Work Text:
I own nothing of course, but I very much enjoy these characters
Enoch enjoyed spring. No, it was not his season of course, but he liked it all the same. His was the dominion of fall with its bounty, the golden autumn all threaded through with winter’s strings and the last cut threads of summer’s heat. When the Unknown turned to fall he came into his full power and in its absence, as was the lot of them all, that power waned. But he enjoyed the spring despite this for the joy it still evoked in his parish.
Gone now were the gourds and corn husks that his people had donned and that the long winter had savaged. The new warmth had brought rot and killed the last carved and crooked smile. Now flowers were all the rage and straw hats laden with the blooms bobbed and dipped their way across Pottsfield. There was energy in the sunlight and in full gaiety his people were beginning the great renewing. Over the coming months they would plow, weed, and cast into loamy sod the seeds that, when he ascended once again, they would harvest and wear anew. As their laughter carried to him from the fields on the soft breeze it was, he mused from his perch on the fence, just the perfect sound for a fresh spring day. He only wished his neighbor was fairing half so well. Spring was hard on the Hope Eater.
Where the transition from fall to winter was a well-practiced dance the changing of seasons from winter to spring was... no sense flattering it, it was the drunken brawl that followed said evening. Eruptions of life great and small were bursting into the woods like fungus on bark. Grasses and clovers, fiddleheads and dandelion shoots, miners’ lettuce and wild violets abounded, covered ground once bare and bereft. Long-sleeping branches woke and opened blossoms across their grasping fingers in hazy puffs of white and pink, hatting the woods with the likeness of clouds. These same wonders that made poets sigh and lovers swoon gave his neighbor no shortage of pains.
For one they all but ruined his camouflage.
Against the myriad pastels in the forest the sharp dark lines of the Beast stuck out blatantly. If he wished to move unseen his wanderings were restricted to the evening hours. If he wished to travel far he was restricted all the more. The light and warmth ate his strength. Oh, not with the great maw of summer, its searing teeth and flaming breath that could make him steam, but with a thousand small fangs that bled him slowly. Spring, he had told Enoch in confidence, was a test of endurance and a trial of patience.
The season also brought changes in the behaviors of his quarry. Warm weather encouraged group outings. Less desperate travelers to wander the woods alone, and those on the paths kept their spirits high. Picnics and May games abounded as residents took the time to paint and plant, to mortar, thatch and repair. Communities pulled together and hands were busy at home with work big and small. Small suprise then that hunting suffered more in these cheery conditions than any other point of the year. In the season of life’s rebirth crafting its absence was no small task, and as the saying went, ‘Edelwoods rarely root in spring.’
And more than this it seemed hope itself was humorously petty. Enoch thought so, even if he was only assuming at it. There had never been a true consensus among the pantheon as to whether hope had an embodiment of its own after all. The Queen of the Clouds claimed she'd perceived someone and thought them to be hope. On many occasions apparently she had witnessed the spirit at work. She described them sparsely though. According to the Queen hope was a hazy and bright form, almost modest or even shy, standing just behind individuals entreating her for aid. She said its presence put light in their eyes and changed the sound of their voices. And the Queen was no liar, not at least with things that did not affect her welfare or realm. Perhaps she was right?
Enoch thought hope too broad a thought for a perceivable form of that sort himself. If hope had a guardian they must be sheerer than gossamer, thinner than breath, fragile as a bubble and stronger than steel. Likely there was no such being. But if hope did have some manner of conscious thought it quite possibly held a grudge; and oh, if so, did it! Against its devourer within the woods themselves hypothetical hope had laid its curse, a curse that came to fruition each rotation of the seasons. The Beast, impervious to disease or rot, suffered terribly from hayfever.
When spring reached its zenith the Beast could not be found for anything. This was a well-known and celebrated fact for many, making hearts light and celebrations held at equinox more joyous. Were the masses of the unknown to learn the reason for this absence his neighbor would, Enoch supposed, likely be humbled dreadfully. The poor dear was so terribly proud after all. Fear and awe were his armor; as Enoch donned the maypole the Beast wore his frosty indifference. But now… well… …
Sometimes it was truly bad before the bloom.
The pollen had to run its course, to leave its mark, it was much like a putrefaction that festers until the pustules open and purge. The beast could not be rid of what ailed him until it worked its way back out of him poor dear. What followed Enoch did take perhaps a selfish pleasure in. Though it was a hassle for his neighbor it led to such a pretty display it was hard not to think fondly of it.
