Chapter Text
“Please don’t venture out into the woods, Izuku.”
Musutafu is a quiet, quaint village, nestled deep in a valley between two sprawling mountain ranges. From the peaks of those mountains, the tiny smattering of cottages with thatched roofs looks almost like a mirage, lost in the thick swell of forest around it. It’s a smear of old, crumbling buildings amongst a sea of green—the rooftops barely peek past young saplings, and have no escape from stumbling vines, overflowing shrubbery, and fragrant flowers.
Lavender blooms in rich, dark soil even in ill-lit corners. Yellow-orange calendula spills out of cracks by the fistful. Chickweed, comfrey, echinacea, ginger, sage—it all grows here, untamed and wild like the ever-invading forest.
And there’s the problem. Because every year the forest around them inches closer, planting its young children in the form of skinny little saplings that always bear ripe, juicy fruit. The cold of the winter does nothing to hinder them or their ever-branching roots that gorge the earth. And it’s a blessing in so many ways—when was the last time anyone died of hunger? Even if there had, by some chance, been no fruit or berries on the fringes of the woods, wild game would just walk into town. As if laying down their lives for the villagers, the hunt would be nonexistent. Painless. No one in the town had suffered, not truly. No bandits could pierce the scores of trees—no plague could worm its way here. The common cold and flu would be torn to shreds before it could even truly begin as the resident apothecary always had access to any number of medicinal herbs required.
But the forest never stops growing. Never. In the night the roots creak and groan and stretch. What was hundreds of yards away the day before is noticeably closer the next day—forming from the ground like hungry, eager hands, reaching out to the very people it provides to. The roots can be seen separating themselves from the very earth in real-time, slowly disturbing the soft soil and slicing through slimy snail tracks, though never actually hurting a single creature’s home. Burrows with fat, hearty rabbits were maneuvered around. Shady groves where herds of muscled buck and doe gathered were left unattended by whatever force drove the great swirling forest around Musutafu. Anyone with the fortune of visiting the town—though…no one ever did—would find it to be unassuming and homely. Always rich with plenty. Never suffering the wrath of nature any other place would.
But those living there know better. The slow crawl, the promise of that lovely plenty—it is a siren’s call. A heady oath, agreement, commitment, contract. Sure, the land provided with food and shelter and warmth, but it also took. It took away millimeters, centimeters, inches of land every single day—and when the woodlands for some reason found the town lacking, it would claim feet, yards, even a whole mile, once. Gone, overnight, over some perceived slight that the villagers would never know of committing. It wanted; it craved.
“Please, Izuku. Do not enter the woods,” Inko, Izuku’s mother and the prized apothecary of their hometown, would beg each day. Both of them are marked for the woods—likely some amount of fairy blood in them. Green hair, fair skin, an aptitude for plant life. Blessed or perhaps cursed with the natural pull of nature, the overwhelming desire to walk in the thick forest and never return. They feel it more than everyone else living there, but have managed to cover their ears on the nights where the howls of its hunger scream the loudest.
They cover their eyes when an elder, an adult, a teen, a child finally snap, drop whatever they’re doing, and just…run away into the forest. Roots are torn up in their frenzy, the dirt is marred with deep, desperate tracks like they need to be in there so bad that if they don’t push their every muscle and run, they’ll simply…perish. Children leave trails of plucked petals, hands still sticky from half-made flower crowns, and grieving parents who will never search for them because they know better. Grandparents are given closed casket ceremonies and a haunting, knowingly empty funeral despite the town’s effort to celebrate their lives and praise them for what they’ve unknowingly done.
Because no one is stupid. What, are they not supposed to notice how each time someone leaves and never returns that the forest calms? That it recedes from their homes, stops its vicious warpath against them? That it lifts its haunting pull for days, weeks, months—hell, even years sometimes? The pattern is never the same, of course. You’d think, vindictively, that when it takes a child—a helpless, pure child—that the trees would be happy for longer, but sometimes one missing kid is only days of safety. Sometimes, the plants crave poor Mrs. Ichimura, a portly, grey-haired woman so old that no one could remember a time without her aged personage roaming the village, offering advice and counsel. And when she disappears and the forest recedes for five years…no one can even bring themselves to care that it makes no sense at all.
But the forest always comes back to their doors. Five years is a blessing—children are born under the shining sun and the plenty, and the town is feeling full again after so much hardship from what is both their provider and hunter. Small kids toddle around the town, warned of the forest but unable to really know of its dangers because they haven’t seen, and it lulls them all for a moment. It feels safe; it feels sated.
And that’s when it does it. One day someone else vanishes. Years of peace ruined in one afternoon. A boy, just a few years older than Izuku Midoriya himself—here one second and tearing through the meadow between the cobblestone homes and the most direct, dark path into the thick forest in the next moment. Children scream and cry—what is he doing? Where is he going? What is happening?
