Myosotis

Myosotis - forget-me-nots.

They know that there is something off about themselves. They have always known. There is magic, in their veins and blood and mind, in the flowers blooming where their right eye should be. They see shadows dance in the corner of their vision. They see spots and snippets of time in the midst of holes formed in reality. They dream of prophecies, of things better left unknown, of the world that will come after them and the world in the mirror and of how many things have gone wrong to create them.

But they pretend they don’t know. It’s better if they don’t. They’ll stay longer if they pretend.

One day, they find an angel, when they are still a gangly child with legs and wings too long for their body and feet so large that they trip over them. The angel looks down upon them and laughs; they feel vaguely insulted, for a moment, before he pats their head gently. “I never knew the ones down here were so interesting. Wish I could take you out of here.”

They find a spirit of nature, one day, when they’ve grown into their legs a bit, but not quite into their feet. She looks at them with pity, with sadness, and for a moment, they feel frustration. Anger. But then she whispers, “I’ll get you out of here,” words for only them to hear, and the shadows nod their heads as she does, and they feel a bit better.

The angel’s name is Angelo, they learn. He is here out of desperation, out of necessity, because otherwise he would not have anywhere else to go. He never told them this. They just saw. He hangs around them often, them and the nature spirit. They see glimpses of his past, of his future. He tells them he’ll bring them somewhere safe, eventually. They tell him that they already know. Of course they know. They’ve already seen it. The shadows don’t like him, but they put up with him, and they appreciate their cooperation.

The spirit’s name is Amaia. She is here out of loneliness and hope, and she knows this place is not as it seems. She told them this, once. They nodded. The shadows wrapped around their wings, unseen by everyone else, and whispered: “You should trust her.” So they do. She is gentle, and kind, and she visits them as often as she can. How could they not?

Sometimes, Angelo and Amaia watch them, whispering to each other as they do. Sometimes they hear what the two are saying. Sometimes they don’t. They don’t mind. They’ll find out somehow, anyway; whether it be by the shadows that tell them or the warps in space they are only now learning to control.

One day, when they are a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit stronger, Amaia comes up to them. “Do you want a name?” she asks, her voice as quiet as she can make it. They nod. Their dreams had not showed them this.

She places a paw on their head and whispers, “Myosotis. Forget-me-nots. Do you like that?”

And they nod, because they do. It’s a good name. Forget-me-not. Please don’t forget me.

One day, they, too, will travel to the Grove, they and their siblings and who knows who else. Amaia will gamble with fate, and she will win. Angelo will fight for his life, and he will win. Myosotis will not be there to see it, but that’s alright. They can wait. They have the shadows and their borrowed time, and that’s all they really need.


One day, when Myosotis is older, Amaia and Angelo leave. They’ve served their purpose in the project, and now they’re returning to Amaia’s grove. Before they go, Amaia places her paw on their head and whispers, “Please take good care of my child. I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

“I will,” they tell her. “I’ll keep him safe. I promise.”

They keep their promise, for the child with eyes full of stars, with two sets of feathery wings, bronze in color and unlike either of his parents’ wings. He is nameless; Salem did not bother giving him a name. He is curious, and innocent, and Myosotis adores him, just as Amaia adored them. They give the worn-out plush they’ve always had to him. He looks up at them with wide eyes full of love and clutches it close.

Things change, as they grow older. Mushrooms begin the sprout from their scales, worming their way out of their skin, poking their heads out and watching with eyes made of flesh and spores. They don’t mind. The mushrooms don’t hurt.

They learn to fight. They don’t fight fair; they use all the tricks they have up their sleeves, the shadows and the mushrooms and the flowers, the rips in space and time and the fact that people underestimate them. The shadows tell them where to strike, and their claws do the rest, almost automatically, at this point. It’s hard, at first, but then it gets easier. They are stronger. They have to be. They have to protect Amaia’s child.

Salem comes for the child, one day. To send him to train in the deepest part of the waters. Myosotis steps in front of him, their wings spread out to protect Amaia’s child, mushrooms staring holes in Salem. “No,” they say. “It’s too dangerous for a child there.” They should know; they were only a child the first time they set foot there.

Salem stares at them, at the shadows trilling behind them and the determination in their eyes, and he turns and walks away.

They/them