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There is a boy prince who lays on this forest’s floor.

He has been here so long the ground has sunk to hold him and roots have grown to intertwine with strands of his hair and flowers have bloomed to caress his limbs. Tethering him. 

Moonshine tears itself into ribbons to descend tattered through trees to keep him company through the night, until the sun rises. And her children of light reach him at last and kiss his eyelids closed, submerging him in warmth until each morning dew drop tear has been evaporated away. 

The forest air fills his lungs until every crevice of him is teaming with the spirit of this place. Until the very essence to this forest has woven itself into the thread of his being. Until it is no longer clear who is keeping who alive. 

And yet, he stays. Soil under nails, starlight trapped in eyes, moss filling ears, the light fades and rain falls and the boy cannot lift an arm to shield himself. The beautiful flowers tie him down and he does not struggle. Even as bare branches refuse to shelter him. And no light comes down to save him.

And. 

It was not always like this.