The ineffable innocence of a child dancing in fire-smoke. A forest twig plucked becomes a magic stick. The ember tip wisps a spell into existence. But with all of his conjuring, he could not stay the Eateress. Her coal-kissed nails twisting into flesh.

“It’s a burning, breaking thing. This world.”

His eyes look scared, even when they’re smiling. The dirt-curse she wove entwined in his spine. A biting, retching thing. The time has come for new witchery. Seventeen steps into the woods. Six steps back. Turn left. Tracing the rings of Saturn around his skull.

“Make it blacknesses. Make me blacknesses.”

Three fingers to his chest. He talons away some bits of flesh. The blood, lets. He shift-shapes not into a beast, but a carcinoma. Devouring the Eateress from inside and returning to his original form once she has died.

In the following hours, he sits fireside. Pokes a log. Dreams of dancing. And with smoke in his eyes, he cries:

“It's that boy.
Him I want to put my arms around.
To hold him. To hold him.
Chase the scaredness away.”