“Please. Please Izuku,” his mother cries that very same day. He knows that she could feel the shift in the forest just like he did. That it was building this entire time and finally snapped today, energy exploding around them the moment that boy heeded the call and crossed the threshold into the inky dark. Only it was worse this time—because though Izuku and his mother were the only green-haired, fine folk in the entire village…the boy had looked so similar to him. Dark, thick raven locks—a smattering of freckles dusting his features, though far fewer than his own. “Please stay away from the forest.”
He wishes he could promise that. But even if he had the wherewithal to withstand the allure of the great, viridian forest around them, it’s only a matter of time until it crawls up to their doors and swallows them whole.
They both know it.
Standing in the doorway of his shaded home, the warm summer morning illuminated the youngest of the Midoriyas gently. It was a soft and guiding light, the kind that cradled you kindly and hushed whispers past your ears to sleep just a little longer. However, today promised to be a fine day—bright blue skies with nary a cloud stretching between the points of the mountain range around them. It would be a shame to neglect such a temperate, mild day. Squirrels skittered by, and bright, cherry-red birds fluttered just outside the window, playfully plucking at fat, heavy leaves of aloe vera that grew substantial under their own healing weight from their windows.
Inside the kitchen of their humble abode, his mother nursed fresh mint tea. A pot of it rested noticeably on the stovetop, a silent plea for her son to stay indoors, but even she knew a life spent inside was not a life well-lived. Her son, her precious only son, deserved to have his time outside their home. At least during the daylight, the forest seemed less hungry, less menacing. It was the only time she felt semi-comfortable with sending out her child—a man, twenty years of age, technically, but still, her beloved child—to gather roots and herbs they…didn’t really need. After all, the forest did always provide.
Ungloved, sun-kissed hands plucked the strap of his weathered, tanned bag off the hanger by the door. The fraying band carelessly dragged through his already messy curly hair, mussing it up further but luckily not catching and yanking on him—what would be his typical situation. Small victories like this in the warm sun felt like a true promise for a good day, so he wasted not a single moment more. Izuku waved a freckled hand at his mother, and stepped out the door.
The birds are louder the moment he crosses the threshold. Nothing violent, of course, it’s so peaceful—but the birdsong is constant and ever-present. It trills in the breeze and weaves through his mother’s yellow rose bush, disturbing the petals and sending them flying through the air. A few stray golden drops of concentrated, fragrant sun land in his hair, and now he looks like her favored plant as well. He chuckles at the thought, and leaves them in. Not the first time he’ll walk around with a full arrangement of plants decorating his mess of a mane.
Though their village is largely shielded by the constant overgrowth the woods threaten, there are still bare patches of land in the innermost sections where the cracked stone ground fights against enchanted weeds and squirming roots. In those few spots bare of flora and fauna, a meagre market and town square can be found. It is small, diminutive—probably very useless, Musutafu doesn’t have a true economy given there are no travelers with copper, silver, or gold to enrich them. With the surplus of food, bartering isn’t really needed either. If something is needed amongst the populace, it is simply…given. Izuku’s simple, threadbare white-linen shirt was technically a gift bestowed upon him at his last birthday by a woman with a passion. She liked to make clothes, and there was no reason to keep them away forever, so she would just…give them away. The same for his leather bag made by the local tanner, who had been gifted the hide by the local hunters and so on.
He meanders down the warm path and through the cracked square, passing the same townspeople he’s passed every single day. The children, despite having just realized the monsters in the forest are very real, very recently, toddle along the streets, playing with rope and drawing shapes in the ground. Under the watchful eyes of their mothers, they scramble and pluck the prettiest flowers for their crowns, and scoop up the roundest, smoothest stones for their piles and carefully placed stacks. Later, they’ll likely go down to the shallow lake to skip them across the placid—but never rancid or infested—waters. It was what he did as a child, after all. The reflection of the sun, of the multicolored shadow of an especially shiny rock upon the luminescent scales of succulent fish, was enchanting in its own simple way.
Sitting in front of his aged shop is an equally aged man in an even more aged, withered rocking chair. Long blond hair falls over his shoulders despite a thin cord desperately trying to tie up the scraggly bangs. Toshinori Yagi—better known as the story teller “All Might” to the kids—is a visually wild looking man. He doesn’t seem to fit the town. Haggard, thin, unruly—but so, so very kind and helpful. Not that the other residents were unkind, but…the false atmosphere the town always provided left them all uneasy. Yagi-san, in all his visual oddities, was the only one sure to be genuinely nice, and after Mrs. Ichimura vanished five years ago, he was now also the eldest member of their town.
“All Might,” Izuku called to him, always happy to see him. The blond raised his head, neck cracking under the weight of his impromptu nap and the heavy pile of uncut hair atop his head. His gaunt face and sunken-in eyes could scare others, but Izuku saw the innate kindness residing there and returned it.
