Herbalists' Cache antistékomai

He had heard the Singer's voice, but he had not listened. Heard, but had not heard it as His. Heard, but a louder cry hissed through his ears.

He overturned the ground.

Could he remember what they looked like?

It had been so long ago, but he had stared at them for what had felt like eternity.

Stop.

He kept digging.

Breathe.

In time he dredged them up. Small - but they didn't need to be any bigger than that.

Pray.

And what good would that do you? Will He tell you now? With these, you'll know.

He trembled, and pushed the frail mushrooms at his paws. Waiting.

Waiting.

Left with a choice in silence.

It was a miracle she'd made it this far, really.

Foxglove did not know what had happened. All she knew was that mama was gone, and then Uncle Everett was gone, and then she heard shouting and — and she just didn't know what to do. She'd tried to follow mama, but had lost her scent trail among the others.

So she followed her uncle.

The pup was shivering and muddy by the time she found him, exhausted but still bright-eyed with fear. Her paws seemed to turn heavy beneath her the moment she spotted him in the distance. She nearly didn't make it close enough to call out.

But somehow she did, little legs folding beneath her as she called out in a voice thickened by many tears shed, U-uncle Ev'rett? What was he doing? She couldn't tell. Foxglove started to cry all over again, overwhelmed by so many things she did not understand.

The plants were bitter as he reached down to touch them up. Bitter, as they grazed his tongue, bitter as they broke with the click of his teeth and slid down his throat with a tremor.

It was then he heard her voice.

He spun around before he could take the second round; his paw instinctively knocked the remaining fungi into the dirt. And at the sight of her little face - muddied, thick with snot from all her tears, ablaze with worry in a face like her mother's -

Oh Reverie, Reverie -

Foxglove,

- Oh, God -

The world sparked colour and lurched underfoot as he sought his way towards her. What was she doing here? What was he?

Too late - too late now -

What have I done?

Foxglove - you shouldn't be - shouldn't be out here.

She had seen him; He had seen -

- and he had not waited.

Fire tickled the trees.

He fell to the ground.

You shouldn't be out here.

Foxglove would remember those words for the rest of her life. Always she would be able to picture this scene clearly: the tired lines around his eyes, how his mouth moved odd and slow as he spoke, the moment he fell, the moment he fell —

and she shrieked before she truly understood what was happening, running to her uncle's side, sobbing wildly between garbled pleas for him to get up, get up, please get up, please please please

The shriek moved both Peridot and her brother faster and faster, both lungs burning with the effort. 

They had been following Foxglove’s scent, essentially  using her as hunting practice on the behest of Peridot, herself. She had been dying to play with her cousins since joining the pack and now that they were older and less fragile, she took every opportunity she could!

They skidded to a halt, both panting before gasping at the fallen form of their Uncle. Carnelian was first to the male’s side, opposite of their cousin, Peridot to Foxglove’s, her gentle shushing drowned out by the emotional upset pouring from the little girl.

“Shh…Foxglove. Shhh. What happened?” Her vert gaze watching her Uncle, watchful. Waiting.

He was altogether absent and fully aware. Foxglove screaming, wailing at his side. 
The arrival of his older niece and nephew. They came alongside him but he could not feel them, and when he opened his eyes, his gaze drifted past.

In the Gilded Sea, it was said that if you had the right materials, you could see into the eyes of god. You could see into the mind of the unknowable, and know, in your time, your will, your way.

But a different God had found him that day upon the hill. Knowable and unknown; revealing as He revealed, and more often, allowing things to be without explanation why. He did not bend to the will of creation. He called all to follow - and gave choice, and blessing, and consequence.

To trust Him was all He had ever asked, but the sea still clung to Everett in Gilded strands.

How could he save anyone if he didn't know?

He took it all into his own feeble hands.

Everett shivered with fever. The Singer did not come to him now. Silence without answer. The only eyes he saw through were his own, and his skin felt as though it were on fire with every inferno he had ever thought his own voice had somehow sung away.