By Zephyria 
No one laughs. Somewhere, a sailor shouts, and the hull heaves violently.
“We did too…”
A man speaks up.
“We abandoned our wives and children, just as you did, Teacher. Driven by a single desire to satisfy our academic curiosity, we boarded this ship bound for Stohl.”
A brief silence follows. Someone speaks hesitantly.
“But where did you come from, Teacher? Your accent is peculiar. You don’t seem to be from any of the city-states we lived in.”
“I come from a place too distant to reach by ship. A very, very distant place.”
The blond man looks up at the sky. A bluebird that had been circling high above alights on the tip of the mast. Through the gaps in the dark clouds of the darkening sky, stars begin to appear, shining coldly one by one.
“The stars are bright.”
orbit.diverge()
Dawn. A time that is neither morning nor night.
The island was submerged in a bluish darkness. Like at twilight, it was difficult to tell at a glance whether the four-legged beasts prowling in the distance were wolves or dogs. Pushing through that ambiguous darkness, Silver and the man headed toward the mountain. Each carried a basket, their mouths shut tight as if by prior agreement.
The slope leading to the mountain was the same as always. Pebbles, rotting fallen leaves, and scattered branches. With every step, the muddy ground pulled heavily at the soles of their shoes. A salt-laden wind carried the stench of the pirate village this far. The sky tediously repeated its daily routine, slowly driving away the darkness as it shifted colors from black to indigo, and from indigo to purple.
As he walked, Silver glanced to the side. Below the left side of the steep slope, beyond the pirate village, the sea stretched out. The sun rising from the horizon dyed the black ocean orange. It was a sight he had seen countless times. To Silver, the sunrise was like the hard rye bread he chewed and swallowed every morning. The sound of the bell ringing every hour, or just another repetition of a tedious day.
Anyway, where is Starry eyes?
He was probably clinging to a tree near the house. He likely used an illusion of tree bark to camouflage himself and avoid human eyes. Since Starry eyes doesn’t eat, he wouldn’t be in great danger, but still, I’m worried… wait, huh?
Silver’s shoulder flinched. The man’s hand—that large, calloused hand—had suddenly grabbed his. Silver shifted only his eyes to look at the man. The man was trudging along, looking only at the dirt ground. He seemed unaware of what his hand was holding.
Silver started to speak, then stopped. The words telling him to take his hand off turned back at the tip of his tongue and slid back down his throat. The man’s grip was hot. The heat seemed to spread from Silver’s wrist up to his forearm.
Before long, the man’s pace faltered and broke. His gaze stopped on their intertwined hands. Silver could feel the man hold his breath beside him. Immediately, one hand retreated as if in retreat, and the two hands drifted apart. A chilly breeze passed through the spot where the man’s hand had been.
The man quickly widened his stride. Perhaps it was because of the dawn light, but the tips of his ears were red. Silver followed behind him in silence.
As the mountain ridge grew steeper, the path narrowed. The man turned around and reached out a hand. Unlike before, this time it was intentional. Silver took the hand. With a light motion, the man pulled Silver up the slope in one go. Even after Silver found his footing, the man’s hand did not let go. His fingers slid between Silver’s fingers one by one. Silver did not pull away. The two walked again, stepping on fallen leaves. Side by side, their hands clasped tightly like a firm knot.
Silver stole a glance. From the profile in his view, the man looked twenty at most.
Tsk, he just has a face that fits his age; I shouldn’t mistake it for him looking young. Even if you shave it down as much as possible, your face looks nineteen, you punk.
His mind became cluttered. The things Starry eyes had said kept echoing in Silver’s ears.
〔I heard only Type 1 can impregnate a spruce tree.〕
〔Yeah, they said it’s a type that doesn’t stand out to people. But according to the information in my storage, the birth probability is similar to other mutants.〕
To think the problematic Type 1 was an ash tree. Furthermore…
〔They say there’s no way to recognize a Type 1 by appearance.〕
〔Like you, they have a genderless tendency in their teens. The biggest difference is early death. Most die in their early twenties.〕
Early death. Most kick the bucket in their early twenties.