“Izuku, my boy. It always warms me to see you, son.”
“It’s good to see you too.” He crouched down, pretending to view the window front with searching, curious eyes, but knowing there would never be anything new. “Anything new?”
“Mmm, I’m sure you’d be the first to know if I ever received a new book, young one.” His bones creaked as he stretched. Toshinori’s back unfurled in a peculiar way, a reminder of his unnatural height constantly cloaked under the physical toll of age. His shirt draped oddly around him, too big for his thin appearance but not long enough for his pure bone structure. It allowed for a peek of the flesh just underneath, oddly scarred in the strangest formation. Like a worn, ragged flower.
No one knew what had made that mark. No one likely ever would. Yagi-san was odd that way. Secretive. But Izuku, who was so unknowingly in tune with the natural emotional presence and auras around him—perhaps he truly had been greeted by the fae as a babe—knew that Toshinori was good, and so they were friends.
“I do hope that one day you will have a new book to sell, All Might.”
The old man hummed, stuttering off into a wet cough. A subtle comforting hand from Izuku, hiding a mash of herbs in his palm he created every morning to ease Yagi’s pain, graced his aching side. He accepted the comfort and item heartily, an unspoken thanks passing through them like normal. “Perhaps,” he spoke through the rattling pain, “you should write your own stories. Submit them to me. I never say no to an honest try, and I’d love to pass on the ways of writing and binding a novel together.”
Izuku smiled in that pinched, sad way people who knew they couldn’t commit for unspoken but known reasons did. “Perhaps, sir. Or,” he pulled a balm of crushed, smoothed lemon from his pack, unthinkingly spreading it on his elder’s arms to ward off pesky bugs and tend to sun-cracked skin, “maybe we could make a little workshop for the kids? Bring a little interest in writing? It could be a nice activity for them. Maybe you’ll even inspire an apprenticeship.”
“Oh ho, I may be too old for that. But we shall see—I welcome the thought of creativity in healthy, safe ways in these trying times.” The pat he gave him on the shoulder let him know the words he really meant. Anything is better than entering the woods.
Midoriya squeezed him back in return. Yes, I know.
Then they separated. The elder swallowed down his herbs and seemed to brighten at the crisp, clean taste, the way the mint brought a fresh kick to his breath. He breathed in the enriching flavor of calming mint and lemon and relaxed into his chair, letting the gentle creak of the rocker lull him back into a light doze as Izuku straightened up his bag and walked away.
The path from there was narrower. Lighter patches of dirt, bleached from the sun, graced under his foot and cracked in pleasant, dim sounds. He squeezed through narrow, shaded alleyways to reach the outskirts of the town—crossing through abandoned areas that perhaps had been full of living, breathing humans years and years before the forest had decided to wage its pervasive war. But those times were long gone. Perhaps they had never even happened—certainly no one here knew of them.
And finally, he broke past the last decaying building. The soil from here on is noticeably darker with nutrients, like it was tended to with the finest fertilizers each day and carefully watered to ensure anything growing there would bloom in minutes. But no one ever tended to the land like that. No farmers lived in their community. Yet the thought of what actually nurtured the land is an unpleasant one, so Izuku simply walks forward and crosses that first invisible line between the town and the forest. He enters the meadow.
The meadow is harmless enough. It feels oddly serene, of a planted variety. It’s similar to the forced lull the town experiences, but in this shaded space—because even the meadow still has plenty of trees, the forest never stops growing—the emotions here feel more placed. On purpose. They feel tended to, and he knows just like everyone else that it’s one of the first things designed to lure you into the clutches of the woods. Its why so few people venture into even just this section. It still calls you, weak as it is. It still takes plenty of people all on its own.
But sometimes he likes to enjoy the lull. In the town everyone is so charged. Tons of energy, with nowhere to put it fruitfully because they can’t leave. And they can’t just lash out at each other, because everyone has been handed the same shitty basket of fragile eggs, and it would be horribly selfish to just go smashing all of them. So they stew, and the emotions get heavier and louder, and Izuku suffocates for it. So yes, he escapes to the meadow where only the children are brave enough to flit about the edges to pluck fruit and flowers and nothing more. And he dives in deeper than they ever would.
He’s standing in the middle of the grassland before he even realizes it. Picking at low hanging fruit and delighting in the simple yet rich taste of the juice of a ripe orange streaming down his chin and staining his skin in the light, sticky scent. He smacks wet lips together and spits out a seed. Days from now, it’ll be a sprout—and in a year it’ll bear its own fruit, perhaps to be eaten by him yet again. If he isn’t eaten first, or whatever the forest does. A humbling thought.