When spring had spent its spite the other warden would recover with the coming of his own seasonal emergence. Just as the woods changed so too did the Beast, and he too would flower and match them in the end. Enoch had witnessed this ritual repeating itself with varying intensity and irritation for nearly a century now. Likely this spring would be no different, and it must not be so bad yet. Enoch had seen no hint of his neighbor and in hard springs he was guaranteed a visit. He could not fix the situation but he could assist, and proud as the Beast was he was no masochist.
Enoch was contentment, he was satisfaction and comfort, he was plenty and abundance and more besides. That which suffered sought him and he in turn offered solace and rest. It was his role in things and in this he was consistent and waver-less. True it had not always been so, no. There had been a time when he was a warlord and a death god of a very different cloth. Nothing had waited in his roots but agony then. Ah but those were long ago days now, long ago.
Now he was settled. Retired, so to speak. He’d made his investments and planted his sword. But war god or no he was still something with a sharp gaze that knew the difference between something’s make and when something was being worked upon. The dead had their hungers, the Beast has his own. And these were far from the same. He was built lean, made hollow, and too much satisfaction would be more poison than poultice for the Winter Warden. Such a pity…
Sometimes it made interaction with his neighbor difficult for, knowing better or no, how could he not want with all he was to sate his companion? The Beast was personified want, hunger, emptiness and void, while Enoch himself all but flowed with plenty. They were like key and lock, like hook and eye, like shovel and grave. Enoch could all but swear despite himself that they had been made to fit. And oh, how he wanted to fit into the other, to meet, to match, to complete! These things stirred in Enoch such a rush of giving that in the best of times it tested his restraint. But this hayfever was different from the Beast’s ever gnawing edge, very much so, and he could not stand to see the other spirit suffer his changing needlessly alone and wanting; it chaffed the very fiber of him.
The Beast claimed that he resented this familiarity but truly, Enoch had oft mused, ‘he doth protest too much.' Despite his protests the seasonal suffering made him vulnerable to the comforts Enoch offered, so why fuss? They had come to an accord of sorts in years past to preserve both of their sanities in the matter. When the Beast needed rest he would make his way to Pottsfield, to the barn, to the loft, and remain under the other spirit’s influence until his situation improved. And Enoch for his part would try not to fuss overmuch while he was there. Try was such a wonderfully flexible word~
In the barn's closed air there was a reprieve from the changed woodland. The calm and dark of the loft gave rest and the proximity of the harvest spirit soothed his pains. When it was truly bad they did not speak, could not. Fatigue suited his neighbor poorly and he slept as if dead when he slept at all. Enoch would curl his furry body around the lantern and doze himself then with his paws pressed to its chill sides. When it was not as bad they would talk; more accurately Enoch would talk and the Beast listen. Some springs the Beast had painfully little voice to spare. But he was always an attentive audience, voice or no, and Enoch, well, he always had things to say about his town.
Enoch’s ear flicked, dislodging some free flying dandelion fluff that had caught itself against his fur. He spread himself out in a long stretch and draped himself across the planks in a sunning sprawl. (A lovely day indeed,) he mused, (a good day for chasing grasshoppers. A good day for children to play in a nature come back to life.) What a terrible tease for his beastie.
Distraction then from his thoughts; it appeared Miss Clara was coming up with a basket from the fields and behind her…? Yes, there came the rest of the garden committee. Enoch was quickly consumed in their conversation, the group deep in debate and planning the wreathing event that the flower gathering of the past week had been for. Apparently there weren’t enough willow cuttings for cores, could they make do with young birch? And who would be on the judging panel this year? It really must be a fresh panel, that was only fair. And how did he like her hat, or hers for that matter? Both were new after all, straw also, and what about the ribbon? Was it in the budget to buy more?
The meeting continued well into dusk as meetings in Pottsfield were wont to do. It was to a purple horizon and an absent sun that Enoch was greeted as he made his way down from his fencepost and back towards the barn and town proper. The fireflies were abed so the only lights to be found were the glow of distant windows and the occasional lantern pole, the stars were just making their way up and the moon was thin.
