Fanfic Name

You haven't sat to think for long what it means to live, and to die.

Berries are passed into your clean hands, heads bowed in gentle worship, fruits and dried meats carefully piled into gifts for you. The one who handed you the woven basket this time around, you've learned, is named Laleh, a name meaning 'goddess', 'divine', and 'powerful'.

Your tongue still wraps around the words they speak (even though it is what you would call your own mother tongue). Laleh, Mehr, Kamyar, and many others that you write down on the pages of your memories. One likes plucking flowers to gather into a leather book, another enjoys whistling through the blades of grass.

Each of them with a unique star that burns in their chest.

They argue, they laugh, they talk.

You still feel distant from them, seeing the different expressions in their face as they regard you as their god: fear, awe, interest, curiosity. It takes time to break down the walls, to have children that feel comfortable climbing onto your broad cervine back, with care to not pull on the vines that hang from mighty antlers. To have people sharing their day-to-day stories, the aftermath of a harvest, a hunt, a trade.

Time passes. Many of those kids are growing a little taller, and new ones come into the world … but you focus on a young girl, Yasmin. Unlike other children, she had no parents left after they had fallen victim to an attack on a trade route, no tall figure to guide her.

… at least, until you came along. She was scared at first, most usually are, but you share your offerings with her, offer warmth in the bosom of your form to give her warmth. She tends to the tangles of your vines and hair, to cleaning up the aftermath of offerings, and even took on the role as the 'head priestess' of the children who visit. You read stories to her, and in the process you both learn too (even if you have to lie a little about that).

You softly nudge her to interact with those kids more, but always have an open hand for her when she returns. Some of the parents wonder about her, some offered her a place, but by now all she could say is she couldn't see herself anywhere else.

Time passes, and even though she wished to stay by your side, you softly push for her to explore what she likes to do. Life is for learning and exploring, and like a flower, she too will need to bloom one day.

You can't quite recall when Yasmin's visits began thinning out; too many people to talk to, to visit, to meet, to tend to. Her limbs have gotten lanky and long, and her clothes don't seem to quite fit anymore. She talks more about tending to the plants, in how they've found out a new soil quality to improve plants, how there's conversation exchanged with various places outside here for better crops, new tools.

You fondly listen with rapture and interest; as a god of nature, it would be foolish to not hold interest in it … and, of course, in the wellbeing of those who look up to you. It's knowledge you gently tuck away in your flower-pressed book of memories to be shared around.

One day, she tells you that she's to be married to one of the young boys. You know him, he liked to dig his fingers in a bit too hard when he rode, almost pulling at your fur in the process. He got into working with metal—and you choke back a laugh that he sure had the strength for it—and the two wish for a blessing of their union. You would always be happy to share it, and even oversee the wedding. Not your first, but something about this one feels a little more intimate to you.

Her visits were welcomed, and truthfully, you weren't all that aware of the time between each.

A blessing was equally shared in return when she came to bear a child. Although they call you the god of fertility, the most you can do is just make sure everyone is as healthy as they can be.

You hope she is too.

Soon, her child is joining the others in riding on your back to view their sun dappled forests in a different light. Soon her child has the same lanky limbs, her dark curls of hair, and her dad's bright eyes.

… except now Yasmin's hair was streaked with grey. She still tended to the fields of her home that was now shared by a family of five, with an energy and zeal that hasn't changed.

You don't recall her last visit, though. It's been a while.

The next time she visits, all the dark of her hair has faded to white. Her warmth still shines brightly, but her movements are slow. She tends to your coat of fur again, like she did before. A gentle detangle of two vines that formed a knot. You offer her some leaves to brew into a warming tea.

It was only moments later when you were told that she had passed away in her sleep.

… death is not new to you; in the time she's lived, many have arrived, just as many have passed. But something aches in the dawning realization of how short it felt. How to you, it all just felt like a season's change, where to her, it was a full cycle of beginning to end. From spring (birth), to summer (growth), to fall (adulthood), to winter (hibernation and death).

You still see that child running about, plucking various Padisarah flowers peeking out from a tuft of grass, bringing it over to you and winding it between your vines.

In return, you gently place the flowers over the shape of her grave.