What’s the cause? Does a specific disease break out at that time? If the majority die, it means a few survive, so it’s not as if there’s no one who overcomes the illness.
Does that guy know?
He wanted to ask, but his mouth wouldn’t open. What if the man knew? He’d just comfort him, saying, ‘You’ll be the exception who survives,’ and that would be it. But what if he didn’t know?
Astonishment would spread across that handsome face, which looked as if God had painstakingly sculpted it by hand. He might collapse to his knees and burst into tears. Or he might deny it, telling him not to lie. He’d be shocked. He’d be frustra… No, no. There’s no way that guy would act so sentimental. He’d probably snap back, asking for evidence and scolding him instead.
He decided to ask Starry eyes for more details later. The reason ash trees die young, and if there’s any way to avoid death. Wait, more importantly.
This is strange.
Silver furrowed his brow. Why am I worrying about that guy? Why am I, the one who robbed a dock beggar of his last hallucination herb without a shred of guilt?
Moreover, he hadn’t shaken off the man’s hand. He, who could climb up and down rock walls with bare hands even while dead drunk, had let the man help him up the slope. Now, they were walking hand in hand.
Silver looked down at the man’s hand. A large, rough hand firmly enveloping his own. Even though he knew the other’s skill was formidable, the man was treating him as if he were a fragile porcelain doll. Absurdly, Silver didn’t find the man’s attitude unpleasant. Truly, truly absurdly.
Perhaps he was just being sensitive. Maybe this level of change in attitude is common ‘between people who have slept together once.’ As far as Silver remembered, Black Weasel always took extreme care of the women he spent a night with. The women, in turn, acted sweet as if they were Black Weasel’s wives. They bathed in hot springs and ate together, but the moment Black Weasel turned his back on the woman and left the inn, he returned to being his usual drunk self as if nothing had happened. The women were likely the same.
If so, then I… and this guy too.
He decided not to think about it any deeper. Anyway, he and the man were destined to part ways in two weeks at most. After receiving the Rut suppressants from Director Erem, they would turn their backs to each other in front of the orphanage and walk in opposite directions. The end. In Silver’s memory, the man would remain as a handsome but somewhat suspicious fellow. He didn’t know how he would be remembered by the man, though.
The man stopped in the deep forest. It was dark all around due to the lush trees that blocked the sunlight like a roof.
“Let’s start.”
Their hands parted. Silver moved forward on his knees through the damp fallen leaves, scanning beneath the bushes. The man pressed his nose close to the bark of an oak tree and scooped out a piece of bark with the tip of his knife. While one searched the root status by overturning a colony of ferns, the other examined the vines tangled in the branches.
As the fog cleared, the sound of birds chirping echoed from all directions. A brown squirrel darted past Silver. The signs of rabbits hopping were also felt here and there.
Suddenly, Silver remembered. The nickname the man had given him. Hedgehog.
At the time, Silver had been inwardly appalled. He wondered if he looked that cute in that guy’s eyes. Though he felt somewhat deflated upon learning it was a nickname given because of his thorn armor.
“Eit.”
He shook his head vigorously to shake off the distracting thoughts. Silver carefully felt for medicinal herbs growing among the weeds. As he pressed and snapped the lower joint of a stem, a pungent scent spread. By the time the basket was half full, his fingertips were stained in various colors.
Silver straightened his knees and rubbed his lower back. About ten paces away, the man was peering at mushrooms growing on a tree. His face, half-revealed by the sunlight filtering through the branches, looked twenty at most. His skin, without a single visible pore, was no different from that of a fifteen-year-old boy. No matter how closely he scrutinized him, he couldn’t find a trace of an ‘Uncle.’
But. Still.
That guy might be the greatest baby-face in Stohl. He might be a thirty-year-old Uncle who successfully survived the crisis of death that ash trees face in their early twenties.
He knew well. It was pure stubbornness.
But, however, nevertheless…
“Hey.”
The words slipped out on their own. The man stopped picking mushrooms and looked at Silver.
“What?”
“You. Are you…”
The question ‘Are you really thirty?’ made a sharp turn and fled back down his throat.