Until the Bitter End

4: The Window

Earthbread was silent today, insulated in a fresh layer of fallen snow that would've been up to his knees without a pair of wicker snowshoes. The animals still took shelter in their homes and in the company of each other, biding their time until the security of the blizzard's passing made itself fully known. The trees towered high and mighty. The dark brown pine nettles rustled in the gentle breeze, reaching up like claws and teeth to puncture the ever-dark sky. It wasn't as impressive as the looming mountains, but the effort was made and appreciated.

It was a peaceful morning, even if the woods were strangely quiet. It was the perfect time to see about gathering some last-minute supplies, plucking blueberries and raspberries from bristling bushes. The thorns pricked at the ends of his fingers, beading jam seeping out and smearing against the hem of his chima, but he didn't particularly mind it as much as he thought he would. It was pleasant, really—it didn't seem like the cream wolves or the snow lions were quite ready to go on the hunt.

Even so, it was good to have protection just in case. Affogato Cookie leaned against his spear as he stooped down, plucking fruit to shove into the sash dangling by his waist. It was yet another relic of borrowing indefinitely that he stole from the sparse armory, which hardly seemed to be used in the first place for anything except hunting. Fortuna only knew there weren't many hunters left in Snowfall Village: The Watchers were likely the only hunters here nowadays.

Affogato had a destination in mind. He fumbled his way through the snow, following a path that he considered somewhat familiar by now. He wove his way between the trees, pausing now and then to dig  beneath the snow in places that seemed promising. His hands plucked sprigs and leaves of marigold peeled clutches of pine nettles from fallen tree branches, and sprigs of dill that found themselves choked beneath the blanket of snow. As he walked, he fished berries from his side, popping them in his mouth and eating them along the way.

Finally he found himself in a rather unassuming place, somewhere in the heart of the wood where the trees grew tallest. Affogato grasped his spear in both hands and began poking at the snow, pushing through until he could reach the solid ground beneath. He found a few rocks, which he dug up and readily tossed aside, pacing back and forth until finally his spear tapped a rock that felt larger than the rest.

Affogato knelt down, digging through until he found what he was looking for: A hole in the ground beneath a heavy rock that used to serve as a snow rabbit's warren, but was long abandoned now. It was impossible to tell if it was by way of migration or hunting, but t here was nothing there anymore. It was buried, hidden and abandoned—the perfect place to store his stockpile for when he left.

He reached down inside of it, pulling out small leather bag after small leather bag of berries and fruit, cracking each of them open to check for mold or fermentation. It was so cold that they felt partly frozen between his teeth—unpleasant, but workable. Wild carrots and potatoes could make good filler for his stomach, but there was only half a bag of root vegetables, and he'd have to make it last.

Affogato tied the bags together by their draw strings, pulling t hem over his shoulder and straightening himself up with a huff. He leaned slightly to one side, rubbing at his knee, gazing at t he serene woods that spread all around him. How many times had he walked through here during his brief stay with Peppermint Bark, collecting reagents for medicine? Tens of times, maybe. Not as many as he did when he started walking through the woods alone.

The thought occurred to him: He'd miss this. All of this.

His chest ached. He decided to ignore it.

Goodbye, wood, he thought: I love you.

-

There were circles under his eyes. The space in the flesh of his lower eyelids were partially swollen and warm. Affogato lifted a hand up to his face and leaned in, pressing the tips of his fingers against them. He could feel it—soft and tender, warm and tired. He could feel the dim pulse of his heart echoing strongly in the flesh. Perhaps that's what happened when one didn't get their beauty sleep.