Khyren carved out a circular pattern within an earthen field of corn.
In the center of the circle he knelt.
He sent a prayer to the First Flower—
a melodic, drawn-out tone that rose and fell like breath.
He unsheathed a knife, broke up the soil, and pressed his long green fingers into the loosened earth.
He reached into a large pocket sewn into the inside of his cloak
A fold of his own plantlike body
It withdrew a small seed.
Held it between two fingers, touched it to the ground, and sang a second melody.
He buried the seed gently.
Stood above it and dropped the cloak.
Beneath the fabric was a ribbon-like torso, pale and fibrous, swaying softly. He dug his long toes into the dirt.
His melody vibrated through the field in waves.
Khyren watched a fleet of large vehicles roll up and park near a farmhouse.
A human police vehicle approached.
The officer, dressed in a black uniform, stepped out and was confronted.
“The Harrow are NOT standing in my field, Aaron!” Said Arthur Fry.
“They are protected,” the Officer Aaron Donald replied.
“I don’t care. I honor the dead by raising my crops and cattle in the fields my family last laid in—
I don’t need a reminder of those horrible several days standing in my god-damn field.”
Arthur stared across the corn at the tall, thin creature swaying among the stalks.
Khyren, whose eyes hid beneath upturned petals, felt for the man.
He sensed the sorrow.
The anger.
The weight of something unspoken.
It prompted a healing song, soft at first, meant to rise
— a gentle offering.
After several bars the old man snapped:
“I don’t need your fuck’n song, Harrow!
I don’t want whatever this is
— from you creatures!
I just want to be left alone!”
Khyren pause but quickly continued.
— Stopping a song mid-melody was unheard of for the Harrow.
— To break the continuity was to invite a curse
— An old truth whispered through roots and vines.
But this old, frail, furious man stood there, unaware of the danger, unaware of how close he was to a creature whose relationship with death was both peaceful and violent.
One wrong step could turn a prayer into a burial rite.
The man seemed to know enough to keep his distance.
He paced the boundary of his field, voice shaking.
“I know you understand me,” he said.
“I’m aware of why you’re here.
I know my share of the blame.
But listen here—
I paid for my sins.
I did my time.
You and your friends reminding me of that day five years ago is cruel.
I don’t want to remember them anymore—”
The wind stilled.
Khyren stood quiet, petals trembling, unsure whether the man was asking for mercy…
or begging for the past to stay buried.