Author's Note: anything recognisable is not mine and belongs to whoever owns it.
A familiar face, the mask she wears; an immortal guise, with hidden care.
Walk, she does, among the children of fate, yet guard the deathless as they wait.
For when winds of change do descend, and Magic teeters at its end,
A fire shall ignite in blood impure; cleansing the world with its ancient cure.
For Magic's woe be Muggle's greed, a plantation of iron fated to consume the seed.
Yet from its shadow hope may grow, but only if you've prepared for the coming blow.
For when steel and iron blot out the sun, and the winds of greed from Muggles come;
Her wilds will weep, her forests fade, as the magic of Death's domain is betrayed.
The river's song will cease to flow, and Nature's spark will cease to glow;
The air will choke, the skies will fall, as the Leshy's might does shrink so small.
For the iron hand, their mundane reign, will forever seek to sever Nature's chain.
Yet to save the wilds, you must not fight but wait within the shadows of light.
For during this dark and mournful time, a line shall rise from ancient rhyme,
And a child born of royal blood shall stand as Nature's final flood.
But first the deathless you must be, and bind your essence to root and tree;
To sleep within the soil's hold tight, till born anew with the dawn's coming light.
Until the prince of fated birth reclaims the magic of the dying earth.
As in their hands the world shall turn, and through their heart, iron shall burn.
And from the flames of this mundane core, Magic's song will rise once more.
This final spark, the turning wheel, shall break the chains of metal's heel.
Of earth and sky, of leaf and vine; weaving the worlds, both yours and mine;
For this gift, this curse – a fate unknown – does rest forever in blood and bone.
Yet beware the path, O Deathless King, for time itself will test your string.
The line of both life and death, it does wane with every Muggle breath.
But sacrifice is Magic's final key, for her eyes, your death shall be.
So, sleep, undying, in the earth's eternal embrace, till royal blood restores your grace.
And when the time of reunion's near, awaken, rise – live without fear;
For in Cokeworth's heart, within an ancient tree, Magic does await its final key.
The forest was alive in ways no human could ever fully understand. It breathed – pulsed – with a magic that was far older than time itself, and sang its songs through the rustle of leaves, the babbling brooks, and the whispers of ancient winds. Yet, and at the heart of it all, where the canopy was thickest and sunlight dappled on the ground in soft, fleeting patterns, there lived a child like no other; a boy of Magic, of Life, and... of Death.
He was a child born within the very In-Between, cradled in the eternal balance that his Parents commanded; a boy that was neither wholly alive nor bound by the same rules as mortals. Koschei was instead a creature of the wild places, a spirit with hair as silver as the moon and eyes that shimmered with a wisdom as vast as the very skies. The forest had been his billet, the winds his lullaby, and the soil, so alive with the ancient energies of the earth, his home.
From a young age, Koschei had been taught that all things were connected. Life fed death, and death fed life; an endless cycle of energy that helped to shape the natural world. His Father – Death in all Their merciless glory – had told him this again and again, the lesson carried in the deep stillness of a quiet evening, in the sighing of a dying tree, or in the peaceful passing of an animal back into the earth.
One such lesson had come after he had found a fallen bird; young, still, and cold beneath the shade of an oak. Koschei had knelt beside it, his small hands reaching out instinctively to touch the fragile creature, as if his very presence might return it to life.
"It is gone, Koschei," his Father had said, appearing like the shadow of twilight itself behind him. Death always moved quietly, a presence more than figure. "Its spirit has returned to the In-Between."
"But why?" he had questioned, however, his young voice barely more than a whisper, full of wonder and sadness as he turned his gaze from the fallen bird and to his Father. " It was alive... so full of songs yet to be sung. Why must it leave?"
"Because it must," Death replied. " Its time is part of the cycle. It lived as long as it was meant to live, and now it returns to nourish the earth. That is the balance. Nothing truly ends, my son. It only transforms."
Koschei had been able to do nothing but nod at the reply, even as he felt the sting of loss remain. It always did, no matter how many times Death explained it. His Father's certainty was a comfort, no doubt, but Koschei found his heart still ached for the beauty that had been lost, even if only temporarily. The bird's song, despite its youth, had filled the forest with a new joy, a new life , and now it was gone.
But Zorya – she understood.
She was always there, a constant presence in his life – bright and wild like the very forest itself as she danced through the trees or raced him through their trunks, barefoot and light; her laughter resonating like the chime of water over stones. Zorya was the very heart of the woods, a child born of the wild places, her form ever-shifting, ever-changing, her eyes always gleaming with a playful mischief as she teased Koschei from the treetops or vanished into the shadows of the underbrush.
Zorya was completely one with the ancient and untamed Magic that thrummed through the bones of the earth; a Leshy without a tether to anything except the vast, wild places of the world and the boundless essence that did fill them. She was freedom personified, and Koschei could not help but marvel her. Where he was thoughtful, weighed down by the teachings his Parents imparted, Zorya was boundless energy, flowing with the natural rhythm of the forest, as though the very trees and animals moved at her command. She flittered through the branches with the grace of a fox, her laughter echoing through the woods; the only thing more unpredictable than the wind.