But now isn’t the time for snacking or thinking depressing thoughts. Izuku tosses aside the peel of his fruit and leans down close to the ground. His knees kiss the wet soil through the thin, airy fabric—slightly sheer to let the shade treat his heated skin. The balm he put on before coming outside was already slicking off his skin from the mounting summer heat. He will need to replace it soon. First, he’ll do some of what he came out here for.
The trowel is fetched from his satchel, alongside his water sack and a few small bags. Each one is low on some of the herbs that only grew out here in the meadow, likely another temptation for the more adventurous to wander out here. But he can fight the desire to run, to rip through the earth, and he will do so until he can’t—the alternative is letting his mother come out here, and it would be bad for more than one reason if she were to vanish. His mother was the prized apothecary of their hometown. Losing her would risk the lives of people living here. He may be under her wing, but there was still far too much to learn and it would make more sense to lose him than her.
Izuku immediately sets upon digging up the pale clusters of flowers that signal yarrow root. Every part of this plant is useful to them here—the tea it brews treats fever, common cold, helps with appetite and so on. It’s leaves soothe tooth aches in teething children. It’s roots deal in treating pain as well, and he carefully cuts and bundles them to dry for the fall when they’d see most of their use. Garlic cloves, an interesting sight, trail further beyond him and like a dog to a bone he plucks them up from the earth. More than just a kick to a meal, Izuku knew the crushed clubs yield antibiotic, antifungal, antiviral and even antiseptic effects—collecting as many as he could would be helpful to everyone in the town.
So as he’s plucking the trail, not even aware that that’s what it is, a clear trail—a near perfect line leading him to the edge where the meadow leaks over into the dark forest, he doesn’t even realize what’s happening. His plant-stained fingers just pluck and take, absent-mindedly placing things into pouches. He doesn’t even feel the weight of his now heavy satchel. The oddness of the suddenly plentiful garlic doesn’t register as pressure. In fact, it doesn’t even take his final mini-pouch being stuffed full to near bursting for him to finally snap out of it.
What it does take? The air around him shifts. It dims and darkens. It tightens around him in an unnatural way, and cuts off the gentle birdcall that had helped sucked him into the zone. Izuku freezes immediately and shoots up from his long-crouch, barely registering the painful crack his back gives at the sudden movement. He’s crossed into the forest. Quite literally he is right now straddling the invisible line of the shady meadow and where the real thick of the woods begins. The knowledge crawls into his throat and settles heavy in his chest. Finally, fear is setting in.
His chest heaves with sudden air and he follows the first instinct that hits him—run. Izuku immediately swivels around, barely thinking to pick up his rucksack and stuff it with his things, but it doesn’t matter, because something is clutching at his pants. With a yelp he topples over, the ankles of his pants in the firm grip of something, but his only saving grace is that the odd angle and the way he moved allows him to fall partially into the meadow—and the call of the meadow is so much easier to fight than the forest. He needs to focus, he needs to focus, he needs to focus.
Tears well up in his eyes—by the gods, he always was such a fucking crybaby—and he snaps his gaze to look at whatever is holding him. A monster, a raging beast, something else just as towering and wild? No. It’s the roots. Like warped, knobbed hands they grip tightly at his ankles. They look like hands—five fully formed, thick fingers desperately holding onto his aged jeans. The tips of the fingers are burnt black and sharp, but they don’t pierce the worn fabric or squirm beneath to claw at skin. The vines, the roots, they just…hold him. Tightly. Shouldn’t they be dragging him in? Shouldn’t they be ripping him up, forcing him into the earth to feed the forest—shouldn’t they be doing something, whatever it is they do?
But instead they just hold him. Izuku’s chest still heaves as he sits there in the forest’s literal grasp, but slowly he calms down. Probably a dangerous move, but as time passes and the sun drifts overhead, he isn’t given much of a choice. The roots aren’t letting him go, but they aren’t killing him either. So, he has to sit there, and he has to calm down. Slowly, his fingers which had previously dug into the earth and clawed in desperation loosen and free the clumps in his grasp.
The roots follow. As his own fingers relax, so too do the fingers on his ankles. They slowly lose their bruising pressure and wind down past his feet. Though he can’t see it, he can feel the eyes of the forest resting heavy on him—mimicking, watching, copying. The dirt under his nails oddly softens and frees itself from underneath the bone, like it is clearing itself from his body. Making him clean. The sensation washes over his skin and settles behind his teeth—oddly tasting of an apology.
Before him, otherworldly and almost unsettling in its absurdity, the hands cup the air gently. With a kindness he doesn’t connect with the forest and the way it rages and takes from them, the clawed hands move softly, slowly. It’s frankly upsetting—he’s been so prepared to face an untimely and gruesome death from the monster in the woods that this was honestly enough to piss him off. What does it think it’s doing?
