There truly was too much work for just two young women here on this property. It was all we could do to keep place clean and the groundhogs under control. A massive pig sty with no pigs. Bales of hay for just two sheep. An animal-driven plow with no ox or ass to pull it. I hauled on my oversized muck boots and apron, securing them with fabric strips so I wouldn't be hampered by their size as I mentally plotted out the day. 

Our dairy cow Drina was still inconsolable. She cried out all through the night and continued rush the pen gate when we entered the barn, panicked and straining at the wooden posts on her pen. Her udders remained swollen despite daily milking and nursing. Her calf, so tiny it could be a twin, did not leave its spot in the corner. The poor thing trembled despite the pleasant weather and blanket draped over it and its eyes remained transfixed on the groundhog-burrow on the other side of the barn. I sighed and made a mental note to cover it up before one of the animals stepped in it and hurt themselves. 

Come to think of it, I couldn't remember ever actually seeing any of the pests. After a few minutes, I was able to calm Drina enough to collect some milk, and coax her calf into feeding. Running my hand through its shaggy brown fur, my eyes landed on the golden ring on my finger. I caught myself smiling softly, despite the throbbing in my temples. 

As I scrubbed the milk buckets clean, I planned how to best deal with the groundhog problem. I could try to use one of the bows around the property, but they were too heavy for me to draw to full. They were all wrong too, arrow rests on the wrong side as if they were made for an awkward-handed hunter. Same story as the wheat scythe, too, actually. Every damn tool on this farm was too big for me and my sister, built like they were made for some left-handed man. I idly fingered the golden band on my left hand. --My thoughts fell on it and I realized I couldn't remember where I'd gotten it. Was it a gift from my mother? No, that was all wrong, the inscription on the inside had a man's name. 

My breath hitched. M.. Mar... Mark? Panic rising, I dropped the milk buckets. My mind reeled. The pounding headache returned instantly. I tore the band from my finger, ignoring the sting, and felt for the indented letters. I could not read them through the tears. I choked back hysterical sobs and clawed at my eyes, trying to clear them. My blood was ice. I couldn't breathe. 

The memories flitted to life and then away like sparks from an anvil no matter how hard I clung to them. A kind face. A gentle laugh. A broad chest that quivered as he read his vows. Strong hands wrapped around mine, guiding a left-handed arrow into proper position on the bow. Summer afternoons spent chasing the hogs we'd been gifted after the wedding feast- Then nothing. Gone like sand passing through fingers.

"Forever Always, Marcus & Lucille", it read. Then, something like fingernails nails against steel flooded my ears, drowning out the wild, desperate laughter coming from my throat. It was a terrible, nonsensical melody. It came from everywhere at once. No. It was always there. How had I never noticed? I threw my wedding band as far as I could and screamed. --

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Every seed is a soul. And every soul at some point spreads roots. Many find their way into earthen vessels and thread packed clay into muscle and bone and sinew. Roots give way to heart and lung and nerve and consciousness, and it is beautiful. 

Some seeds find deeper root. Among the deep and old things, they burst into waking and their great vines color the wild, wondrous corners known only to fools and adventurers. 

Deeper still, every dozen worlds or so, a seed finds an uninterrupted path to the Hearth: a roiling spring of liquid fire. Usually these natural fonts of magic exist in a cycle of pressurization and explosive release onto the surface. But if a seed taking root is able to tap the stream and harness the terrifying forces at work– well, you get Monsters like Babakai-Yon.

Barely listening, Telemetrr cleared the underbrush and made it up the last boulder between them and the view that their mentor motioned to. The youngster's eyes took a moment to adjust and recognize the sight: the textured, ashen wall that dominated their vision from so very far off in the distance was in fact no wall. Its breadth spanned the majority of the horizon; its endlessness climbed to the cloud line and through the gaps in it they could make out branches and leaves, looming above both their heads and stretching until the fog conspired against sight. 

Awe-struck was not the word. Telemetrr was visibly shaken as their guide and mentor squatted to match their eye-line and raised a finger toward a section of the miles-wide trunk. The melodic cadence of Ipa’s words drew the stricken youth back into their body,

Settle. You can see them, yes? The Eaters. They bear the World Tree no ill will, they burrow and consume because it is their nature, not unlike young Eranas skipping their reading before an expedition. Let this knowledge quiet your fear. 

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