Yet, and in spite of her wild nature, there was a deep, unspoken connection that tied them together. Koschei could feel it in the way Zorya would slow her pace to match his when he was lost in thought or how she would sit beside him in comfortable silence, nestling into his side like a bur as they watched the sun set behind the hills. Zorya understood him in a way no one else could, for she too was bound to something ancient; something beyond the understanding of mortals, and together, they were the Wild and the Deathless – two halves of a whole that even they did not yet fully comprehend.
As they grew older, the bond between them only deepened. They spent their days exploring the forest, the rivers, and the mountains; learning from each other as much as they learned from the world around them. Zorya would teach Koschei how to read the signs of the woods – how to listen to the whispers of the trees, how to follow the flight of birds to predict the weather. And in return, Koschei shared the wisdom of his Parents, explaining the delicate balance that kept the world turning. They spoke endlessly of life and death, of magic and the mundane, as well as the fragile line between them all.
Though it was to be during one of these quiet conversations, as they sat beneath the shade of an ancient fir, that Koschei first sensed a change in this balance.
It was subtle at first – nothing more than a faint tremor in the air, a ripple of unease that tugged at the edges of his awareness. But it grew stronger with each passing day. The forest, once so vibrant and alive, seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting for something both inevitable and terrible.
Zorya felt it too, Koschei knew, though she spoke of it only in riddles and fragments, her playful nature clearly helping to hide the depth of her concern.
"The birds fly lower. The rivers run quieter," she had remarked one evening, her gaze distant as she watched the endless horizon. "Something's coming Koschei."
And something was.
Muggles – magicless humans, who, with their ever-growing towns and relentless need to conquer all that was not 'theirs', had begun to encroach upon the edges of the wild places of the world. At first, it was only a few – a hunter here, a woodcutter there – but soon their numbers swelled. They built fires in the clearings, felled trees without regard for the life they took – the lives they'd homed – and left scars on the land that even Zorya's magic couldn't heal.
Koschei watched their advance with a growing unease, their presence becoming a blight upon the forest; like an ever-spreading illness with no cure in sight. Each tree felled, each fire kindled in the once-sacred groves, seemed to rip something vital from the heart of the wild places, and Zorya's laughter, once so carefree, had become strained. Her bright brown eyes, which had always danced with such life and happiness, had dimmed with a sadness she did not voice out loud. Yet Koschei knew, he could feel it even if she never spoke of it.
The forest, the wild places of the world, were her home, her very essence, and it was slowly being killed – poisoned by beings who possessed no magic and no regard for what they took.
This knowledge pressed down upon Koschei like an invisible force that ate away at the edges of his soul. He had always known of the balance between life and death, between the magical world and its mundane counterpart; had even come to understand that death was an integral part of the natural order. But this... this destruction felt different. It was not the peaceful return of life to the earth, but a violent theft, a wrenching of Magic from the lands that could not be restored.
The Muggles and their destruction were not part of the natural cycle of the forest – of the wild places; they were an aberration, an intrusion .
"They don't listen," Zorya had whispered one day as they sat beside a trickling stream. The water, once clear and vibrant, had turned sluggish and murky, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay; the result of a recent storm that had left the forest sodden. But even the rain, which should have breathed new life into the woods, instead felt heavy with despair. " I try to speak to them, to show them the beauty of the forest, but their ears are blind, their eyes deaf. They do not feel the life they are destroying."
A frown pulled at Koschei's lips, yet his gaze remained fixed upon the distant treeline, where the faint glow of Muggle campfires could be seen through the foliage. "They are afraid of what they don't understand," he revealed, the slightest tinge of distaste colouring his words. " The magicals fear magic, and so they try to control it with their sticks and spells. Yet the Muggles, those who possess no magic whatsoever, they only destroy what can't be bent to their will."
" But we can't let them!" Zorya exclaimed as she turned to him, her golden-brown eyes fierce. " This is our home. We can't just let them take it from us."
Her words had stirred something deep within Koschei, something primal and protective. He had always been the more cautious of them, always more mindful of the delicate balance he had been raised to respect. But now, for the first time, he felt the stirrings of something hot and bubbling under his skin, a burning anger – a desire - to defend what was his. The forest, it was not just a home to Zorya; it was a part of who she was, and by that extension, a part of him.
" We have to stop them," Zorya continued. " We can't let them take everything."
Koschei nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the distant Muggles. Yet even as he agreed, he felt the weight of his Parents' teachings settle on his shoulders. They had always told him that life and death were part of the same cycle, that nothing was ever truly lost. But for the first time, Koschei wondered if there were exceptions to that rule.
Could Magic, the very force that bound the world together, truly be lost?
