1

“Xev!” a beloved friend called to him, trotting across the rock paths, “Spacing out again, idiot?”

Guilty as charged, Xevla gazed blankly towards the canopy. Hints of sky leeched out from between the dense and unforgiving leaves—it almost blended in with the greenery, if you squinted just right.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” he wouldn’t lie—the proof was clear in his substandard posture, that blind upward gaze. He sat among the many raised stoned embed in the ground, a peaceful place not quite open enough to be a clearing—though it wasn’t nearly as congested as some areas of Domun would prove.

She’d accompany him, that plucky girl. Though it wasn’t the stars she’d watch, instead trained on the young man. For a moment they’d share the silence, only broken by a brief wind exposing the heavens in fragments, “You could probably climb up and see it better, you know.”

“My old bones can’t handle that, Zolta,” he joked, rising to his feet after a breath or two, “Did you just come here to bug me?” arms stretched towards the sky—an audible pop came from his shoulders, a mild wince along with it.

“Of course not! Ma’ wanted to see if you could gut the rabbits,” Zolta persisted with that positive tone—she didn’t appear to be requesting, or offering choice. The inflection on her voice suggested an order, more than anything else.

“Again?”

“New catch! Want to get them skinned fresh, you know?”

Xevla rolled his eyes—this happened all too often, but he wouldn’t expect any less. It’s not as if he minded either. They’re small, not too bothersome—it’d just be a few minutes at most. Then, if lucky, maybe he’d get to keep the skins.

Another deep breath, “Before they get stiff, I know.” Rocking for a moment between the balls and heels of his feet, bare among the smooth stone, he’d begin to walk towards the location set in his mind—Zolta, bound to follow in quick bounds.

The Damun Forst had a certain charm to it. Homes were constructed not from cut and sanded wood, but from trees so expertly bent and grown into perfect shape over decades, gaps filled by beautiful red clays. Somehow, the earthen structures below held it all together, nothing damaged, everything in sync with its surroundings. Of course, there were often no windows, few entrances, only one floor—but it wasn’t obstructive, all life could continue in itself. If vines were to begin weaving themselves through the brick, it’d only make their connection to home another branch stronger.

The series of little communities below the canopy was surprisingly spacious—though if there were an inner city, this would have to be it. Center north in the Forst, their world sprawled and radiated around them. While it often felt infinite, everything was rather tightly knit around them. Everyone knew everyone, the people sharing your strand of life were just as important as your own family.

It was short, the walk from that center clearing near the condemned gazebo, to the home of this extended family. Friendly faces all around, lighting up after Xevla dipped through the entryway—this dwelling was of the larger sort. More people inhabited the space, connected by blood or otherwise loved, they congregated here.

“Evening Xev—” an older woman chimed, that familiar singsong voice a blessing like no other.

“Where’s the rabbits, Ma’?” exaggerating a sigh, he created a façade of exhaustion—all for comedic effect, of course, “How many this time?”

“Two for you, on the counter. Keep whatever isn’t meat, I’ll make you something nice tomorrow.” she pointed, full hand, to the wee bodies strung up above a kitchen counter of sorts.

This entry room was nearly sterile, despite its organic construction. A central, protected flame, a chimney, stone and brick fixtures against the walls. Twisted metal bins held weeks-worth of rain water, along with airtight woven baskets and a ceramic vas or two. It was nice, warm, comfortable. It felt like a place you could call home, and never tire of.

“I’ll have them for you in a minute, then,” a response, as he’d step towards the meat, their soulless eyes. Even then, they looked at peace—it’s a shame they had to end so young.

“Wonderful as always, Xev!”

With that final comment, attention returned to the rest of the men and women present and accounted for—a shrewd old man sat in an adjacent room, muttering odd, distorted phrases to men of a similar creed. Yet everyone minded themselves, including the often intrusive Zolta. She sat off to the side, watching, listening—for a moment, she’d take the world in, instead of contribute to it.