Then it bloomed. The thin lines in the wooden palms separated, spilling out thin yet vibrant vines. From the vines crimson petals sprouted up and up, spiraling high and licking up towards the sun like flames. They burned into his retinas, a plethora of red, orange, yellow and rimmed in a subtle yet vibrant pink. The tips of the petals curled into themselves, forming half-baked balls of imagined fire, only heightened by the natural wave and curl each fine bract made. The scent hit him next, strong but comforting and again—warm. It continued to sprout up like that, slow and steady, until it reached its natural peak. The vines at the base of the structure suddenly disconnected, all in succession like toppled dominoes, and it fluttered down until the green, woven base was flush with the wood for the first time.
He had held his breath as it was being built, but now it whooshed out of him in one long stretch. It felt like the air was pushing past his lips through force, like the trees were trying to make him breathe, so he opened his mouth and let the oxygen-rich air in, tasting sweet from the natural fragrance of the flowers. And like that, they sat there. The bark hands didn’t press forward, just held out its impromptu gift in the air, waiting for him to accept.
Wind rushed around him like an annoyed huff, though, so he gingerly reached out. With shaking fingertips, he brushed against the fragile petals, skimming soft hands against the giving texture. It naturally tilted into his grasp, and he scrambled to cradle it as gently as possible. Though it crinkled ever-so-slightly against his chest, it thankfully bounced back before any real damage was done to it. He had been given a…gift, but he wasn’t eager to show any possible disrespect to the forest by accidentally destroying his present, so this small victory was a feat to him.
The roots shifted in the air, folding the fingers back into halfhearted fists, like it was relaxing. Arms of bark and wiry, whittled lines braced against the dewy floor, cushioned against pillowy moss piles. It was waiting for him to do something with its gift.
He breathed out again, now willingly matching the breath of the wild brushing over and against him. “I…thank you?”
The wood chips rattled over its arms, like the way a pleased bird flutters in praise. They settled back almost as quickly as they shifted. This was probably the extent of conversation the forest could provide. But still, it didn’t recede from his view.
Izuku looked down at the loud ornament in his arms. It easily obscured his chest from view, and the topmost petal on the plant peeked past even his most unruly locks that stuck straight up from his head. Large and animated, it danced in the breeze like a true flame. The soft edges caught in his hair and played with his soft but sweat-matted curls, and it clicked.
The branches fluttered again as he carefully adjusted the flowers in his arms, bringing them up with reverence and patience. Timid, he was timid, and he didn’t really know if this was what it wanted, but the woods weren’t helping him exactly, so he was left to his own devices right now. Slowly he turned the object until its most lively part stuck out of his view, and he lowered the woven base onto the crown of his head.
It trilled again in that noiseless way, digging its fingers into the dirt—but also committing this time. The roots sunk down into the ground, returning to where they came from, and the watchful presence that had settled its heavy eyes upon his body vanished with it. Wet dirt blended seamlessly over the place it drifted down into, wild moss spreading over the spot and blooming in tiny white patches of miniscule flowers.
The thing that had been luring him in earlier had disappeared, leaving him strangely warm, alone, and confusingly alive.
“Mom,” he called as he closed the door of their cottage behind him. The headpiece was back in his arms now, cradled against his stained chest—though that wasn’t much of a surprise, his mother would likely be perturbed if he hadn’t come home covered in something, honestly. “I found something—” in the forest “—in the meadow today. It’s a flower I’m not familiar with. Do you know of it?”
She rounded the corner between the kitchen wall and the cozy dining room, wiping her hands off on a thin apron decorating her front. Crumbs from the peach pie he could smell in the kitchen littered the fabric, shaking off as she smiled warmly at him in a happy hello. “Hey sweetie,” but then her eyes drifted down and widened, “that’s certainly…something.”
He placed down the intricate floral arrangement, begging internally that she wouldn’t ask any terribly probing questions. “Yeah, it is.”
Inko hummed and approached it with a clear forced nonchalance. He had never been able to keep a straight face around her when she was like this, and all he could hope was that she would drop it, please—just humor his silly questions and nothing more. “I’ve never seen this plant in person,” she interrupted his thoughts, thumbing the topmost part of the crown to feel its unnatural perfection. “But I’ve seen pictures of it in some of our books. It doesn’t grow here. Even with our special climate and thriving conditions—we just don’t have the tropical weather for it.”
“Ah, i-is that so?”
“It’s called a fire lily, I believe. Or a flame lily. Even this one is a little special—I don’t know how common the vibrancy of this particular flower is. Especially the pink.” She traced a nail around the nearly fuchsia edges. “It’s a very useful plant, Izuku. Extremely useful. That you’ve found this is…good luck, I suppose.”
Shrill, panicked laughter bubbles out of his chest. “Haha, yeah I’m really lucky!”