The months that followed were tense. Zorya, always so light and carefree, had become restless, her energy crackling like a storm waiting to break. She began to venture closer to the Muggle camps, watching them from the shadows, her eyes burning with a wild intensity that both excited and unnerved Koschei.
" They're weak," she said one day, returning from one of her excursions. " They don't know how to defend themselves. We could drive them away if we wanted to."
" But that would only lead to more suffering – more death, Zorya. They would come back with more of their kind, with weapons, and then the forest would truly suffer," Koschei had replied, feeling a knot forming in his chest.
Zorya had only waved off his concerns with a dismissive gesture. " You worry too much, Koschei. You're the son of Life, of Death. Why should you fear a little bloodshed? It's part of the cycle, is it not?"
Her words had struck him like a blow, and Koschei had turned away from Zorya, troubled by the growing divide he could feel forming between them. Her wildness, once so enchanting and freeing, was beginning to feel dangerous, like a fire that had grown out of control. And yet, Koschei could not deny that a part of him agreed with her. The Muggles were a threat, and if they weren't stopped, the forest, their home – Zorya – would be lost.
As the Muggles continued to encroach further into the wild places, their axes biting deeper into the sacred groves, that rebellious side of Koschei only grew. He couldn't let them destroy everything he knew, everything he loved. But he also knew that to act against the Muggles would mean choosing a side in a conflict that felt wrong, even if it felt necessary; embracing the very force he had been raised to respect – death.
It was on a particularly still night, when the stars shone coldly overhead, that Koschei sought out his Father. He found Death at the edge of the forest, where the trees thinned out naturally and the world seemed to stretch into an endless void of night.
Death stood motionless, Their dark cloak billowing softly in the breeze, and Koschei felt a chill cut through him as he approached.
"Father," he began, his voice wavering with his conflicting emotions. "The Muggles... they're destroying the forest. Zorya and I, we want to stop them, but... I do not know if it's the right thing to do."
Death turned to him, Their face obscured by shadows, but Koschei could feel Their gaze, cold and endless, settle on him.
" The Muggles have always been part of the world, Koschei," They revealed, Their own voice a deep, resonant echo. " They have their own path to walk, just as you do."
"But their path is leading to the destruction of magic," Koschei argued as his frustrations spilled over. " Their killing the forest, and with it, they're killing Zorya. How can I just stand by and let that happen?"
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Koschei feared his Father would simply leave him without an answer. But then, slowly, Death spoke again.
" Everything dies. Even the forest, its magic. The Muggles are not the cause of Magic's death; they are merely the catalyst. Magic is fading, not because of what the Muggles do, but because it is time for it to fade."
Koschei felt that knot of anger tightening in his chest. " But I can stop it! I can save the forest, save magic, save- Why should I let them die?"
" Because to do otherwise would be to disrupt the balance," his Father had replied simply – emotionlessly. " And if you were to do that, you would set into motion forces that even I could not hope to control."
"But what about Zorya?" Koschei continued, his mind racing as he stared at his Father. " She'll die if the forest dies. She's tied to it," and for the first time, he thought he felt something akin to sympathy in Death's gaze, a flicker of understanding in the endless depths of Their being.
"Her fate is not yours to control, my son," Death stated softly. " Zorya, like you, is part of a larger cycle. If the forest dies, she will be reborn elsewhere, as all things are. You cannot save her by defying the natural order; for if you were to choose to intervene, you would lose more than just the forest. You would also lose yourself."
Koschei's breath hitched in his throat as he struggled with the weight of Death's words. The forest, Zorya, Magic itself – it was all slipping away, and he felt powerless to stop it. But the alternative – of defying the very balance his Parents had taught him to respect – was unthinkable.
Yet the thought of doing absolutely nothing at all was completely unbearable, and he pressed his Father, his voice barely above a whisper as he asked, " Is there truly no other way?"
Death was silent for a moment, and when They finally spoke, Their voice was as cold and final as the grave.
" There is always a choice, Koschei. But know that every choice has consequences. You must decide what is more important – the preservation of magic, of the preservation of the balance."
And with that, They turned and vanished into the night, leaving Koschei alone with his swirling thoughts.
The weight of his Father's words hung heavy over Koschei, and as the days passed, as the Muggles pushed further into the wild places of the world, their destruction becoming more brazen, more reckless, he watched helplessly as Zorya, once so full of life and laughter, became more withdrawn, her spirit dimming as the forest around them withered and died.
And deep within his heart – his soul – Koschei knew his choice had already been made.
Zorya moved quietly through the forest, her footsteps as light as the whispered wind. The branches overhead stretched out like skeletal fingers, their once-vibrant leaves now hanging limp and brittle, like the tattered remnants of a memory. The Leshy could feel it – deep within her soul; the Magic of the forest was fading, dying as surely as the sun would one day set on this endless battle between Muggles and the wild places of the world.