Like clockwork, Xev would pull down the kill, search the structures around him for a knife—the acts were almost seamlessly brought together. Habit is a special beast, no doubt.

Finally looking at the little ones for a long, hard moment, Xev spoke before he’d life one of the pair up by the ankle, “Zol—you ever thought about that dead gazebo?” Pulling the skin taught, he twisted the skin free from around the ankles, one at a time, “It’s just, y’know, seems out of place,” pulling the skin back, he kept himself mentally distracted.

“What about it? It was some guy’s home, I think,” she dismissed.

Using a stronger blade to relieve the body of the feet, the head—the snapping of bones and ligaments provided a sound most grisly. Though, the smell wasn’t much better, “You think he just let it go to waste, then?”

“Something like that.”

Separating everything out, removing the intestines and organs, carefully tearing out the digestive tract—Xevla finished up the first of the two, for butchering the meat itself was a matter of a few simple cuts. The second was just as easy, hands acting without command—he’d done this all his life, what more was it that a second thought?

“Have things been alright with you, though?” stacking up all the cuts, that pale and tender meat—blood still clung to the muscle.

“Of course—why wouldn’t I be! You’re the one that’s never in your own head!” she mocked.

One of those breathy, exaggerated exhales—to call it a laugh would be a bit of an exaggeration, “You make it sound as if I’m mad, I just keep to myself.”

“You saying I could learn a thing or two?” she laughed.

“Not saying you couldn’t!” he’d chuckle, dipping his hands into a basin designated for cleansing. Get those hands free of filth, before wrapping up the scraps and skins in a thin wrap—presumable, a cloth saturated with beeswax, “Need any other ‘services’ from me?”

She paused for a moment, to think, “Nah, Ma’ just wanted you to take care of the meat. Think she’s still put off by how you just snap those little feets off.”

“Little feets?”

“Little feets,” she confirmed.

Xevla was chuffed—such an odd, childish way for her to put things. Yet, it was cute and charming enough to fit. Perhaps, that’s why he was happy to keep company, and make himself useful.

“I should be off then—clean these out and head to sleep. It’s a walk.”

“It is a walk! I’ll tell Ma’ you’re off,” she hummed—waving the boy off, a farewell gesture.

“To the morrow, then.”

“To the morrow!”

He’d wave, before exiting the way he came, bundle of scraps carefully in hand. It was a walk—across the town, back past that condemned nest, the little sub-clearing. Things were more peaceful in the eve like this—though there was no light other than the little bugs flickering through the air, and a rare star filtering through the leaves.

It’s a special serenity, the one true silence being that infiltrated by the noise of the woods. Untampered with by electricity or violence, just in its function—this was the ideal living, at least, in the eyes of those within it. However, there were yet unknowns, what way beyond, what was inside. As Xevla stepped across the perfectly round stones, around the untouched center, he almost felt as if there were a glow seeping out from within. A home still active in the evening—one with its central flame lit, that’s where the resemblance came. Despite how closed it was, looking long enough into the emerald grooves provoked the illusion of a glimmer.

It wasn’t something he had noticed before, a peculiarity marked off to reflections toying with his mind. The mind of the post-man was a fragile thing, after all—so easy to be toyed with.

Those considerations occupied him, wandering back to his shoddy domicile. The flame was lit, he could see it from minutes away—his cohabitant was likely asleep, and forgot to put it out. He’s not the type to form habits, even after decades of scolding.

Arriving, stepping barefoot onto the cold, flush stone, Xevla would set his spoils down before feeding that very flame. It wouldn’t take him long, finding a jar or cup, filling it with water—and a splash of vinegar, made from sugar-water long abandoned. Place the edible spoils within, leave them to soak overnight—stewed carefully with vegetables or starches, it’d make a good snack. The inedible were left in open air to dry up, and bleed out. He couldn’t do much with them now, even if he wanted to; the sun had too far receded below the canopy.