The forest carried many sounds as he walked the path home, hovering between the patterns of its woodland inhabitants. Rabbits rushing beneath a bush to the left, done for the day. The distant snorts of a boar at its evening forage. The soft huffing breath of deer grazing together just beyond the tree line as they gained their second wind. And closer than these the faint chatter of the committee making their way back a few cart lengths ahead of him. Beneath his paws the residual warmth of the sun still lingered and the wind above the grass bent with a sweet apple blossom breeze.
These did nothing to hide a stumble/crunch of dirt to the side of the fence behind him and a sudden thick sneeze.
Enoch stopped, fur a-bristle and ears back with surprise. How had the other spirit gotten so close without him feeling his chill? “Goodness neighbor you gave me a fright, I must be…” Enoch stopped mid thought, understood as soon as he spotted him. This was a bad spring.
The Beast was bent where he stood at the edge of the path, one hand braced on a fence post and the other hanging low. His aura was gone, frost thawed through as though it were summer, even his shadows seemed thin. Enoch’s whiskers flicked alarmed as his other senses conveyed these absences more keenly than his sight. The Beast's cloak hung poorly on him, cast off one shoulder and barely present, shaking as those shoulders rose and fell with smothered panting. The faint sound of those short breaths was thickened almost to mud. His head hung low and the light of his eyes was faint and foggy. So too was the light in the lantern that he held as if its weight were too much for him. The flame must be low, perhaps dangerously underfed.
A wet rasp, an attempt to clear his throat to speak, then; “En-och-h-h-” It was a croak only and the effort cost him in a sudden series of barking coughs and gurgles.
“No, absolutely not! Be still dear!” Enoch jumped the span onto the fence beside the other and rubbed himself against the bracing hand clenched tight with the fit. “You’re a fright, you should have come sooner. Sit. Sit I insist. You won’t make it. I’ll get the maypole and come back for you so wait for me here. Do not move.” Then he was off, sprinting back to the barn and wiggling his way into his stuffed head in a flurry of straw.
A moment for his senses to change, widen, and then back again he hurried, drifting with what speed he could muster in this form. No doubt this would be the cause of many questions come the morning but the morning was hours away yet. Perhaps he could pass it off as wanting to feel the breeze another way? Anything but the truth would be suitable. In his own concern he was unabashed but the Beast would not forgive him for making a scene of this.
Said Beast, stubborn as ever he had been, was yet standing when Enoch returned. The fit had passed and he had straightened somewhat but Enoch did not miss that the handle of the lantern had found its way onto a fencepost. The harvest lord gathered his companion to him in a rush of ribbon, a shiver moving through him when he felt how limp the weight he lifted lay and how easily he let him do so. “I have you Hope Eater. May I take…” The Beast was ahead of him, reaching for and claiming his lantern, holding it to his chest. “That will do nicely. Alright, here we go.”
Enoch took them to the barn, to the loft, to the darkest corner against the farthest wall. He set the other onto a bale and turned about, both giving his neighbor a chance to settle and himself a chance to hang streamers and close the loft off from curious eyes. Behind him another series of ugly coughs and gurgles, sounds his neighbor had no doubt suppressed as they passed the homes of Pottsfield, shook the dusty air. Once these passed a soft wheeze and the crush of pressed straw told Enoch the other had reclined. The mayor turned back around and he and the Beast regarded each other in somber silence.
Enoch broke it first as he was wont to do; “You put this off too long neighbor, I’ve rarely seen you this spent.”
A soft sound that might have been a hum of assent. “I had… little choice.” The Beast paced his words, taking pauses, perhaps to stave off another set of coughs. He sounded more himself now that some of the gunk had moved but his tone was threadbare still. “I was… returning from the true wood when… it set in. That is…”
“Miles and more from here.” Enoch conceded. “And not easy travel over much of it. I am almost surprised you made the trip from that distance at all. There must have been hides along the way that you considered?”
“I made… use of several. This was… a good day, for walking.” There was a wan humor under the gravel of his pitch and in his half lidded gaze. He did not elaborate to what a bad day had in comparison been. He was sinking fast and hard now. Less than a sliver of his gaze in a weak crescent regarded the other spirit as his head began to list under its own weight. “I am here… regardless. I…” A sharper dip and one antler tip tapped the ground.
“Better late than never of course! I am always so glad for your visits.” Enoch fussed about in the hay, shaping the mound behind with a quick series of tugs into a cushion to support and level out the other’s rack.
Another soft hum of sound, perhaps in thanks, answered this assistance. Nothing further did the other offer as without the pressure of keeping his head up the last of the Beast’s energies fled him.
