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Impulse's head was pounding where he lay immobilized on the ground, the root of an old oak tree snaring him firmly to the ground.
Any semblance of weapons was long gone, lost in the heat of the battle that had taken place. Where it had been man against nature. Where nature had been the one to prevail.
The breaths were heavy, drawn with strength of will and not much more. Everything hurt, and every time Impulse tried turning, his right arm would burn in pain. Probably dislocated, if not outright broken.
God, how had it all gone that badly? Impulse knew the forest was dangerous of course, the whole village knew that. Why had they still gone to harvest wood from there? They weren’t stupid.
Impulse could feel another root twist and grow besides his leg, before it ensnared the limb with deliberate movements. Anchoring yet another piece of Impulse to the living, breathing place.
If Skizz was here, he would be able to tell Impulse why. Ranting on about how the forest was a living thing with wants and needs, rather than something inanimate.
He would have waved at the forest creeping in and smiled as it obeyed his wish. Impulse would have sighed a little in relief, and would not ask how Skizz did it, or why Skizz was never around in the village. The only place of civilization for miles.
The friendship was stupid on Impulse's part, he knew that. Just as he knew Skizz wasn’t human and never could be, his every whim betraying the obvious truth.
There weren’t a lot of people in the village, not enough for Impulse to meet someone like Skizz. Who got Impulse in ways the humans around him could not.
Maybe that was how their friendship was born. Out of a longing for connection. No matter how fleeting or how deadly. Now, it wouldn’t even be that relationship that did Impulse in.
Because he had joined the party of lumberjacks, even when he had heard of their localization, because winter would be fast approaching, so there was no use getting in your head about fairytales.
Except now none of them would be returning. The forest had seen them entering, and for their crime had required their lives as repayment.
The forest defending itself had been a violent sight, because axes could only do so much when branches came alive and wrapped themselves around the offender’s throat. The screams of fear quickly turned to those of pain as the party turned and fled.
Still, they were not allowed to leave, and as Impulse was dragged off by too long roots with too much intent behind them, he could see his allies, his friends, lose to a foe they never really stood a chance against.
The air around him was silent, oppressive almost, as hateful trees watched over Impulse's incapacitated form, weaving an ever-expanding net of roots tying him down. Even if Impulse still had his knife, there would be no getting out from it. Now, there barely was any movement left that wasn’t hindered, where Impulse didn’t strain on a hurt shoulder or where his leg didn’t protest with every waking moment.
Tighter, the roots coiled around him. Tighter, as they fixed him in place. Just another breathing corpse as they waited for him to decompose so the forest could consume him for nutrients.
Soon, they would make the casket complete, trapping him, yet not killing. There would be no need when time would do that for them. The forest was patient, what were mere days of suffering for Impulse when he then would become tasty nourishment.
The forest held no morality, no sense of right and wrong. It was simply trees and plants thriving in their very survival, and who could fault them for that?
The vines coiled tighter around Impulse, before finally yielding the second before something internal burst. Lucky maybe, even if it promised a slow death in its wake. It felt almost like the plants wanted to punish him, even if the notion was ridiculous. They were plants.
Impulse could hear faint steps coming from the ground, somewhere around him. Whoever was making them didn’t sound like they were in a rush.
Not human, they couldn’t be. Not after the massacre that had just taken place, the forest would simply not allow it. Impulse was just a fluke that would soon be snuffed out alongside the rest of his allies.
Still, the measured and calculated steps could not be those of animals. Far too intelligent and certain of the forest. It reminded Impulse somewhat of Skizz, who always knew just where to put his feet when they were on one of their walks.
Maybe what was walking towards the trapped human was something like Skizz, a being of the forest just like Impulse's unlikely friend. If that was the case, Impulse's life might be ending faster rather than later.
Better to die quickly than die a painful and slow death, right? Not that Impulse had that much choice in the matter either way.
The steps came closer, the roots tightening their hold around Impulse's leg, sending another wave of hot pain his way. Breathing became hard as the interwoven net around his chest tried to once again join the ground they had once lay hidden in.
Wheezing was the inevitable result as Impulse's lungs fought for even the smallest fistfuls of air. There was nothing to find. Then, all of a sudden, the constricting roots let up their pressure and Impulse choked down a blessed mouthful of air.