She leveled an unimpressed look at him, clearly not amused he wasn’t being more forthcoming. The flowers were brushed aside to the middle of their chipped-at-the-edges wooden table, a long-faded olive green that blended in with the ivy spilling down from terracotta pots hanging overhead. His mother ruffled his hair and gestured for him to sit before trotting off to the kitchen and retrieving the pie she must have spent the better part of the day on given the intricate flower pattern of the crust. It steamed in lovely, captivating billows—perfectly timed for his arrival with the low dusk of the late evening.
“You can read up on the flower—after dinner.”
“Oooh, peach cobbler for dinner? Mom,” he gasped, covering his mouth in mock shock and playful indignation, “what would people think? The town’s healer making a mockery of what should be a healthy mealtime.”
“Well, they can mind their own business! Life is all about living, and we’ll have pie for dinner if we damn well please.” She reached over and pinched his cheeks, fingers still warm from the glass that held the pie. “Now eat up before you run off and stay up half the night like you like to do. And I do hope that you didn’t waste your day today and picked something up besides these flowers right here.”
“Of course I did! Why, I promise we could have garlic pie for every night for two weeks with how much I gathered.”
“Ugh, don’t jest. I’ll keel over before I make myself eat all that.”
Low candle light flickers warmly in his room, illuminating the dark and dancing on the pale breeze that ruffles his curtains. The moon is high in the sky outside, but it seems hazy summer showers have decided to work their way in, and the wait for the pleasant rain obscures most of the moon in the meantime. The air that filters into his room is moist and warm, but ultimately better than allowing dust to stagnate before bed, or smoke and ash to build the moment he neglects the candle, as he tends to do. The wick gives an ominous stutter in response, as if knowing of his thoughts. He rolls his eyes and reaches out for the thick tome he’s come to favor over time.
It’s the oldest and largest book of flora they own, bursting with notes and drawings from generations of apothecaries both in their family and from others in the village who had at one point owned the now battered tome. Neglect has never been brought upon it—the book has been lovingly tended to, but time is cruel and as a result it has suffered. It is only allowed to exist here in their home, untouched by anyone else for fear of accidentally losing the knowledge. Unknown to his mother, Izuku occasionally sneaks it out, though—bringing it to Yagi-san and slowly rebinding the spine, rewriting words, gently tending to water stains and even redoing entire pages. He hopes to one day present her with a fully repaired book to be used for the village’s benefit for many more generations to come.
Tonight, though, it sits in its usual spot on his creaking desk. The table bends under the strain of countless other books and documents, but deep down the young man knows it will hold—if it doesn’t, he may lose a foot from the intense weight he’s piled onto the wooden surface through the years, and that would be unfortunate. Izuku skims with thin fingers across the paper available on the side of the tome, brushing through it and enjoying the soft sound of rapidly flicking the tightly packed pages. It’s comforting, especially after the rush of adrenaline today.
Naturally, he begins the mindless task of flipping through the yellowed pages. Bypassing and ignoring the table of contents is a ritual at this point, not that speed is by any means vital right now. In the sleepiness of the still night, why rush? Izuku knows the book well enough despite not ever familiarizing himself with plants so foreign because he knew he’d never roam outside the tiny, glass world the woods had built for them. The image of the fire lily still burned bright in his retinas—he’d recognize a flash of it in passing now, even on these dimmed pages drained of most hues it had upon its original printing.
Soon enough, he came to a stop. At the top of a certain page, the words he had been searching for were emblazoned large and bright. Fire lilies—home to much warmer lands than his own and naturally found sprawling over rocks and low bushes. They grow heavy in thickets and savannahs, sometimes growing even taller than the massive, pointed crown he had watched build itself. Though potentially useful—his eyes widened at the mention of possibly helping to cure certain strains of cancer—the plant was highly poisonous. Moderation and extreme care were to be used in its handling. His skin crawled at the thought that perhaps the ornament really was an ill omen, but the next passage stopped him.
The flame or fire lily is of noticeable cultural importance in the regions it populates. Lilies of its general breed automatically symbolize fame and honor, but the wavering mock-flames of this plant earned its name as the origin of life. Its raw vibrancy and meticulous clinging to life in even arduous, poor situations have given it an air of ambition and success—of glory. New beginnings.
His candle sputtered weakly to his side, spitting a stray but weak ember down onto the wooden top. It sizzled for a split second but thankfully died against a spot made damp from the humid air that had been slowly suffusing his room. The air, like earlier in the forest, purposely brushed against him—tangling in his locks, teasing against his untucked, loose sleeves, still stained green at the edges and smelling faintly of garlic. Izuku’s nose wrinkled, and he halfheartedly tugged off his shirt, not even thinking about how it unveiled his lanky form to anyone passing by—but why should he consider that? They would have to climb up the aging lattice, hope that the vines attached it securely enough to the house, and still crane their necks to look in. No, it was just him and the dank wind now.