Enoch watched the crescents of the other warden’s eyes shut completely and with them the thick residual sound of his breaths found a pause. Those came far slower and further between when he slept.
Distantly Enoch mused how novel a discovery it had been that the Beast was a steady breather. It was an odd requirement among their number after all, Enoch himself indulged mostly for his cat skin. But one of his fellow warden’s strongest senses was smell and that required air. More than this perhaps was the nature of hunger itself which he so embodied. Hunger is a gasping, gulping, swallowing thing, pulling ever inward, seeking to fill, and perhaps air was the most essential hunger in the world entire? (An embodiment of hunger cannot really be expected to refrain but poor dear, he’s hard pressed with it now. One task at a time.) With a quick ribbon adjustment to the lantern to ensure it was not somehow knocked about Enoch was on the move again.
He laid the main beam across the barn doors to lock them and opened a window on the lower level instead, letting his ribbons trail out from this and onto the handle of the water pump he knew awaited him. Two solid pushes on its lever brought a rush of cold into the waiting bucket below and three more pumps filled it. Back into the barn came the bucket and Enoch set it up in the loft between them.
Into this Enoch dunked an empty burlap sack, he wished a blanket but had none now so this would have to do, and elevated it to a higher calling than the mere storage of tubers. A couple solid wrings with a couple solid ribbons left the bag damp but not sodden. He used another group to move aside his companion’s cloak, going by feel far more than sight, and then lay the bag atop him from knees to chin.
“There we are, that’s better then yes?” It didn’t matter that the Beast could not listen, Enoch knew well enough he still heard. He suspected, though this too had yet to be admitted, that his voice was a comfort. “I’ll slip into something smaller shortly and see if we still have some ice down in one of the deep cellars. You’re much too warm friend, it doesn’t suit you.” Another bag unceremoniously emptied, another series of dunks and twists, he lay the second over the first. “We’ll get you more yourself in no time. That won’t change your stay of course, clearly you cannot be left to your own devices. It’s not as if you didn’t know spring was coming after all.” A final ribbon rung damp by its fellows he lay across the other’s closed eyes. “And I will not hear a word of protest. Not one.”
Once these tasks were done he turned his attention back to the lantern. The Beast’s body was one thing but his core was far more fragile, and its condition more important by a half. The flame was steady enough, at least to Enoch’s estimation, but low as he had suspected. With no lantern bearer at present all its care fell to the Beast.
Enoch supposed that the true wood had little by way of Edelwood trees to feed it. Most beings never went north and north again, this had likely driven his neighbor down into the springs grasp for sustenance. How long had he waited before taking the plunge? Perhaps that had been a factor, perhaps his hunger had made him all the more vulnerable to the season’s curse? He would consider asking but suspected no answer would be granted in return.
Enoch kept a couple of the Beast’s oil vials in the ground beneath the barn, a courtesy and a pinch of good sense. It was rude to have nothing to offer a guest when they came calling after all. The mere technicality that this hospitality, roundaboutly, was provided by the Beast himself didn’t dignify acknowledgement. There should be some still in the dugout beneath the floor.
Enoch lowered the head of his maypole over the loft and pressed with his truer self, pumpkin vines at rest beneath the dirt, to push this hidden box and the floor above it up and into reach. A quick check of the contents confirmed the presence of four small glass vials stained dark with the flammable brew. Back to the loft he called, “We’re short friend but this should see us though this visit. If you come again before the season ends you’ll have to forgive me. My supplier has been having some troubles, you see.”
Silence from the loft. That was fine. Enoch took one of vial and gently sank his vine and its remaining load back into their places. Back above to the loft he pulled himself, prize in tow, and with care popped the cork and opened the hatch of the lantern’s oil well. A small tip saw it run sluggish but sure and in response the flame swelled and fluttered, its whoosh as it bloomed almost a sigh of relief. From the straw the Beast groaned in response, low and deep, but otherwise lay still. His next breath when it came sounded a bit stronger.
Confident that the situation was for now suitable Enoch lowered his head to block the ladder to the loft above and separated himself from the maypole skin. Out wriggled the cat and he cleaned the straw from his back with a quick roll across the floor. Then up to the windowsill, out onto the pump, and down to the ground again he bounded and took up a leisurely trot to the storehouse at the other side of town. He had offered ice and ice he would deliver if possible.
