Beneath Moss

There weren't always dragons in the valley. They used to roost somewhere beyond the treeline, keeping a safe distance from the few homes scattered at the base. They used to be just as wary of humans as we were of them. Something altogether more dangerous pushed them toward us. 

There weren't always ungodly noises coming from the eastern forest at all hours of the day, either. These noises were the kind that skittered along your bones, scratching and gnawing until you wanted to crawl out of your skin. Noises so sharp and shapeless that it would have been a magnificent feat to even describe them. 

The forest wasn't always like this. The canopy of leaves didn't used to swallow the sun the way it does now. The animals didn't always have an eeriness to them, the kind cats get when their eyes catch a flicker of light in the darkness. Some time after the dragons came down to the valley, odd plants began growing here. They're hard to describe, the same way the noises this place emits are hard to describe. Unnatural. The forest had always been a dangerous place for an ill-prepared traveler, but this was something else. Something had turned the forest against us, against itself. 

And, of course, I haven't always been in this place. At least, I don't think so. Sometimes the space beyond the forest feels like a dream, but I have memories of a place before this one, a place by the sea. I remember the valley. I remember faces. I remember a time before. But the memories are hazy and they flutter between my fingers when I try to grasp them. My entire mind seems to be that way of late, ever dancing just on the edge of my periphery. I find it, sometimes, flitting between the trees, carving runes into them as it passes.

There's a memory, buried deep beneath dark soil and soft moss, tangled up in roots of trees so ancient they must have known the old gods, of what those runes had meant, but it eludes me. Perhaps the next time I catch my mind I can ask it to show me the place the memory is buried. Surely it will know. It seems to know this place better than I. 

I had thought, once, that I knew this place. I knew the trees and rocks. I knew the animals. But whether that was ever true or if that had also been a dream, I'm not sure I'll ever know. But I do know the forest changes when I'm not looking. It slinks around in its own darkness, shifting through itself, turning itself inside out. It moans and it creaks and it changes. It always changes. 

Even if I had known what I was looking for, where I thought I was going to find it, I wouldn't have made it. The forest knows something I do not, and it would like to keep it that way. I don't think it knows I know. I don't think I would still be here if it did. I don't–Oh! 

There it was, just there, dancing between the trees. My mind. I hadn't even realized it'd run off again. Or had I? I must have… But how odd. It left something behind, a jagged carving in the bark. Lines twisting like antlers. Like trees. Like bone upon bone. A rune. 

Where was that memory buried…

Have you heard the stories of the old gods? Horrible and beautiful and enthralling. Aetr, with his moss-covered antlers, with his eyes of the deepest, velvety blackness. God to the beasts that prowled the land. Ravn, with feathers to rival Aetr's eyes, but his own eyes like liquid gold. God to the hunters of the skies. Sytr, with mushrooms growing on her skin, their spores glittering like stardust. God to those that thrived on decay.

Gods of the forest. Not of humans. Generous. Hungry. They gave and they devoured. They created anew and they rent asunder. They loved the forest and they were hated and hunted in turn by the humans. Save for one. A witch of the wood. She respected the gods and their realms. She swore to them–Damnit! 

I could feel it dancing on my fingertips, just now, but I blinked and the forest shifted on me again. Yet, for the first time, it may have taken me somewhere I don't think it meant to show me. It took me somewhere unfathomably old. I can feel it in my bones. It feels like dying trees creaking in the wind. It feels like… 

Magic. Everywhere. Trees full of glowing runes. Eyes glinting in the darkness. So many teeth. Long fingers curling out from behind trees. Skittering. Eyes like gold. Like the abyss. Like starlight. Herbs burning upon a great fire. Dark soil. Soft moss. A memory. A memory of runes. 

Runes and old gods. Old gods and witches.