with a whisper }} hunter x aran

[[nyte]]

hunter zodiia

My trees are weeping. Harsh, reds tears, angry chemicals, and the pastels I splashed across their bases - the gentle lilacs and the sweet yellows are overshadowed by imminent doom. I don't know what to feel, I don't know what to do. Fear is sickness through my veins and I wrap my arms around their trunks although I know the gestures mean nothing to them. They're everything to me.

There is release, I've heard, in whimpers spilled from in between pursed lips, in sorrow and anger made corporeal. Instead, despair is left to build within my lungs, crawling up my throat and there is something painful about the way that it settles there. A lump that I cannot swallow. When I sigh, there is nothing but the sound of air escaping and it is easy to feel completely alone when there is no way to scream, to beg, to ask for help. Not many take the time to read the scribbles stowed away within my back pocket.

I rest my cheek upon their bark, wishing that I could not smell their pain, the putrid spray paint wafting off of them like fever off a child's skin and I cannot help but wonder what they did to sentence themselves to death. They have not committed any crime, they are steadfast in their assistance. Offering nothing but life, support, and consistence.

I'm not delusional. I know that they do not know me, that they will never know my name or the love that I have for each and every one of them. Their life, their souls, are as incomprehensible to me as mine is to them and there is peace in that fact. They cannot judge me, I cannot judge them. We do not understand each other.

I've found humans to be much more volatile, impatient and angry because I am not like them. But I am enough like them for their expectations to take route, sinking into my throat because it is empty. Just talk! If I could, I would. It's hard to to even fathom the voice of others, hands rested upon their throats just to feel the vibrations and jealousy is all that I have for them. For my peers.

So I cannot leave my friends. They do not know the names I have given them, the personality that my imagination has left to take root. They do not know the animals hidden away within their hollow wood but I know that their lives are not as valuable as flesh and blood. They will not kill me to get to them. I do not know where value is calculated, upon what level my heavy head is rested in comparison to Mrs. Anderson - with her ivory bark and black freckles. And what about the blue jays nestled within their branches, why am I more important than them?

The sounds of nature are a song that I have come to regard as my mother's voice. The bark against my back, her embrace. They cannot take mother nature away from me. I will not let them.

So I sit, and I wait. Notepad settled upon my lap with bold and dark letters inscribed upon the page.

I WILL NOT MOVE.

[   district seven   ]

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

aran griswald

A man his age should be burdened by having to carry the weight of an empire on his shoulders, but Aran has always upheld his legacy with an unmatched quality of grace. White roses are sent to his parents' graves every other month, planted by hired hands that don't share his family's blood, and he bows his head each night to give quiet thanks for his mother and father's sacrifices. For laying down the foundation of the Griswald Logging Company and cementing Aran's status as one of Seven's few bred-aristocrats — and for their early deaths. Morbid, perhaps, but that's exactly the kind of practicality needed to rule the way that only he can.

If they were destined to die, he is grateful that it came sooner than later. The loss hardened him, but what matters is that it never got the chance to ruin him. He cried his tears, then he learned how to stop them from falling altogether. Because drowning is far too slow; he's content with gunfire. Head tilted back and jaw clenched, breath caught in his throat to keep his emotions from showing, he's never once claimed to be kind. That hadn't been on the list of requirements when he took over the company. Wealthy and with a wit sharp enough to cut, he knows a heart's only good for keeping him alive. And even then, that's a timed luxury. It's not meant to last. So he does his job and he lights a cigarette, living fast and wickedly. Lonely, too, but that's fine. The dirt will keep him company one day.

Aran is brought out of his thoughts when the anxious logger standing across from his desk softly clears his throat, which leads the younger man to lean back in his cushioned chair. "Now, clarify the matter for me once more," he starts, bringing his fingers to his face and pinching the bridge of his hooked nose. "You say the boy is doing what, exactly?" The worker stumbles on his words as he talks, running through the situation again, and Aran finds himself intrigued. Annoyed, more than anything, but with his interest piqued just enough to keep him from being legal. "Either he's a fool, or— Well. I'm not sure what other option there is, actually. Trying to save the trees so passionately? How confusing." He looks down at his knuckles, watching them flex beneath his skin.

"I guess if none of you can handle him, the job falls to me," he goes on, lifting a hand before the other man can voice his protest. "I insist. I'd like the chance to talk with him." His proposition is accepted, regardless of having no other choice in the matter, and within the hour he's being escorted through the forest wearing a tailored suit and his best leather shoes. Even in the moments when he comes to the frontlines of his business, where tired men slave away to fell the district's precious lumber, Aran makes his place in the crew known to all. At the very top, free of filth or callouses. He nods as he walks, approving of the many freshly sawed stumps that he passes through the nearly cleared patch of woods. It's not until he reaches the untouched treeline where his operations are stalled that his lips purse in distaste, not approving of how much he's being denied from taking.

As far as he's concerned, considering that he purchased these acres of land with his own money, he has every right to strip it bare if he so pleases. What are a few homeless animals and dead plants to him? More will come; more will grow. Still, he's willing to humor the tree-hugging menace that seems so set on ruining his week. It only takes a few minutes to reach him, sitting at the trunk of a particularly ancient tree with his shoulders straight in defiance. Aran finds himself surprised at his appearance. He's not sure what he had been expecting, perhaps a bearded man wearing rags, but certainly not this. He licks his teeth, not ashamed to admit that the handsome face has made him more excited for the coming conversation. He lets the surrounding workers bring him up to speed. "He won't tell us anything, but he has a notepad on his lap. It says he 'will not move,' spelled correctly, so he's not illiterate. Probably just trying to piss us off."

