Sorry, My Love: The Adventures of Lovers-Chapter 41: When The Forest Wept

The tempest thundered on, its black arms clawing the warped trees apart, ripping the limbs and screaming over the broken stones of the battle-ground. Ava navigated the maelstrom, her lungs sucking breath harsh and raspy, her skin battered and bloody, her intellect keen with terror and rage.

She spun, her gaze meeting her mother, a hard, wild woman in the midst of the devastation, her sword flashing as she sliced through the mangled, armored corpses of the Holy Land knights. For an instant, their gazes met, a moment of love and fear flashing between them, a silent vow that they would live through this.

And then, behind her mother, a shadow stirred, a black shape wrapped in wreathed, rusty armor, its sword glinting in storm-light as it drove itself deep into her back, the point bursting through between her ribs in a spout of dark, glistening blood. Ava's own breath caught hard in her throat, her eyes going wide as her mother stumbled, her knees buckling under her, her sword flying from her grasp as she fell to the ground, her blood flowing over the broken, shattered stones on which she fell.

Ava screamed, raw beast's cry torn from between clenched teeth, fists balled hard as she charged ahead, knife flashing, wild and desperate strikes landing, fueled by a fury that burned hotter than the fire of the tempest raging around them.

But the knight spun, his sword shining in the sun, the chilled steel slicing into her flank, her breath in hard, shuddering gasps as pain burst through her body, her sight blinding white as her knees buckled beneath her. She fell to the ground by her mother, her breath in hard, straining gasps, her blood pulsing out around her as the storm raged on overhead.

Her father's bellow pierced the bewilderment, his body bursting through the broken rocks as he ran towards her, his eyes wide with fear, his arms outstretched towards her as the knights moved in on them. But before he could fight to get up to her, a second knife burned the air, the twisted metal biting into his chest, his breath exhaling him in a cold, jerky gasp as he collapsed beside them, his blood spilling onto the black, shattered earth.

The Simbaku fighters continued, their swords flashing in the storm-light, their battle cries and shrieks tearing apart the broken trees as they slaughtered the Holy Land fighters in retreat, their rage and anguish propelling them into the brink of madness. The knights were repelled, their grotesquely mutilated forms scattering into the night, their war-shouts dying into the darkness as they retreated from the broken atrocity of the battlefield.

But when the final of the knights had vanished into the storm, the Simbaku warriors stopped, their breathing in short, harsh gasps, their eyes raking the bloodied earth for their dead brothers. They moved forward, their swords falling from their hands as they knelt beside their dead, their hands out to the cold, dead bodies of their loved ones, their tears mixing with the blood-soaked earth.

But no one visited Ava. No one knelt down next to her, no one stroked her bloody face, no one said her name. She lay next to her mother, her breathing in sharp, desperate rasps, her fingers grasping the cold, dead hand next to her as the world around her went dark.

She shut her eyes, her breath leaving her in a harsh, bitter sigh, her body motionless, her blood seeping into the black, twisted ground as the storm raged on above, the wind screaming through the broken trees, wailing of death and broken vows.

Far away, in the crooked, black forest, Margarette stood, her own eyes burning as the warriors of the Holy Land emerged from among the trees, their swords shining in the storm-light as they attacked her. She raised her arms, her fingers curling as the branches that bound her awoke, curled, twisted arms entwining the knights like dead fingers, grasping them as they stumbled, their breath in ragged, desperate gasps as life was squeezed from their bodies.

The trees which had surrounded her writhed and twisted, their branches enveloping the knights, their limbs splintering and snapping as the life ebbed from their bodies, their cries lost in the howling wind. Margarette's eyes grew narrow, her breathing short, harsh gasps as she threw out her hands, the writhing branches snapping as they sent the shattered bodies hurtling into the darkness, their dead bodies crashing to the ground like discarded toys.

She whirled, her gaze upon Owen, his tiny, shivering figure under a broken tree, his wide eyes full of fear as the world around him kept breaking apart. She stretched, her curled fingers as the air around him curled, his shape vanishing in a cloud of dark, curled light, his terror-struck gasp gobbled by the wind as he reappeared way up in the curled boughs of an enormous tree in Lavera, his shape curled up into a small, quivering ball as the storm howled around him.

Margarette faced back towards the battlefield, her eyes shut as she walked, her hands crackling with dark, supernatural energy as the corrupted branches around her reached out towards the fleeing knights, their screams echoing off the broken trees as the world itself kept on unraveling into darkness.

The trees creaked and splintered, their ancient wood limbs writhing in pain as tongues of fire engulfed the bark. The blackness howled and whirled, illuminated by the fire, in a horrific parody that seemed to scream and twist in the suffocating smoke.

Margarette backed away, gasping in rough, shuddering breaths. The air burned in her lungs, heavy with the oily reek of sap and blackened leaves. Her skin was flushed, drops of sweat trickling down her forehead as she wildly thrashed her arms, tearing at the curling, clawing thorns that ripped at her flesh.

"No. not yet," she exclaimed, her words lost in the sound of the fire. Her ankles were pinned by the growing roots, which thorned tips dug deep into her flesh, causing them to bleed. She looked down, her eyes bulging with horror.

Her feet became wood. The flesh split and cracked, veins twisting into roots, her toes merging with the charred earth. She gasped, stumbling, her hands grasping her chest as the transformation worked its way up her legs, her bones turning to stone, skin becoming coarse and grainy. But she struggled on.

A shadow moved through the smoke—a figure wrapped in silver and white, his armor gleaming even in the fire's haze. Stark, a knight from the Holy Land, his eyes cold and unyielding, his blade a thin, polished line of steel that cut through the choking air.

Margarette swung at him, her arms wooden clubs now, splintering as they connected with his shield. She screamed, a long, keening wail that rose above the crackle of burning leaves, but Stark did not hesitate. He stepped forward, his boots crunching over the smoldering remains of shattered branches, and drove his blade deep into her abdomen.

The steel pierced through her chest, splintering her wooden ribs, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The flames paused, the wind stilled, and the crackle of burning bark softened to a whisper.

Margarette's jaws dropped open, a muffled shriek caught in her throat. Her eyes hardened and went blank, staring at Stark's faceless face as the flames danced in his grey, cold eyes. She felt the last shudder of her heart, the last, feeble beat before it too became wood.

The roots climbed up her body, coiling around her arms, her neck, until her head fell back, her mouth open in a breathingless, unending gasp.

A single tear formed in the corner of her wooden eye, small, rounded, pale as a drop of dew, tracing down her cheek to bisect the wood grain of her petrified flesh before it hissed to nothing in the heat.

The warriors shoved her aside, boots crunching charred scrub as they rushed toward the storm, eyes fixed on Maranaqua's twisting spires, its towers shrouded in darkness and lightning.

Ablaze behind them, the fire leapt higher, the creaking branches aflame as the forest itself seemed to rage at her departure, its ancient heart afire.