She touched the bark of a tree, her fingertips trailing over its rough surface, and closed her eyes, willing herself to feel the hum of life beneath its skin.
But there was nothing – the pulse of life that had once surged through the forest, the vibrant heartbeat that made her feel so alive, was barely a whisper now; fragile and distant. It was as if the trees themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the end, and Zorya hated it.
The Muggles had been creeping further into the wild places for years now, building their fires, cutting down the sacred groves for timber, and poisoning the waters with their waste. At first, she had watched them with curiosity, thinking perhaps – naively – that they would stop, that they would come to learn to respect the forest, to see its beauty as she did.
But they didn't.
They never did.
They couldn't feel the songs of the trees or hear the life that flowed through the roots. They saw only resources, something to be used, something to be taken .
Zorya opened her eyes, her brow furrowing in frustration as she gazed out at the distant treeline, where the faint glow of Muggle campfires flickered in the twilight. A feeling of helplessness gnawed at her insides, a restlessness that made her skin prickle and her heart race. She had tried – tried so hard – to communicate with them; appearing before them in many forms, spoken both the language of the forest and their own mortal tongues. But their eyes had been deaf, their ears blind to her pleas.
They could not – would not, understand.
Her sharpening fingernail's dug into the bark of the tree as she leaned against it, feeling its silent resignation seep deep into her bones. Anger and sorrow battled within her, twisting together like the very roots of the wild places that had once held everything in harmony. Zorya wanted to scream, to tear through the trees and rip away the camps that burned so close to her heart.
The wild places were hers – hers to protect, hers to love.
She was so angry – angry with the Muggles for their ignorance, for their greed, and for the way they cut through the forest without a second thought. But even as that rage simmered just beneath her skin, like a bubbling volcano ready to burst, something else stirred within the Leshy – a deep and painful sadness that had settled itself inside her heart like a stone.
It wasn't just the Muggles she was furious with.
It wasn't just that the forest was dying – the Magic was dying.
It was her.
Golden-brown eyes drifted upwards, following the skeletal branches that reached for the darkening, smoke-filled sky. The stars, once so bright, were now dim – like everything else in Zorya's life. And in their pale glow, her thoughts, as always, turned to him ; Koschei, the son of Life and Death and one who had understood that very balance better than anyone else. He had always been her anchor, her constant, even when everything around them seemed to be spinning out of control.
"What if, one day, it all goes away?"
"What do you mean?"
"The forest, the Magic... us ," Zorya replied, her voice trembling as she looked away from the murky water of the stream and to Koschei, her earlier anger having given way to an almost crippling despair. "What if it all just... disappears one day? What if it all fades, like the stories of old? What will happen to us if everything we know... is gone?"
Koschei looked at her carefully, his pale eyes seeking, before he reached out and took her hand in his, his grip firm yet reassuring. There was something steady and grounding in his touch – something that made Zorya feel safe, even when the world seemed uncertain.
"The forest has always been here," he said quietly, "And it always will be. The magic we feel isn't something that can just fade away. It is a part of us. It's in the trees, the earth, the wind. And it's also in you, Zorya. As long as we're here, as long as we believe it, the Magic of the wild places will never die."
Zorya bit her lip, tears beginning to prickle at the corners of her eyes. "But what if we can't stop it? What if – what if the Muggles come and take everything?"
Koschei's expression softened, and he shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace.
"The Muggles don't understand Magic like we do," he whispered into her wild curls. "But that does not mean they can take it from us. The magic here – it's ancient, older than anything they could ever comprehend. And we're a part of that. We'll protect it. Together."
As he held her close, Zorya could feel the warmth of his presence, the steady beat of his heart, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the soft murmur of the stream as it wound its way through the forest.
Yet, even in this moment of calm, the Leshy could not shake the sense of dread that had been growing in her heart for days, and she shifted slightly, pulling away just enough to look up at Koschei, her brown eyes searching his face.
He was always so sure, so certain that everything would be alright. But Zorya wasn't. She could feel the world changing around them. The Muggles were getting closer, their presence seeping into the forest like a slow poison, and the magic that had once thrummed into every leaf, every blade of grass, seemed weaker, more fragile than before.
"What if you're wrong?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, barely able to speak of her fears. "What if we can't protect it? What if-"
Koschei placed a finger gently over her lips, silencing her. "Come with me," he said softly, his blue eyes holding her brown for a moment before he pulled away and stood, offering a hand to help her to her feet.
Zorya hestitated, glancing at the familiar trees, the safety of the glade where they had spent so many hours together. This was their place, where the Magic of the wild still felt strong, still felt alive. But Koschei, he was already leading her away, deeper into the woods, and her heart sank as she realised the direction of his destination.
"No," she whispered, pulling back, her voice tight with fear. "Koschei... please, not there."
But he didn't stop, his grip on her hand gentle but firm as he pulled her forward; guiding her through the trees. "You need to see it, Zorya. You need to understand."
