The Name the Forest Forgot

 

"She came from the silence beneath roots and bones, where forgotten gods dare not look—crowned in ash, and kissed only by shadows."

She was summoned in the stillness between lightning strikes and the first scream of the trees, when the veil thins and the forest whispers its secrets. Mushrooms unfurl beneath her touch, drawing sustenance from old bones and memories best left behind. She wanders barefoot through a tapestry of decay and bloom, her laughter both a curse and a promise, tangled in nettles. 

No one recalls her name, only the sensation she leaves behind. Like silk slipping from your shoulders. Like breath, against your throat in the dark. 

They say if you dream of her even once, you belong to her forever. 

She does not stroll down the forest path. 

The forest bends itself to her will. 

With every step she takes on the mossy ground, the air thickens, rich and electric. Trees lean in, not in fear, but in respect, and even the mushrooms hold back their glow, as if the night belongs solely to her. 

She wears shadows like a cloak, and her crown of thorns bursts with flowers that bleed starlight. Her wings bear the scars of every betrayal—every unanswered plea, every love lost to time or deception. Yet, she does not rage. She radiates a slow, powerful magnetism, like a gathering storm that knows it will be worshipped once it breaks. No one knows where she goes when the mist swallows her whole. But when it parts again, nothing remains unchanged. 

There was once a time when her hands sowed seeds instead of bones, when her voice could sing rather than splinter. She had a name once, gentle and petal-like, but time gnawed at it like wolves at a sacrifice. Now, the forest doesn’t whisper her name. 

It winces at it. 

Long ago, they came for her with fire and iron, took what could never be returned. In that void, something ancient stirred, wrapping her grief in vines of sorrow, shaping her into vengeance cloaked in darkness. She does not seek intruders; she bides her time. 

She perches upon her throne of moss and ash, one leg draped carelessly, fingers poised to her lips as if perpetually savoring some hidden secret. Her wings, those frayed yet exquisite remnants, unfold only when she has made her choice. 

You do not run from her. You draw near. 

Because within you, buried deep, is an aching desire to be consumed by someone who understands pain far more intimately than love.

And should she look at you — truly look — you’ll wonder why you ever feared the dark at all.