay themselves for long. The forest takes them.”
“Well, you took me out of the forest,” said Marinette, “and I’m your friend now, right?”
He looked up at her in surprise, and his pale skin blushed a deep red.
“You look good like that, with some color in your cheeks.” In the light of the sun, his platinum hair was darker, more akin to gold, and even his eyes looked to be a bright, vivid green instead of the pale blue of the forest.
“I-” he said, unsure how to respond.
“Oh!” Marinette exclaimed, and dropped his hands to pat at her pockets. She knew she still had one with her, she’d been finishing it during her lunch break, before everything went wrong, and, “There!”
She pulled it out of her jacket and placed it into his hands. “Something to remember me by.”
He blinked owlishly at the string of beads and charms. “What is it?”
“A bracelet,” she said, then stumbled over her words. “Or, a keychain, or whatever you want it to be, I know a bracelet isn’t always the most masculine - but, you know. A good luck charm. Something to remember me by. I made it - or, some of it, a couple of the clay beads, the rest are just from the store and I strung them together, but-”
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she echoed him, her mouth suddenly dry.
“That reminds me,” he said, and reached out a hand. The butterfly landed on his finger, nearly black in the orange sunset. He brought it to his face and blew gently over its wings. The dark purples flew off like dust into the air, spiraling in lazy eddies until the insect was a plain, simple white.
Marinette gasped. It still hurt. It was still anger and sadness. But it was warm and familiar and hers , and she clutched her hands to her chest.
“You should have that back,” he said sheepishly, and the butterfly took to the air as he dropped his hand, fiddling with something on his finger. “Also, here.”
He took her hand again, his palm warm and soft, and dropped something in hers.
“To remember me by.”
She stared agape at the gold ring in her hands. “Is this- is this real? I can’t take this!”
“Then… you can give it back to me. If we meet again.”
Marinette looked up to protest, but the air in front of her was empty. Where she’d come from was just a small grove of trees, shady and slightly overgrown, the road and the cars rushing down it visible through the branches. Something rustled in the bushes nearby, and she caught a glimpse of white fur and paws darting through the brush and disappearing into the night.
Her hand closed around the ring.
“ When we meet again,” she corrected.
A white butterfly danced in the air beside her. She glanced at it and smiled.
“You’ll guide me to him again next time, right?” she asked.
The butterfly was silent, and soon its white wings vanished into the empty sky.