"I don't want to!" she snapped, her voice rising as panic flared in her chest. She could already feel the heavy weight of their destination pressing down on her, the cold emptiness that had begun to spread through the forest with the arrival of the Muggles. "It's dead, Koschei. There's nothing left there but-"
Koschei suddenly stopped, turning to face her, his expression calm but unyielding. "Trust me," he said quietly, his hand tightening ever so slightly around hers. "Please."
Zorya swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She did trust Koschei, more than anyone, more than herself sometimes. Yet the thought of returning to that place, of seeing the devastation that those first Muggles had caused, was almost too much to bear.
But Koschei's eyes were unwavering, filled with a quiet determination that both comforted and unsettled her. He believed in this – whatever it was he wanted to show her – and that belief was enough to make Zorya take a deep, shaky breath and nod.
"Okay," she replied, her voice trembling. "I'll go."
Koschei gave her a small, reassuring smile before turning and continuing through the trees. Zorya followed, her heart feeling heavier inside her chest as they moved further away from the heart of the forest. The air grew cooler, the shadows longer, and the once-vibrant magic that had always surrounded them seemed to fade with each step they took.
The forest began to thin, the wild's familiar presence and once-vibrant greenery slowly giving way to patches of barren ground and broken earth. The trees grew sparser, their trunks blackened and broken in places, and Zorya hesitated as the feel of the ground changed along with it; turning dry and cracked, the soil a dull brown instead of the rich, fertile earth she had known her whole life.
Even the Magic felt different – more raw; as if it hadn't yet healed from the invasion of Muggle hands and machines. The Leshy could smell the remnants of something burned, something taken , and the reasons, the memories of why she had avoided this place for as long as she had, they all came flooding back the moment they reached the edge of a clearing.
Zorya froze, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes fell on the desolation before her, feeling as though the sight was worse than the memory. The trees, once towering and ancient giants, were gone, their stumps jutting out of the earth like broken bones piercing flesh. The ground was barren, the rich soil stripped away by the mortals who had come to take what they wanted, leaving nothing behind but emptiness and death in their wake.
Her chest tightened, and she instinctively took a step back, her hand slipping from Koschei's grasp as she instead sought refuge within the forest that still stood behind them.
"I can't," she whispered her voice breaking as tears welled up in her eyes. "I can't- it's all gone, Koschei. It... it's all dead."
Zorya wanted to run, to flee back to the safety of the woods and her home. But Koschei, Koschei didn't move. He stood at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixed on something in the distance, his expression infuriatingly calm, almost serene.
"It's not dead, Zorya," he eventually said, turning to face her, his voice gentle, almost coaxing. "Not entirely."
"I-I don't understand," Zorya whispered as she crossed her arms over her chest, stepping back from the edge of the clearing, her head shaking. "There's nothing left."
But Koschei only followed, stepping closer, closing the distance between them, his gaze steady, unwavering, even as he urged, "Look again. Not with your eyes, but with your heart. Feel it, Zorya. It's still here," and reluctantly, Zorya let her eyes drift over the clearing once more, scanning the devastation around them.
She didn't want to be there, didn't want to face the reality of what had been done to the forest she did love so much. But there was something in Koschei's voice, in the quiet conviction with which he spoke, that made her pause, and slowly, she closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath as she allowed herself to feel.
Zorya reached out, hesitantly at first, with her senses, searching for the faint threads of Magic that had once woven itself so thickly through this place, her heart aching as she found nothing.
Nothing but silence.
Nothing but-
There!
Faint, almost imperceptible, her senses homed in on a spark, a pulse , weak, but alive, and her eyes snapped open, her heart pounding in her chest as she stepped forward, her gaze locked onto a spot at the centre of the clearing – and there, amidst the broken stumps and scorched earth, a single sapling was growing. It was small, barely more than a slender twig with a few delicate leaves, but it was there none the less.
Green and fragile and only days – weeks – old, it stood defiantly in the midst of the ruin, its fragile form swaying slightly in the breeze, its roots digging deep into the decayed remains of what had once been a towering giant of the forest, and Zorya blinked, her heart stuttering in her chest as she continued to stare at this unfathomable spark of life.
"It... it's growing," she whispered with no little disbelief. "But, how...?"
A soft smile played at the corners of Koschei's lips as he stepped forward slowly, his gaze never leaving the sapling. "Even in death, there is life," he revealed softly. "The Muggles may have desecrated this place, may have drained it dry, but they could not take everything from the land. The forest is still here, Zorya. It's still fighting, still growing. It's not gone. Not yet."
Zorya followed him, her feet moving of their own accord as she approached the sapling, her own eyes wide with wonder. And she knelt beside it, her hand trembling and breath catching as she reached out, her fingers brushing against a delicate leaf – and felt the pulse of life beneath her touch.
"They can cut down the trees," Koschei continued. "But they can't kill what lies beneath the surface. The Magic, it's still here, it's always been here. It's in the earth, in the roots, in the seeds. It's in us."