Eyes rolling on impulse, Aran isn't able to dismiss the ignorance around him. "If he won't speak and he's written what he has to say, he's clearly mute. No wonder none of you have gotten anywhere with him. Yelling and brute force won't work." Just as before, he waves off any muttered apologies before they can come. "I won't have it. Leave me alone with him. We need space." They grumble and complain under their breaths, but none of them deny him. He waits until they've all dispersed to close the distance between him and the silent rebel. At first, he remains on his feet and looks down from his towering position, but he realizes that his normal approach of dominance won't get him anywhere. Sighing and assuring himself that he can get his pants replaced, he lowers himself to sit down beside his companion on the ground.

"Hello," he begins, offering a smile and adjusting his stance until he's comfortable against the bark he's now leaning on. "My name is Mr. Gris— Aran. Please, call me Aran." He reaches over to take the boy's notepad, gazing courteously into his eyes before grabbing it, and he takes the time to flip it to a fresh page before giving it back. "Care to tell me yours?" He arches his neck backwards as the reply is scrawled, looking up at the branches sprawling out above their heads, and he feels no connection to nature. No remorse for what he's killing. But he keeps his grin plastered across his features, calm and without the normal threat attached, and he wants to hear what has to be said. Doesn't mean he'll accept it. "You're causing me a lot of trouble here. What are a few old pines to you? I've got a company to run, and your protest is getting in the way of that. Want to help me understand what all of this is really about?" He feels like rot creeping up to a flower, ready to consume its innocence, and the sensation thrills him more than it should. "A pretty guy like yourself could easily find better ways to occupy his time."

❨ table: nyte ❩

[[nyte]]

hunter zodiia

They waste their breath. Anger crawls, red in my veins and they take for granted what I can never have. Sweet sounds turn to violent tones, obnoxious insistence and envy curls off of my flesh in waves. They waste their gifts. I must hide my face to keep them from seeing how they make my lips curl. It has been so long since I stretched my legs, fear that I will lose all that I have ever loved keeps hunger from swallowing me whole. Yeah, I'm wilting. Petals falling to the autumn floor and there's no doubt that they will wait for me to rot. To become one with the earth so that two birds can be slaughtered with a single stone.

I'm thirsty. There's sand in my throat and my eyes are heavy, peculiar weights upon the lashes but determinations keeps a feeble rhythm in my chest. My family is in danger. My sisters and brothers that do not care I am dying for them. That's okay though, I wouldn't have it any other way. Perhaps the touch of another is something I have always craved. No, there's nothing sweet about the touch of cracking bark, of sap dripping down their trunks but these angry men with bitter tongues and harsh words. But the creatures I now face are not worthy of my time.

It's hard to believe that there were ever any good men in this world, anyone worth the effort. Holding sympathy for men is a great feat indeed, they are greedy and industrialized with black suits and red ties and here I am- barefoot in an over-sized sweater with jeans ripped to shreds. They see me as mere dust to be brushed off of starched collars.

I'm dozing by the time he arrives. The epitome of everything that I am rallying against (and maybe this isn't all about the trees). Like good pawns the others scatter, avoiding the gaze of their righteous king. Hello. Even his introduction is calculated, trying to appear as an equal, to sympathize with peasants. It's not working. Aran is swift, grabbing my tongue from the inside of my mouth and even though he meets my eyes I am helpless to stop him from taking. I can only respond with air pushed between lips swollen with drought, it does nothing. He reeks of entitlement, of toes stepped not an inch over the line and of the blades dropped upon those who do. 

Control, this man likes it. I can tell by the way he decides that a new page is to be turned- just as he has decided that my trees belong to him. Just as he has decided that I am nothing but trash to be stowed away, out of sight and mind alike. But my mind is buzzing, desperate to find the weakness in his obsidian armor. So far, I can find none. 

Nonetheless, I write as he requests- numbering the answers to his questions so that a mind as closed as his can keep up. And his smile reminds me of chemical spills- smelling sweet while seeping into flower's roots. Killing them from the inside out. I wonder if that will be my fate once dusk has fallen.

1.) Hunter.

He has given me his name and so I am bound to return the favor.

I choose whether or not you hear my words. Do not take again.

The words are bold, underlined and angry. My hand shakes as I write and there is so much to be said that I am sure my wrist would grow tired before the end of it. So I grimace instead, teeth clenched so tightly that my temples begin to ache and I know with every fevered beat of a vengeful heart, he begins to win the game of cat and mouse. I can't find it in me to care yet.

2.) I do not care what inconvenience I cause you. Trees are mine. All I have. I gave them their colors, you did not.

A boy without friends, ridiculed and abandoned. Branded a freak and a pariah without the courage to stand up for everything that he should have been. There's no way that someone like him could understand the pain settled just beneath my skin, the agony which losing this comfortable monotony would cause me. They are my family. They are all that I can bring myself to care about because we are both eternally silent- they cannot hurt me if they haven't the sentience to even try. They live and they breathe, like us, but they do not hurt like we do.

I know that I have adopted brothers and sisters, some of who might very well love me if I gave them the chance. But I do not because it is only ever that, a chance.

I don't care about his business. About providing even more gold to line pockets filled with green and I would tell him if I had the courage. Nothing about this feels dangerous- what will he do? Kill a boy for a couple of trees? If I refuse to move there is no way that I will lose. Of nothing I have ever been more certain. And so I am confident- cocky even. My resolve stands as tall as an oak, a thousand times more potent than any fatcat spoiled brat.

3.) My time is better spent sweeping the forest floor than entertaining you any longer. 

And at the bottom of the page, I write again. Bigger and bolder this time around.

I WILL NOT MOVE.

I give him my answer because that is the least I can do.

[   district seven   ]