Many of his people retired to their homes in the evenings but few of them truly slept. Those more than four seasons free from the dirt almost always abandoned the practice. Enoch rarely called on anyone after dark but when he did it was welcomed and he had little worry of being a disturbance. Beside the storehouse a home sat, the windows glowing bright, and it was to this door that Enoch raked his claws and called; “A moment of your time Mr. Dirk.”
“Goodness Enoch, is that you?” Came the response and the door opened to a skeletal form so woven through with flowers and grasses as to be comfortably portly with a small and smart straw had on his brow. “Lovely to see you, lovely! Come in and have a sit why don’t you? Matilda dear it’s Enoch, can you make tea?”
“Oh Enoch~! And so late? Of course I can!” Another head popped into sight beside the first, this one wearing a crown of tree blossoms and long grass braids tied back into a low bun. “Whatever would you like Enoch? I have several lovely Endicott teas, and I think there’s still some Camellia Grey?”
“Thank you but no, another time if you’ll indulge me would be a treat. Tonight I need some assistance in the storehouse.” Enoch hopped off their step and looked back across his shoulders to them. “I’m hoping there’s still ice down in the chest.”
“Ice eh? Should be, should be. Let me get the key.” Mr. Dirk turned back into the house and reached up the wall, “How much would you like?”
“As much as can reasonably be spared. And salt also. I need it to keep a bit.” Enoch’s whiskers flicked and his attention turned to Matilda. “And as I think of it if you have a quilt that I could have, a thick one that you’d forgive me if I couldn’t return? I would be grateful.”
“A quilt? Oh that’s no bother Enoch, I must have stitched half a dozen last year! It was a long winter wasn’t it? We traded so many of them with the other towns some of the group were afraid we’d run right through our cloth!” She laughed, the sound girlish. “Never had that happen before, and never will! I’ve got too much of a fondness for wool and Janet’s worse than me!” As Mr. Dirk came out she turned back inside; called over her shoulder, “I’ll be just a minute! I’ll pick a nice one while you boys get your ice.”
It was a quick errand all and all. Mr. Dirk was correct that there was ice in the chest and he salted with his other hand as he transferred chunks into a metal pot for the trip. When they had returned upstairs Matilda waited for them outside the door with a large quilt thrown over her arms. Enoch was taken with it on sight. It was charming, delightful, it was quintessential Pottsfield. The earthy colored fabric sections had been loving decorated with fields of stitching and soft crochet stalks of corn. The tassels at the four ends were shaped like pumpkin flowers, and overall it was resplendent with plush pumpkins of any manner of color and size. He could not resist a quick rub across it, the cat in his skin determined that it must carry his smell.
Matilda laughed delighted. “Oh I hoped you’d like this one. Made it three springs ago and I couldn’t bear to sell it. But may you have joy in it Enoch as I have.”
“A generous gift indeed Mrs. Dirk, and I thank you for it.” He pressed his full face and whiskers into a larger orange pumpkin for good measure. “I’ll trouble you both a moment longer to help me take these to the barn and then I’ll wish you a pleasant night.”
“Glad to help Enoch, always glad aren’t we Matilda? A body’s happy when there’s things to do.”
Mr. Dirk took up his pot, Matilda looped one of her arms through his, and they made a small procession back across the town and to the open window of the barn. Some last farewells and well wished saw the skeletal couple off to resume their evening. Enoch watched to make sure they were well back along the road before jumped again from spigot, to sill, to floor, and wiggled himself back into the head he’d left behind.
With streamers aflutter he pulled pot and quilt inside and shut the window behind him, turning his attention back to the prone form of his neighbor. The Beast was unmoved in his absence. All seemed well. Perhaps he was, as he knew the Beast would tell him soon enough, overreacting? But better safe than feeling sorry for oneself after all, and the agreement was to try not to fuss. He never promised to succeed.
He dug Into the insulating hay about the Beast and pressed the ice in close to him. More hay covered this to slow the melt and with that done it was time to change the damp sacks out for better. Enoch put the bags aside and carefully lay the quilt across the Beast’s form and iced straw bale, gratified to his eldritch core to see this covered him properly from chin to toe. Another ribbon dunked and wrung above the bucket replaced the spent one over the other’s eyes.