The Leshy's hand fell to her side as she looked up at him, tears falling down her cheeks as she questioned, "But... what if they come back? What if they destroy it all again?"
Koschei knelt beside her, his expression calm, resolute; his eyes filled with that same quiet determination. "Then we'll plant another tree. And another. We'll keep planting, and we'll keep protecting. Because as long as we're here, as long as we believe, Magic... it will never die."
Zorya let out a shaky breath as the memory of Koschei's words lingered in her mind like the last echo of a song. That reassurance, that hope that he had planted within her, now felt distant, almost foreign; the years having worn away at the certainty, along with the conviction that they could protect what was most sacred.
"We'll keep planting..." he had said.
Yet, as she pressed her forehead against the rough bark of the tree, Zorya couldn't help but wonder what was the point – what was the point when the Muggles just kept coming, kept cutting, kept burning, kept taking?
What was the point when her own anger towards those same mortals had come to destroy so much more than they ever could – when the fire that did burn so hot inside her had succeeded in pushing Koschei further and further away?
Nails cut deeper into the trunk of the tree as the Leshy trembled, struggling against the flood of emotions threatening to break free. She had been so angry, so furious with the Muggles for their destruction upon her home, and she hadn't seen it at first – hadn't wanted to.
But now, every argument, every bitter word she had spat towards the mortals replayed in her mind like a knife turning in her chest.
"Why should we let them take everything from us?" she had asked on more than one occasion, her voice sharp with her growing frustrations, and each time, Koschei had given her that same quiet look, his eyes shadowed with a wisdom she both envied and resented.
He never argued, it wasn't his way, but his silence had spoken volumes during those moments. He was cautious, always mindful of the balance between life and death, magic and the mundane, and although he never said it, Zorya knew that Koschei believed that everything – even the Magic of the wild places – had a time to die.
Zorya, however; a Leshy born of those very wild places, just could not accept that, and she could feel the distance growing between them because of it, something that terrified her far more than the loss of her home – of Magic itself.
She couldn't lose Koschei. Not now – not when everything else in her life was already crumbling down around her.
But... wasn't she already losing him?
Wasn't she already pushing him away, slowly, day-by-day, and with every bitter word she spoke about the Muggles, about the forest and their need to save it?
Koschei, her ever-patient, ever-calm Koschei... the weight of her words, Zorya knew they were taking a toll on him. Though the worst part was that she didn't know how to stop; for how could she stop fighting for what she loved?
How could she not feel anger towards those who were taking everything she held dear?
Zorya sank down to her knees, trying to hold back the tears that now burned her eyes and threatened to spill over.
"They're afraid of what they don't understand... The magicals' fear magic, and so they try to control it with their sticks and spells. Yet the Muggles, those who possess no magic whatsoever, they only destroy what can't be bent to their will."
She had known, even way back then, that he had been right – Koschei was always right. But that didn't make it any easier for her to accept. The forest was her home, her very essence , and it was slowly being taken from her – slowly being killed right before her eyes. Every tree felled, every fire kindled in their once-sacred groves, ripped something vital from her heart, and no matter how hard she tried, there seemed to be no way to stop it – no way to make them understand.
Koschei had always spoken of the balance, had even taught her that everything was a part of a greater cycle – every life, death, and rebirth. The Muggles, the creatures of the forest, even the trees themselves – they all had their place in this cycle.
But now, it seemed, that cycle was breaking as the Magic of the wild places slipped away, and with it, everything Zorya had once known.
The Leshy felt a tightening in her chest as she thought of the future – of a world without the forest, without Magic, without... Koschei. She had never imagined such a thing to be possible, had never believed that it could happen. But now, the possibility loomed over her, dark and oppressive.
A gust of wild rustled through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke from the Muggle campfires, and her heart clenched at the smell. She pushed herself up and away from the tree, away from the smoke, as her legs carried her deeper into the woods even as her mind continued to spiral with thoughts of the forest, the Magic of its wild places, and Koschei; of the times they had spent running through the trees, laughing as if the world would never change.
But it had changed.
And so... so had they.
Koschei had grown distant in the recent weeks, his gaze always fixed on the horizon, his thoughts far away. He had always been the more cautious of them, always careful to maintain the balance his Parents had taught him. But lately Zorya had noticed that there had been a tension in him, a restlessness she hadn't seen before.
She had questioned him about it once, sitting together in the hallow of a great oak, its branches sheltering them from the world. "What's wrong?" she had asked, her voice a soft murmur as she'd leaned against him, the warmth of his presence comforting – familiar.
But Koschei had only shaken his head, his blue eyes distant as he stared into the fading light. "The forest," he had eventually replied quietly, "It's dying, Zorya. And I don't know if we can stop it."
Those words had haunted her ever since. Zorya hadn't wanted to believe them, didn't want to accept that something so vital, so eternal , could simply fade away. But now, standing in the middle of the woods, surrounded by the silence of a forest slowly dying before her very eyes, she could no longer deny the truth.
