Ignore the body you are sure to find. It's just me…

I marked out my trail as I plodded through the woods. They were strange woods, unusual for some reason. I couldn't make out how. The birds sang just like they did in my backyard. The dew on the grass sparkled in the sunlight, just as it did in my mother's garden. But here, it was somehow different. Beautiful and perfect, but somehow… too much so. I decided to ignore the strange feeling as I walked. This was supposed to be an escape, after all. The pressures of life were weighing down on my chest like a ton of bricks, I felt I couldn't breathe in my own home. Here, the air seemed to enter my body easier. Here, I was at peace.

I was so much at peace; I didn't realise how deep into the woods I was treading. The trees seemed more distrustful, whispering secrets to one another. Secrets I wasn't allowed in on. The birds sang louder, in some foreign tongue. The plants crowded around me, warding me out. I should have trusted my gut. There was something different about this forest. The trees were practically sparkling with it.

I don't know why, but I've always felt more at ease in the forest. Surrounded by nature, it feels… almost homely. I sit with my back against the oak tree and write. He's my tall protector while I let my mind escape, just for a little while. It escapes into faraway lands, of my own making and others. Sometimes I draw beneath its boughs. Other times, I read and escape into lands of faeries and magic. Or I write and lend a little part of my soul to my characters, watching them play out battles and quests. Somehow, they never prevail in those, and I lose that little part of my soul. I turn to the tall oak tree I lean my back against, and he lends me some of his. I take it kindly and sow my soul back together, flesh and leaf melding together as one.

This time, I simply walked. I breathed the air of the trees and walked amongst them, wondering what it would be like to walk amongst them as one of their own. How many leaves would it take before there is no flesh left?

I was lost in these thoughts for quite some time before I noticed the faces staring out through the leaves. They were strange, beautiful faces. They seemed almost familiar. Somehow, I felt I had heard the trees whispering about them some time ago. But I couldn't quite understand, I still didn't. It was only at that moment that it occurred to me that the trees I had walked through were in some arrangement. It was large, too large for me to properly take in. A circle perhaps? I couldn't be sure.

The faces stared at me, and I at them. They looked peculiar, distrustful of outsiders. But was I an outsider? I didn't know anymore. Neither did they. Their hair was matted with leaves, making them blend into their surroundings like no other creature. Their skin was pale and perfect porcelain, save the intricately carved tattoos, swoops and circles of power. Their pointed ears emanated power like I hadn't seen before. I didn't think to speak, in awe of them. I was glad that I hadn't when they stayed silent. They gestured to one another with a series of flurried hand movements.

Their small eyes glared at me, seeking answers I could not give. They reached deep into my soul, seeing the patchwork job. What they made of it; I do not know. I only know that I saw both recognition and distrust warring in their green eyes. They were of the forest; they knew nothing of man and Earthly ways. Whether that was a good thing or not, I do not know. What they were planning to do to me, I do not know either. Perhaps I would have been welcome. Perhaps my patchwork soul would have been roasting on a spit. Faeries are ineffable creatures.

This was a foreign land, full of foreign people, and theirs was a foreign language. I could only guess at what they were saying. I reached into my bag and pulled out all I had in there. A spoon, my notebook, a pen, a letter and a jar of peanut butter. Perhaps an offering would tell them I came in peace.

Their eyes lit up at the sight of the jar. With a rustle, they took it with a not and fled back into their leafy hideout. Their language was foreign, but their meaning was clear. They would not welcome me as one of them, but they would trouble me no longer. The offering had been enough to stop the baying of the hunting horns before they blew. But this place was not my home. I was an outsider in these lands. Perhaps a few more leaves were necessary after all.

I packed up my bag again and shouldered it, looking at the oak and the ash and the rowan trees. I recognised them all, they did not recognise me. I stood and counted their leaves, wondering how many they could count in me. I left the circle with my pack, sans peanut butter, and trudged back to my home. Not my earthly home. But those woods I encountered before the strange circle. The woods where the oak and the ash and the rowan knew me. The woods where the birds sang familiar songs, and the dew twinkled in the sunlight.

And I sat beneath my tall oak protector once more, taking my bag off. My back rested heavily against the runes carved into his bark by time. His own tattoos. They had moulded themselves perfectly for my form. I rested back against them as I pulled out my notebook and pen, imbuing each with a sliver of my soul. I watched those slivers grow legs and watched the scenes play out in my mind as I wrote and drew. Time was forgotten in that moment, in that forest. When the scenes had ended, and my characters, along with my soul, lay dead on the battlefield, the oak tree gave pity on me. He reached down with his long arm and offered a leaf. I stitched it into my soul again and it fuelled the creative fires burning in my soul.

That time I did not return to my earthly home. I forgot time and spent my days sitting with my protector, stitching up my soul and continuing to lend it out. But eventually, my eyes grew heavy. My arm shook as I crossed my t's and dotted my I's. The oak tree noticed and his bark gave way a little. His trunk grew a soft moss for me to rest my head, my very own pillow of nature. He cared for me, rustling his leaves in a silent lullaby. My heavy eyes closed and I sank into the embrace.

My eyes never opened after that day. They never came looking. Time has continued on, and I have been forgotten by my Earthly home. Here, I am at peace. Here, I am known. The plants wave to me, the foxes do not run from my footsteps, the butterflies dance with me in the sunlight. In the rain, I shelter the creatures, they know me. They know I am safe.

And so, I venture once more into the great circle of the oak and the ash and the rowan trees. No longer am I an outsider but welcomed with open arms. They know me, and I know them. Finally, I know what it feels like to walk amongst them as one of them. The birdsong is familiar and sweet, the trees have open secrets with me, and jokes. We laugh to one another, our voices mere rustles in the wind. My soul is a ball of leaves, sown together with twine and sap. It is patchwork, and the fae are still distrustful creatures. But they no longer threaten to spike my soul on a spit. The foxes and the animals of the forest crowd around me as I regale them in stories and song. There is deep magic in this wood, it's in the fabric of the leaves. And I rejoice in it, rotting 'neath my oak tree protector. Just as nature intended.

Do not fret, I am at peace here. Once more, I sit beneath the tall oak tree and put my pen to paper. I carve out these very words, for you alone. Heed this warning, traveller. If you e'er do see that tall oak tree, know that it is the only oak tree that bears fruit of flesh. And if you dare venture closer…

Ignore the body you are sure to find. It's just me.