“Play nice” Impulse heard a voice above him chastise, a voice so heart-wrenchingly familiar. “Skizz?” he choked out over the dull throbbing of pain that was his entire body.
“Dippledop” Skizz's voice greeted him, like Impulse wasn’t laying slowly dying in a net of the forest’s own creation, pain clouding his every movement. “Quite an entanglement you have found yourself in, huh buddy?”
At that, the roots seemed to loosen their hold even more, and Impulse drew what was the first full breath in what felt like forever. His body didn’t seem to appreciate the sentiment, and soon Impulse was choking on nothing but the fresh and oppressive air.
“Shhhh, there there” Skizz's voice soothed him, getting caught between the trees and bounced around by the soft wind. Amplifying and distorting the sound until it was coming from everywhere and nowhere.
The distortion hurt Impulses head, pounding in his skull as it reverberated through his very being. Here, the cheery voice of a friend was replaced by the haunting whispers of something much older.
There was a hand on Impulse's forehead now, far too gnarly and cold to ever be that of a human. Even more damning, the roots seemed to make space for it, like it too was a part of their cursed and ancient forest.
“Stop struggling” Skizz commanded, the hand pushing Impulse's head farther down to the earth, earning him a whimper as it put pressure on Impulse's damaged shoulder.
Skizz released his grip slightly, and finally Impulse could look up at his friend and possible new captor. There was no look of remorse on his face, only what seemed to be slight puzzlement.
“The forest doesn’t like it” Skizz explained, like knowing that fact was as easy as breathing. Perhaps it was, for the thing that was Skizz.
Impulse would like to counter with the fact that he didn’t give a rat's ass what the forest thought of his actions, but the roots were still squeezing, and angering the forest sounded like a phenomenally bad idea at the moment, so he didn’t.
“You’re lucky I was here at all.” Skizz continued. “Or the forest would have just torn you apart like the rest of the prideful humans who tried attacking it. Or trapped you far tighter in its roots, so that even I would be unable to get you out.”
Lucky? Impulse didn’t feel particularly lucky. All his friends were dead, and he was laying at the foot of a tree, trapped, bleeding and in pain, just waiting to be turned into a portion pack of nutrients while still semi-alive.
At that, the forest seemed to remember just how much it really liked having Impulse trapped and in pain, and the roots tightened around his already broken and bleeding body.
This time, Skizz's presence did nothing to dissuade them, and Skizz himself only watched as Impulse's face twisted in pain, expression somewhat sympathetic as roots started moving again, growing and weaving a casket for the human.
There was a betrayal in that, in the fact that Skizz didn’t even try to tell them to stop.
“Please” Impulse begged him. For the roots to stop, or for Skizz to just kill him already, he didn’t know. “Please, just”
“Sorry Dippledop” The smile Skizz gave him was apologetic, “I don’t want you to die. But the forest is right, you have proven yourself a danger and an unknown variable. Unless you can be controlled, it will not be letting you out.”
“Please, I will do whatever you say, I promise. Just don’t leave me here to die a slow and painful death.” Impulse's voice grew scratchy. “Please, I thought we were friends.”
The last part was added on in part desperation part furious betrayal as Impulse saw one of the people who truly got him turn away from him when he truly needed help.
“We are friends” Skizz's voice sounded a little hurt at the accusation, like leaving your friend to die was a totally regular occurrence and choice that anybody would make in his position. Maybe it was, Impulse didn’t know how Skizz was connected to the forest, but obviously the bond seemed mutual.
“Besides, you know it’s not that easy.” Skizz continued. “You are a human and you did attack first. Ergo, no such deal exists that can be true in words only and then veritably stay binding after it is struck. Sorry”
The last part was said with a half-hearted shrug, like Skizz hadn’t just said something truly other just before it, something so undeniable fae. The fae were treacherous and deadly beings, capable of weaving inescapable nets with the simplest of words. Impulse hadn’t thought Skizz was fae, far too connected to the forest like a living organism to be something other to this world. Perhaps he had been wrong, and later Impulse could regret the absolute stupidity of befriending a fae and ponder the logistics of how that could even work.
Now, Impulse was very much pressed up into a tight corner of roots and vengeance and very much needed to get out.
At least Impulse had never been bold enough to tell Skizz his True name, even after Impulse had started getting truly close to his non-human friend. The stories of old had at least taught him that much.