The Magic of the wild places was slipping away, and there was absolutely nothing they could do to stop it.
A tear slipped down Zorya's cheek unchecked, hot with frustration and sorrow. The weight of it all, the crumbling, dying magic, the divide between her and Koschei – it was all becoming too much.
Yet, as she stood there, lost in her turmoil, a shadow suddenly fell over the Leshy.
A chill running down her spine was soon to follow, and Zorya froze, her breath catching in her throat as, slowly, she lifted her head and turned, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Death," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of Their presence. It wasn't often that she encountered Them, but when she did, it always left her feeling as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet – as if the world had tilted just slightly out of balance.
They stood silently before her, regarding her for a long moment, Their figure tall and cloaked in a darkness that seemed alive as it absorbed the very light around them. And the air stilled, breath turning frosty, though for Zorya it felt as though it had frozen in its entirely as she felt the ancient, inescapable power of Them settle over her like a cold shroud.
"Zorya" They eventually spoke, Their voice soft and unhurried; carrying with it the weight of eternity, and she could feel the weight of Their gaze despite the shadows of Their hood. There was no malice to be found, there never had been; only that of an unfathomable stillness, like the very void between the stars.
"Where is my son?"
Zorya blinked, confusion flickering through her – slicing through her self-loathing and misery.
"Koschei?" she questioned, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn't seen him for days, but surely, he was still somewhere in the forest – somewhere Death could see.
Where else could he be?
"I cannot find him," Death revealed, as if They had been reading her mind – and Zorya only felt her confusion deepen as, "He has made a choice, but he did not come to me," was added.
Chocolate-brown eyebrows furrowed into a worried frown upon the Leshy's forehead.
Koschei?
Make a choice without his Parents' guidance?
He had always revered the balance, always sought to maintain it, not matter the cos-
"Perhaps," a voice suddenly cut in from the shadows of the woods, ancient and weary, yet laced with a deep wisdom that set Zorya's heart pounding. "He did not need to come to you, Ded Morana."
An old, hunched figure emerged from the trees, a twisted staff in one hand, a rope leading a wild bull in the other, and robes of moss and bark hung from their frame. They moved, however, with a grace that belied their age, their pale, creased features showing a kind of timeless wisdom that had Zorya feeling instinctively wary.
Ded Veles.
The name whispered through her mind like a long-forgotten memory rising from the depths. An ancient spirit of the earth, almost as old as Death Themself, older than the first trees that had first sprung from the ground, than the first magics to have touched upon the wild places, Ded Veles had seen the world when it was new, when Magic was wild and untamed. And now, He stood before her, His sharp, knowing eyes glinting as they met Death's gaze unwavering.
"Even for a goodbye?"
Death's voice was calm, like a soft rustle of leaves in the autumn wind, though there was something beneath the words – something deeper; an understanding that stretched far beyond this moment, and Zorya could do nothing but blink as her mind stalled.
"Not all goodbyes are spoken aloud, old friend," Ded Veles replied with a low chuckle, His voice filled with an unshakable wisdom as His gnarled hand stroked the bull's head at His side. His gaze remained steady as He looked at Death, as if the weight of Their question had settled like dew on leaves instead of lightning as it crackled across a midnight-black sky. "Sometimes, they are carved into the very heart of the earth, into the roots of the trees, into the very air that we breathe."
Zorya felt her heart stutter, the weight of Ded Veles' words hanging in the still air around her, eating away at her, stirring something deep within her that she just couldn't quiet comprehend.
"I cannot find him..."
"Carved into the very heart of the earth..."
"He has made a choice, but he did not come to me..."
"Not all goodbyes are spoken aloud..."
As a Leshy, a child of the wild places and very friend of the only son of Life and Death, she had come to accept many things about the forest and its slow demise, about the inevitable fading of the Magic that pulsed through its roots, its leaves, its very essence. But now, as she stood in the presence of Death and Ded Veles, as snippets of Their conversation resonated in her mind like distant bells, Zorya could not – would not – accept what Their words implied.
Koschei.
Her Koschei.
Gone?
Lifting her gaze, her whiskey-brown eyes locked onto Death's. The timeless entity had always unsettled her, Their wisdom cutting through the veils of illusion that had once shrouded her understanding of the world, and now Their presence was no different; a sharp unrelenting truth that slashed through her.
Yet...
"Wh-what do you mean, you couldn't find him? Koschei... he's not... he's not dead , is he?" she questioned, her voice breaking, her throat tight, her heart hammering in her chest.
Death's head inclined slightly, Their face still hidden beneath the cloak of darkness that seemed alive as it swirled around Them. "He is not," They revealed. "But he is also no longer among the living in the way you know."
The words, as cryptic as they were, still struck Zorya like a blow, and she staggered, her knees weakening beneath her.
