When We Passed A Sick Rosebush, I Sacrificed Some Life Force, Only Enough For It To Get Back To Perfect

“Lost things have a way of showing up when you need them most,” the king replied to the minister’s concern of a beloved object that belonged to the king’s disappearance. “What was lost will show up before you know it.” He lightly patted the minister’s shoulder before going off to face the festering crowd.

As I walked out under the night sky, I muttered a prayer. It wasn't continuous but mainly when ever I saw something that caught my eye, I'd say a quick little thank you prayer for it being created.

When I'd get back from my walks, I always felt better and ever grateful.

I’ve not seen any starved touched hero stories so may I request a starved touched hero and the villain finds out and helps them. It’s fine if not:)

"Tell me," the villain murmured, as the hero's breath came out quivering. "When was the last time that someone touched you?"

It wasn't what the hero had expected.

"People touch me all the time."

"Kindly."

"You're not kind."

But the villain's touch was such a gentle thing; the hero's brain refused to register it as cruelty, even as the villain's fingers were curled around their throat. They didn't squeeze though.

The hero should have pulled back already. They should have shoved the villain away. They did none of those things. They leaned limp against the wall, almost hypnotised by the back and forth sweep of the villain's thumb brushing sweetly against their pulse point.

It was pitiful for a nice threat to feel like affection. They were pitiful.

The villain's gaze was intent.

"What are you doing to me?" the hero whispered.

"I'm not doing anything." The villain's powers worked with touch, but they had never touched the hero before. The hero had always been too quick. The villain had managed that time though, advancing, shoving the hero to the wall and then - then this. The villain had touched their skin and then they'd gone perfectly still for a few seconds. The villain could expose all secrets with a press of their fingers, do all manner of things, but...

The hero swallowed, eyeing them. They genuinely didn't think the villain was doing anything.

Each second that ticked by seemed a confession, a betrayal, a plea for something.

The villain's hand slid slowly to to cup the nape of the hero's neck. "You didn't answer my question." The villain pulled the hero a step closer, dragged them flush. The villain's other hand wrapped around the hero's back.

They were being hugged.

A confused, entirely too soft sound left the hero's throat. Questioning. A little choked. It felt like a trap and it felt entirely too desperately lovely.

The villain tightened their grip, tucking the hero's head against their shoulder.

"Skin hunger," the villain said, softly. "Touch starvation. You are a famine, love, I can feel it."

"I-" The hero didn't know how to finish the sentence. The villain was so warm against them, a solid and reassuring presence. That couldn't be right. "What?"

"It has been entirely too long, hasn't it?"

"You're not doing anything?"

"I'm hugging you."

"Your powers-"

"-Mean I know exactly how you are feeling. How much you need this. So are you going to be good and shut up and let yourself have it?"

The hero choked out another gasp of air.

Was that was why the villain had stopped? Why they'd seemed to switch gears so abruptly when they could have finally won? The hero swallowed and shut up, even if it was a bad idea. Inch by inch, when the villain did nothing more but hold them, the hero relaxed. They melted.

"Why are you doing this?" the hero managed, pressing their face against the promise of the villain's shoulder.

"Kindness?"

"You're not kind."

The villain huffed, breath rustling the hero's hair. They pressed a kiss atop the hero's head. "Mm. Temporarily benevolent. No strings attached, pinky promise."

It was definitely suspicious, but it really did feel so unbelievably good. The hero felt like they'd settled into their bones for the first time in years. Maybe longer.

They really couldn't remember the last time someone touched them kindly, for an extended period of time. A brush of accidental touch in a crowd. A hairdresser's clinical contact. None of it was anything like what the villain gave them.

"That's better," the villain said, with a sigh. "Your nerve endings have stopped screaming at me."

"S-sorry. I-"

"It was merely an observation. You don't need to be sorry."

The hero expected the villain to get back to it, or step back. They didn't. It was probably the longest hug in the world.

Finally, the hero let themselves reach out, wrapping their arms around the villain in turn.

"Good," the villain said.

"Are we still...I shouldn't let you touch me. I'm not stupid."

"No."

"Are you going to let go of me?"

"When you actually want me to, sure."

"And you can...feel that?"

"Yes."

The hero squirmed with embarrassment. The villain tightened their grip again. The hero went still.

"Years," the hero whispered, finally. "It's been years. I can't remember the last time."

"Mm." The villain nuzzled into them. "That's not going to happen again. I don't believe in torture."

Neither of them much felt like fighting when they finally broke apart.

Great. I was on my way from the capital and one of those clockwork soldiers stopped me.

"Where are you going?" it asked as it stopped me from going any further.

I've been warned that there's still one functional at all times. I didn't know what time it was, so it might not be that one.

"What hour are you?" Every clockwork soldier works only during the hour it was named after. There are some that I think are either decoys or meant to scare people, since they never work.

"I am hour thirteen," it answered me, its empty eyes boring into mine.

This one, number thirteen, people have named the liar. No matter what it says, it is never true. I've met it once before and it said that it was going to snow in the middle of summer.