“What do you need?” he asked, stupidly and with all the desperation of a dying man. All of a sudden aware of the danger he was in, the way this conversation only was going to end in heartache for Impulse, one way or the other.
Because people didn’t walk away after making a deal with the fae. They suffered the consequences of their stupidity twice over, if they were lucky. If they weren’t, you simply never heard from them ever again.
Impulse was under no illusion that he would get lucky now. Not after how monumentally stupid he had been. Hell, they all had been. His comrades had paid their price, it was only fair Impulse would suffer his part.
Besides, Impulse really didn’t want to die. And right now he was willing to let that fact trump a lot of things. Skizz smiled softly at him, and the part of Impulse which always cared far too much cheered.
After all, Skizz was a close friend, and there weren’t a lot of them to go around in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Part of Impulse wondered if entrapment wouldn’t be so bad if it meant an eternity with Skizz.
“How about we start with something simple? Then all you have to do is sit back and let me work my magic. Dippledop, what is your name? Your True one, I mean?” Skizz asked.
Well, it wasn’t like Impulse was under any illusion about how truly fucked he was to begin with. Giving his name out to the fae would be flat out moronic, but Impulse's current situation didn’t exactly stand to improve much without it. Give your name to the fae and survive. Get out of the horrible damp grave but be forever trapped to somebody that could never be quite human, and who will forever never understand your humanity. Live and give up everything that makes you feel alive.
Or decline. Die a slow and painful death at the hands (or roots more accurately) of a wrathful forest. Be forever gone, but also forever you, never to be changed or controlled by someone else holding your strings.
Pick your poison. What do you care about? What is the most important to you? What can you stand to lose? Who are you willing to become in the name of survival?
“Impulse. My name is Impulse SV” he said, the sound of his own name ringing hollow as he gave it up to Skizz. Impulse could see the way Skizz's eyes darkened at the name. Gleaming with something old and dangerous.
There stood no question now whether Skizz was fae or not. “Impulse” Skizz said, voice far too filled with power, and Impulse felt his body respond like a rag doll.
All strength left him as the roots seemed to lessen their hold, and yet there was no ability to move, to struggle against the hold. Only weak muscles and the power of a True name held by a powerful fae.
Maybe the forest could feel it, he mused, and didn’t wish the wrath that would come with hurting something belonging to the fae. Or perhaps it knew Impulse would have no way to fight back. It didn’t really matter.
“Then my dear Impulse, what do you say about a little deal?” Skizz asked, words ever so light even as Impulse felt the power in them. “You get released from you prison here, have your wounds tended to and healed and I get. Well, I get what is needed. What do you say to that?”
It was a horrible deal, even considering the circumstances. Unfortunately, in for a penny, in for a pound, and Impulse had just given up his name to a being of the forest, so really, what could go more wrong than it already had?
“I don’t exactly have much choice here. But sure, it’s a deal.” Impulse said, voice tired. It was better than dying, Impulse told himself. Better than the slow and painful process he would have had in store otherwise. Still, it was a deal with the fae, a deal he didn’t even get to know the magnitude of before making.
At least it was a deal with Skizz as well, and Skizz cared, Impulse was pretty sure about that. As much as a creature of the fae was capable of at least. So, he hadn’t just signed away his soul to millennia of torture. It was something at least.
“Great” Skizz exclaimed, snapping his fingers. The effect was immediate. The roots that had tangled themselves to Impulse's very being falling off him at great speed, causing Impulse to groan in pain as the fleeing vines exacerbated previous injuries.
He tried sitting up, as much as Impulse's whole body protested, but then Skizz was there, holding a hand over Impulse's head, stopping him from injuring himself further.
Not using any deal, noticeably. Just regular old strength and power. Perhaps Impulse had been a better judge of character than he had originally worried about, then. “Sorry” Impulse whispered, but Skizz merely smiled at him.
The edges of Impulse's vision started fading to black as Skizz kept petting his hair. Probably Skizz's doing, though it could simply be the blood loss finally getting to him. Who knew?
Still, the promise of sleep held much more allure now that Impulse wasn’t in danger of bleeding out during it or risked missing any opportunity to escape. He was still trapped, but no longer by the forest, and if Impulse was right (oh, how he hoped he was right), Skizz would be a much better captor.
Right before everything went dark, Impulse could swear he heard Skizz whispering, “The forest doesn’t get to hurt you anymore. You’re mine.” and then everything was gone.