Downstairs, like the return of a silent alarm, a hidden call that was more of a physical sensation than a true sound, the petals of his fire lily shuffled. The bracts brushed against each other in the windless room, softly clinking and waving. Like a true flame, it fluctuated hauntingly, but…it was just a plant. It could do nothing more than sit there, Izuku knew that, even as he shut his window, blew out his candle, and shuffled under his covers.
Nothing more than sit there and mean something.
He leaves his home much earlier than usual in the morning. Well before his mother had awoken, as she normally does with the sun. The sky is hazy with low summer rain, casting a thin pall of grey light over the entire town. But its gracing against his skin—a pleasant, cool mist over his cheeks, kissing his freckles. It settles on top of his thin overcoat, worn just in case the rain genuinely picks up into anything more than it currently is, soft and unassuming. Nonthreatening, like every gentle storm before it—never enough to hurt the land or flood the creeks.
The door clicks silently behind him and he embraces the humidity fondly. No one else is outside at this hour, not even the birds, who are nestled safely in the canopy above him—housed in rickety birdhouses he made as a child. They’ve splintered and become loose with age, but at least all the young hatchlings are surrounded in downy feathers, unable to feel any cold in the warm embrace of their sires. And perhaps one day, those same little chicks would fly far beyond the forest. In that way, it’s almost as if Izuku would leave with them.
A fanciful thought.
Low light filtered through the thin, misty rain, casting faint beams onto the well-trodden path from his cottage to the meadow. Today, not wanting to disturb the silence of a still-sleeping town, he would instead take the thin, lonely path straight from his home. No need to click his heels noisily on cracked cobblestone past young babes that had perhaps only just been laid to rest, sleepless parents suffering right alongside them. He readjusted the strap of his bag and slowly parsed through tall tufts of grass that framed the dirt. Shallow imprints of his boots followed him like a ghostly trail, the weathered heels digging into rain-soft dirt so easily.
And he was back, back at the meadow. This time he hesitated between the boot-beaten path and the thin tree line of the grove. While the meadow swayed in a gust of stormy air as normally as it ever could be, the way the thicker trees beyond it—the true forest, that had snared him yesterday only to let him go—was haunting. The branches hung high over his head, curled down at the edges like cupped hands, trapping his presence overhead. Their leaves shivered, catching small droplets as the rain finally began in earnest.
Izuku walked in, into the meadow. Underfoot the grass crinkled, only to spring back up—oddly fuller and livelier than before he had stepped on it. Pollen, unrestrained by the morning dew, puffed up in his wake. In the corner of his eyes, he catalogued the wild flowers in his path, a habit from a chronically nervous childhood. Arrowleaf, bugleweed, blazing star. The looming trees came closer with every step. Daisies, bloodroot, harebells. It feels like the leaves are spreading, blocking out more of the already limited sun. His breath picks up. Alphabetically now, maybe that’ll help—coneflowers, foxglove, marigold.
The tips of his boots grace the edge of the clearing. One step further, and he’ll be right back in its grasp. Hell, if it really wanted him, he probably would already be back in those wooden claws. Rain splatters down heavier now, its painting careful paths between his freckles and weighing down the remaining mist floating around his head. It cools the clearing substantially, and he draws his overcoat closer to his body.
But the clearing effect of the rain allows him to see further into the woods. In the place where the roots had warped and formed before, a flower blooms up. It starts small and fragile, but all of the sudden doubles, triples, quadruples in size. Blossoming unfathomably wide, the flower strongly resembles the core structure of a water lily—but it’s the deepest, most vivid shade of blue he’s ever seen. The shades of cobalt and deep azure are stunning, swirling together hypnotically and mesmerizing him. It’s like a wisp has formed right in front of him, drawing him in, luring him closer. An odd second-bloom follows the radiating petals, and long tendrils shoot out from the center of flower. They’re a much darker blue, nearly black towards the ends, and curl wildly, shooting up so high that they naturally bend under a lack of support, drifting down towards the sides of the dry water lily. Like arms, they wave, beckoning him closer.
Behind it, another flower blossoms. And another, and another, leading him into the true dark of the forest. He doesn’t move, just watches as it blooms more and more of the vibrant, densely packed petals, as their thin arms wave in the breeze tantalizingly, a playful bounce. They dance like jesters, like happy, bouncing babies without a care in the world—and he can’t decide if they’re really trying to lead him in or if they’re entertaining him. Because if the forest wanted him, it would just take him.
They begin to shimmer once they’re too far into the forest to be seen. It’s the largest problem with the woods by far—even if it didn’t threaten them by claiming their homes and stealing their people, no one would want to enter because at a certain point the woods were nothing but pitch black. The canopy was so thick that no matter how clear of a bright, sunny sky, mere yards in you wouldn’t be able to see your own hand waving in front of your face. The flowers seemed aware of that, and glowed brighter. Glittering spores began to drift off the peaks of the lilting tendrils, connecting each pod in a thin sapphire light. The way was literally being illuminated for him. He continued to stand still.