"I'm going home," I replied to the soldier. It's the law for citizens to answer human and clockwork soldiers.

There was a sound of clicking gears before it cocked its head off to the side and said, "Long live the King."

"Yeah," I muttered, walking by once he let me pass, "long live the King of the Day."

Its cold metal hand grabbed my wrist.

"Yes, long live the King of the Day. But I originally meant his brother."

The King's brother is a myth, a legend, something that never has and never will happen.

The clockwork soldier numbered thirteen let me go.

A small kid ran into my arms, whimpering.

"What's wrong?" I kept my voice gentle and level. There was something that scared the poor kid and he trusted me enough to run to me with that problem.

"I had a nightmare," he answered as he tried buried his face further into armor.

I took the boy's arms off of me long enough for me to sit before he latched on to my neck.

Rubbing his small back, I asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" If he did, that would give me an idea of exactly what nightmare I would be looking for. If he didn't, I would have to try to find the right one and hope that it wasn't a dream that I was going after.

"I don't know," he whined as he clutched me a bit tighter.

I held him so he could look at me as I started, "Do you not know how to word it?"

He nodded.

I let him go as I stood up. "Well, I don't know which one I'm looking for but I'll do my best." I looked down at him, he couldn't be more than four years old. "Would you like to come?"

His eyes grew wide. "Really?"

I didn't try to stop the smile coming on. No matter the age, the reaction was always the same and it was adorable. I only offer if they aren't able to tell me about the nightmare.

"I don't want to hunt the wrong one and you would recognize it," I answered him.

He almost grew a smile but it died to a concerned look. My brows furrowed.

What was wrong?

"Would I be safe?" the little boy asked me in a small voice.

"It could be dangerous but you would be helping me stop a nightmare from terrorizing anyone else." I crouched to his level again. "However, if you want to go home, I won't think any less of you and thank you for bringing this concern to me."

"If I went to my mommy, would you stop the bad dream?"

I smiled. "Pinkie promise."

"I want to go with you. I want no one else to get any more bad dreams," the brave little boy told me.

"Alright," I said standing up before offering my hand to him, "hold on to my hand and stay by my side at all times. Okay?"

He beamed as he took my hand. "Okay."

"What's that shiny and long blade of grass you use called?"

He looked down as he hesitated.

When he looked up, he answered as if he was trying to melt the frost with his touch, "It can be called a 'blade' but for me, it's a broadsword."

"You can hurt people with that, right?" I asked him. It didn't look that dangerous to me if it could.

He lurched back like I hurt him.

"If it came to it, yes," he answered, all the same.

I didn't like that I was going to hurt something but I picked a blade of grass.

"Do you want to know what I can do with this?" I twirled the blade between my fingers.

He just looked at me odd.

I held the blade the way the nymphs taught me and blew some air. The shrill sound caught him off guard. Laughter overcame me like the abrupt rain the area we're in is known for.

"Will you teach me how to do that?" he asked when I calmed down enough to talk.

It was at that moment that I realized that I would do what I could for him like I would for any of my plants back at home.

"It would be my genuine pleasure," I replied with a smile.

As to whether the Gavle Goat's consumption should be seen as a good omen or a bad omen, I'd say good. Traditionally the Yule goat is made of straw from the final harvest and as a talisman against hard times, and there are unproven theories that its shape is inspired by Thor's goats, who are constantly killed, eaten, and reborn to provide endless meat for Thor and whatever guests he entertains. Therefore, its use by birds as a food store and safe harbor is an affirmation of its original purpose and truly in the Christmas spirit of generosity in lean times. What's more, the birds eating it seems to be have been the one outcome to unite both goat burners and goat keepers, as they have decided not to scare the birds away from their safe harbor and not to harm the goat, a decision that has been universally lauded.

As omens go, this one's all positive: safety, plenty, and unity between previous ideological opponents through a creative third solution built on shared values (birds being fed and sheltered is a good thing). May more birds find their way to the Gavle Goat next year.

"Alright," the stranger sighed, "what's with the orange peels?"

I was laying some fragments of orange peels out to dry for black gold and others near some potted carnivorous plants that needed to be fed.

"Black gold," I said as I pointed to the ones drying on the sunlit stone. "Plant food." I pointed to the other peels that were already attracting flies.

"I thought that those plants didn't like any nutrients in their soil," he remarked as he gracefully draped himself across a fallen log in the shadow of a large maple. "And I though that you hated potting plants."

"They don't. But they still need food, just not food like the others." I sat down not too far from him, in the shade too. "I don't like potting plants but a kid asked me for a plant that wasn't like any others."

"So, obviously, you chose..." he propped himself up, "what is that, anyway?"

"Dionaea. A fly trap." I cast my gaze back to the potted plant that just caught a decent size fly. "I had to do a lot of trading to get a hold of that plant."

"If it was such a hassle to get, why did you?"

"The kid was curious about the world outside our boarders." I looked him dead in the eyes and told him, "Tell me how I could have said 'no'." I settled in a position similar to his. "When I see the kid again, I plan on giving it to him as a gift."

After I said that, he settled back down on his log, lost in thought.

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