It is early September when Arthur first meets the boy. Blond and tall, with his head held high as if daring the world to even try bring him down. He is clutching the hand of someone that must be his brother, pale and shaking. Arthur learnt long ago that caring leaves only spiderwebs in the hollow of his chest and he recognises heartbreak when he sees it; still he can't help but whisper a small protective spell over the stumbling two.
Perhaps that will make him sleep easier the coming nights and ease the guilt that churns in his stomach.
–
Several years pass and Arthur learns that the brothers names are Matthew and Alfred. They have walked his woods and breathed his air, and Arthur keeps whispering spells over them whenever he can. Perhaps he is lonely, perhaps it is Alfred's wheezing breath, perhaps it is Matthew's squared shoulders and strong hands.
Arthur never tries to unwind the tightness in his chest because he thinks that it might taste like blood in the back of his throat; humans are so easily taken apart and it is easier not to get involved.
–
When Alfred dies it is early spring and the trees have started to bloom. Arthur can feel it in the very earth and he feels so, so old. There is no comfort in knowing it was inevitable, that the world will move on. Sometimes it should stop, he thinks and bitterly realises that somewhere along the way he has put too much of himself in them.
He watched from the trees as Alfred laughed and laughed and how his breath hitched, saw Matthew tip his brother's head back and make him drink water mixed with herbs that did nothing but smell nice and look pretty. Now one is gone, and he selfishly wonders if Matthew will still walk in his woods.
–
"You are real," Matthew murmurs when Arthur steps out of the trees and it's cruel how much his voice sounds like Alfred's.
"I'm real," Arthur replies.
"What are you?"
"A witch. A forest spirit. It depends on who you ask."
"Why didn't you save my brother?"
"If I could have, Matthew. If I could have." And Arthur aches, aches, aches.