Then he settled. Nothing to do now of course but wait and watch. He wanted to wrap his ribbons about his neighbor’s arms, to hold him, to trace some of the whirls and faces that he was so familiar with now. He refrained. It wasn’t a liberty he was free to take as he wished and he’d be mortified himself to overstep the other warden’s trust so blatantly. These were his own wishes after all, not the other’s wants, and for his own comfort currently not his friends. And they were based in worry which somehow made it all the more ridiculous. Enoch knew how this ended after all, it always looked bad at the first and it would ease soon. So long as the lantern burned no discomfort was a real danger. He would be fine, everything was fine. It was…
No, It was not fine. It was and it was not. It could not be both but it was despite this.
In truth he despised this. Loathed it.
Enoch did not enjoy lying, occasional trickery and clever wordplay aside. He did not lie to others for the most and he did not waste time in self deception. His companion was one of the strongest beings he had known in his many eternities but he was horribly, horrifyingly vulnerable at his core; a proverbial Prince Rupert’s drop ever on the precipice of shattering. A flame always but a breath away from smoke. It made something in Enoch’s core churn and turn over in distress to think about it.
For many Spring may be a season of life and renewal but for the Autumn warden it had also become the annual reminder of his dear one’s vulnerability. (Ah Sentiments…) He could all but hear the other’s voice saying it, deep as night but colored with distain, (Mortal sentiments cat… You should know better.)
Enoch sighed, the sound like rustling straw. “I know how foolish you find all of this. ‘Fussing like a human’ you’ve said. Well indeed. I may fuss neighbor, I admit it. It’s a small crime at least.” The maypole head lolled to its side, the smile crooked. “But I’m not the one of us who so managed to offend an aspect of creation that he can scarce breathe in spring before he blooms. And I don’t see so much as a bud on you yet, we must bring that on with all speed, don’t you think?” Enoch chuckled, mind awhirl with the possibilities. “I wonder what you’ll come up in this year? Pastels would hide you but white blossoms would suit you so well; they’d flatter your eyes. And oh you’d look darling in orange dear!”
Enoch allowed himself the weakness of keeping the one ribbon over the other’s face fresh, wetting and rewetting it throughout the night as the moon hovered, then sank, and the sun began its creep across the fields beyond the barn. He counted the breaths the other took in his sleep, counted the dust motes he spied in the air, counted the beams of light filtering between the planks of the walls. As the morning began to stretch towards noon he removed the damp straw that the ice had left behind and fed the lantern another vial of oil.
The Beast slept through this silent as the grave. He was still when Enoch spoke soft and low about the most recent gossip of the town and the visit he’d enjoyed the prior night with the Dirks. He also slept through the commotion and Enoch’s poorly contained laughter hours later when a turkey broke a wagon tongue and fled up and down the streets inconsolably. The Beast did not stir so much as a finger until the sunlight beyond the barn grew too faint to be seen through the slats.
As the last of the sun dipped down a thick groan of discontent drew Enoch’s attention, the following wet sucking sound prompted him to grab the quilt and put the bucket at the other’s disposal; “The bucket Beast, the bucket!”
The Beast lurched up and forward, antlers throwing straw and fingers wide and grasping. He caught and bent sharply over the bucket, heaved, coughed, and spat, purging the clotting oil from his chest and clearing the chambers inside him. When the worst was done the other warden put the bucket down and leaned upon his knees, sighed into his hands. “Hew Dong - - damnbt.” The words were distorted, smothered, he had clearly failed to clear his nose. “Dhs’s maddehmg.”
“…There’s no chance I could convince you to sing something for me, is there?” Enoch tried to keep the mirth from his own tone but there was nothing to be done about his stitched grin.
“Do bot mop be Eboc.” The threat was hindered but the eyes promised retribution. “Ht mnt fmmy.”
“I… what?” Enoch reached down and pulled some scrap cloth from a crate, offered it to the other. “Please, I insist.”
The Beast took It, turned his head away and holding it where it was needed blew. “I said,” he managed, sounding much more himself, “this is not funny.”
“True,” Enoch chuckled, “but only because you haven’t sung yet.”
“Enoch…” the thread of a growl hid beneath that tone. It didn’t last, his neighbor sighed and his moon eyes lidded, resigned. “How long have I been dormant?”
“You’ve slept away the day neighbor.” Enoch’s ribbons ached to close the space between them. He pushed that down once again. “How are you feeling now? You seem a touch better.”