Impatience strikes him hard, so intense and sudden that he knows the feeling isn’t his own. It worms into his chest with a foreign wiggle, but despite the fact that it should scare him, Izuku can only feel annoyed.
“Don’t rush me! You’re being rude and, honestly? Unfair,” his voice rose now, petulant and steadily building into a frustrated half-whine. “You’re literally a murder-forest. And you’re trying to lure me inside of the most murdery part of the forest! You don’t get to be impatient when I sit here and measure out the pros and cons of potentially dying!”
And then, amusement. The cool breath of the wind rushed over him anew, like a fond huff. A misty fog followed the sudden gust from the heart of the trees, ruffling the evocative blossoms. The fluttering, luminescent spores radiated across the fine vapors and brightened it all even further. Like beautiful, glittering gems suspended in the air. Like stars, brought down just for him.
“You really want me in there, huh?”
It didn’t grace him with another worldly breath that time, but he still felt the sense of its heavy presence. Ever watchful, and wholly unmovable. The same eyes that had settled their heavy weight on him the day prior were surely on him now too. Izuku subconsciously sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it. His boot tips dug into the wet soil, shifting from side to side. The fuzzy moss beneath him spread, haloing around his feet but never reaching out to touch.
His lip was let go with a small wet sound. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Definitely not today, that’s for sure.”
The trees framing his vibrant path rustled at that. The bark shivered and fluttered, creaking out low and loud. Leaves drifted down like a new rain, but far less graceful—dumping on his head like a moody child. Suspiciously, the previously healthy, green shade quickly came to rot amongst his hair, causing him to comb out sludge from his tangles. He raised unimpressed eyebrows at that, quickly frowning and stomping a foot to match the ill-tempered whatever he’d found himself communicating with.
“If you’re going to be like this then I’m leaving. Have fun throwing a tantrum to the thin air.”
He spun around—or at least intended to. Before his right foot could even fully separate from the ground, a root hooked around it, catching him and completely throwing off his momentum. Izuku swayed haphazardly, arms waving out to the side in a pale imitation of a windmill, before he finally tipped forward and careened towards the ground. His chin slammed into the thankfully soft earth instead of a nearby rock, but his teeth still clattered painfully together despite the cushioning. Barely aware he’d technically crossed the divide between the meadow and the true forest, he whined low and began to rub at his poor, dirty face.
His eyes are shut tight against the sting in his jaw, which is obviously his biggest mistake right now. Anyone smart would have at least made sure to keep their eyes open in this position. Well, anyone smart wouldn’t have approached the woods at all—let alone chastise it. They probably wouldn’t even leave the town if they had half a brain. Izuku clicked his tongue against his aching teeth, rolling his palm over his freckled chin and completely missing the shift in atmosphere as blood rushed in his ears.
Low and subtle. That’s probably why he missed it. The noise that began to seep out from the deep dark was quiet, almost mute against the wet ground. But as the pain drifted away, he registered it. Thump, thump, crack. Heavy weight against the ground, repetitive, purposeful. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot, of twigs snapping so easily under something large. His body froze as it came closer, completely chickening out of fight or flight and deciding to freeze up like an idiot. It neared him further.
Then suddenly, it was right there. A whoosh of air right beside his head and he could feel it. Feel the pure force of its living, breathing presence. There was an aura—there was heat. The force within the forest that had been so abstract before now wasn’t just some amorphous concept. It has a body, one looming above his frozen, shut-eyed form. The monster in the woods is real. Izuku clenched his eyelids even tighter.
He could hear it bend over. Its back cracked lowly and its feet shifted against the ground, disturbing the pebbles and moss. Something moved above him, an unknown sound but familiar—like cloth brushing along skin, or the way the vines outside his home shifted in the breeze. Just, familiar. Nonthreatening, despite the clear power the presence exuded. The ground directly in front of his head was disturbed, and then the heat around him receded. Even quieter than it had arrived, the heavy footfall quickly left.
Izuku slowly opened his eyes. Placed ever-so-gently in front of him was a petite, painfully handcrafted laurel wreath. Yes, it was certainly handmade because the quality was on a whole other level than the previous gift he’d received just a day ago. Clumsy, rough hands had twisted and tied together the strands, and he could see spots where too much pressure had been applied and a break had occurred. Small nicks littered the broadleaves, but the person who had crafted this had tried to hide each imperfection with berries. Not the decorative kind normally used for this—the snowy white ones, not for eating—but…whole blueberries. Black currants. Even some wild strawberries. He raised soft fingertips to touch the plump fruit, and in doing so finally noticed what he should’ve seen first.
Two massive, cloven hoofprints imbedded deep into the ground on either side of his head.