H-how could he be gone?
She had seen Koschei only days ago, his hands warm, his voice steady, if somewhat distant; had even sensed upon the quiet despair he carried. But she had never imagined – never believed – that it could come to this.
Her breath came shallow, her pulse racing as her vision blurred with the sting of tears. "W-what choice did he make," she choked out. "What did Koschei do? " she continued, and the very wind seemed to hold its breath, stilling the moment the words had left her lips; the woods growing heavy with the weight of unspoken truths as Ded Veles' ancient gaze shifted from Death and settled upon her.
"Ah, he did not tell you, little Leshy," He began, His voice a deep, rumbling echo of the forest itself, as if it came from every root, from every stone, from the very earth beneath her feet. "There was a choice to be made, one that all those born within the folds of the In-Between must face, one that is not easy, nor to be made lightly; born of sacrifice... and of necessity."
Zorya's heart stilled at His words, a strange and awful sense of dread beginning to sink into her bones. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She didn't know, didn't know how to ask the question she was so terrified to ask – didn't know if she even wanted to hear the answer.
But: "Tell me," she did finally manage, her voice thin, cracking at the edges. " Please? "
Ded Veles sighed, His gaze softening, the lines of His ancient features becoming etched with a sorrow too deep for words. His gnarled hand never stopped its slow stoke across the bull's thick hide, the wild creature standing still beneath His touch, its eyes reflecting the fading light of the day, deep and endless, as though they themselves held all the knowledge of the earth.
"You know the answer, little Leshy," the spirit eventually said softly, though there was no comfort in His tone, only the deep, unrelenting pulse of truth. And as He spoke, He tapped His staff lightly against the ground, causing the air around them to come alive once more, shimmering with the very Magic of the wild places as it stirred at His command; the shadows of the trees shifting as if He were summoning the forest's very memory.
Though, as He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, the air turned thick, oppressive even, as though the forest itself was bracing for the truth that was about to be revealed – a truth, it seemed, the woods already knew. The bull shifted at Ded Veles' side, the massive creature's dark eyes reflecting sorrow as though it too understood the gravity of the moment.
"There are choices that none of us wish to make, but must," Ded Veles continued, and His deep, weathered voice was like the wind through the leaves, rustling up ghosts of the past, ancient and unrelenting, as the Magic of the woods continued to swirl around them.
"But what did he choose?" Zorya demanded, her voice gaining strength, her anguish feeding her fury – unwilling to accept what she already knew to be fact. "What are you not telling me?"
"Koschei... he chose you, Zorya."
" Me? " Zorya looked to Death then back to Ded Veles, seeking something – anything – that told her the ancient entity was wrong. "But Koschei – he wouldn't... he would never abandon the balance! He taught me that – he showed me the way of the cycles!" Her voice cracked, her head shaking in denial as desperation clawed at her throat. "He wouldn't give that up. He wouldn't do this just to-"
"Save you?" Ded Veles finished gently, His eyes narrowing as he studied her. "Ah, Zorya, you were always his heart. Do you not see? The wild magic, the essence of the forest, the very future; Koschei's choice was between the very balance of his Parents, and the survival of Magic itself. The forest, the wilds, you , Zorya. You are tied to that Magic – you are that Magic. And without it, without you, there would be nothing left."
Zorya's breath hitched, the air leaving her lungs in a shudder as the realization settled over her like a wave, crushing in its enormity. Koschei had always spoken of balance, of the delicate thread that connected all things. Life and death, creation and destruction, all woven together in the fabric of the world. To upset that balance was to invite chaos, to tear apart the natural order. And yet... he had chosen to do just that.
He had chosen to save her .
No.
Zorya shook her head, the weight of it all too much.
No, it couldn't be.
Koschei would never...
"But why?" she whispered, cutting through her own thoughts with a voice thick with the tears she had yet to shed. And her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as if the pain would somehow anchor her. "Why would he choose Magic over the balance? Why would he..."
Her words faltered as Ded Veles took a slow step toward her, his gaze soft but unwavering.
"Because you and he, little Leshy, are but two halves of the same whole," he revealed gently. "The Wild and the Deathless; chaos and order. You have always been his temper, and when the Muggles came, when they began to destroy the forest, Koschei knew that if the Magic was lost, if you were lost, there would be no balance left to preserve."
Zorya's legs buckled beneath her as the full weight of Ded Veles' words sank in, and she sunk to the ground, her heart pounding painfully in her chest as her mind spun.
Two halves...
The Wild and the Deathless...
A low, strangled sob escaped the Leshy's throat, and she pressed her hands harder against the earth, as though she could somehow feel Koschei's presence in the soil, in the roots, in the fragile pulse of magic beneath her fingers.
She had lost him, and yet, in some cruel twist, he was still there – bound to the very earth she loved.
"Why didn't he tell me?" she whispered, her voice breaking, raw with pain. "Why didn't he let me say goodbye?"
To Be Continued...