“There is a schoolhouse band performing between my eyes.” The Beast grumbled. “Damn this season, and damn this ridiculous gripe.” He sighed again, dark fingers kneading against his forehead with the soft squeak of wood on wood. Another short cough, another spit into the bucket. “I will dig my claws deep and winter will linger twice as long and be thrice as savage in retribution for this insult.”
“As you say Hope Eater, as you say.” This was, Enoch knew, not the time for arguments, and this was not the first time that particular threat had been uttered. He began to make a comment, something of a filler really, but stopped when he saw that the beast was staring and followed his line of sight to see what at. Across from them the Pottsfield quilt lay thrown in all its plush glory. “Oh yes, the quilt! It’s lovely isn’t it?
“It is…” The Beast hesitated. He looked at Enoch somewhat lost, looked back at the fabric, “…very elaborate.”
“I’m utterly besotted with it. And I don’t say that lightly.” Enoch retrieved the quilt with his ribbons and held it out to the other for closer inspection. “It’s a true work of inspired autumn leisure and it was ever so kindly lifted to us.”
“…Hmn.” The Beast replied, the soft hum a long adapted response to Pottsfield goodwill. His gaze lingered on the fabric for a time, though whether out of actual interest or a polite maintenance of the niceties who could say, before his attention returned to the other spirit’s face. A soft swirl of blue traced the edges of the orbs before they shot through with pale green, weary again.
“But you’ve only just settled in neighbor,” Enoch crooned, “and after such a trip.” He let himself touch the others shoulders, ribbons looping and draping, a few curling over the span of his antlers. No buds to the eye, only faint raised places to feel where they would grow. “Let me help you with that headache now, won’t you?” He could feel the other’s hunger, his fatigue, it was a siren song that was only growling louder. Enoch needed to satisfy it, fill it, give it peace. He needed it. He needed it and he had been so patient..!”
“…Do not overdo it.” A ripple of unease moved across the Beast’s furs but his eyes grew no brighter, already flagging. “I can smell how eager you are but I am not—”
“I know Beast, I know.” More ribbons curled, gathering the other, pulling him into the coils of the maypole. Enoch suppressed a hum of his own, the chant of give, give, give echoing up through the soil beneath to him. “Only a little neighbor, only just enough.” He waited until he felt the other spirit relax into him, until he heard that last hesitating breath hiss out, and then the plenty welled up and over and in.
The Beast jerked, his eyes shot wide for a moment and filled with swirling colors. Swiftly they went soft, he went soft, gaze glazing and falling half shut as he lolled back boneless into the maypole’s grasp. “Enoch…” a sigh, a huff of relief, “Pumpkin…”
Enoch allowed himself the humming he felt brimming up with his satisfaction. It was a terrible tease, a true test of his mettle to hold the other close and feel the void that was his fellow spirit yawn wide, swallowing down and down and down… Nothing could match the all but instinctive thrill he felt pouring himself into a bottomless cup. One day perhaps they would see if bottomless really was the case; not to his neighbor’s discredit he had doubts… but not tonight. Tonight though the relief in finally giving was great he gave slowly. Only just keeping up with the pull of the others hunger. He had said only just enough and he was a magistrate of his word after all.
Neither awake nor fully asleep the Beast lay in the ribbons of the maypole and absently hummed to the others wordless tune. His tone rose and fell, never quite dissonant but never quite right, and they passed the night moving the sound back and forth. If this giving of comfort had moments of stolen intimacy; a stroke of ribbon across horn, a tug from winters claws at straw tufting, ah, well that was just fine.
Enoch stirred from his own daze when the Beast failed to rejoin and the note trailed to nothing. He looked down to see the other warden was sleeping once again, his dark lean form a limp trusting tangle in his tassels. A small adjustment to better support the others shoulder, a few more ribbons to see he didn’t slip loose somehow, and though it pained him to do so Enoch closed his wellspring away and let the other spirit sit with what he had gifted. He could give more, indeed, so much more… but not tonight. Tomorrow would be what it would, the day after would follow suite, and in these quiet moments they all but stole from beneath the cold watch of distant stars he would shut out the dread of eventuality.
Enoch enjoyed spring. It was not his season of course, the dominion of fall with its bounty and golden autumn threaded through with winter’s strings and the last threads of summer’s heat, but it drew that which was dear to him into his arms. Let his power wax and wain, let the season’s turn, and let him have these moments in his hayloft with his neighbor from over the gardens wall. It was enough.
…But if he could be permitted a selfish request..? Let the blossoms be orange.