Tell your children not to hear my words

He was out in the forest. A home. It was a safe place that was in his heart.

Ergot rose from the ground, gazing at the pile of leaves that was his bed for hours. Hours of resting silently, barely breathing, a child's game of quiet presence made into a grown man's glory. He remembered little. After the music, such a long time of music and shining dark beauty, Ergot must have gotten tired. He must have left the ballroom. But how? He rubbed his temples, looking down at the wretched earth, kneeling before the foliage and touching them softly with his finger tips. They were sore, his rough calluses from playing the lute were twinging and dried blood accented his pale skin. Ergot thought for a moment, sucking each of his fingers and savoring the copper taste. Suddenly he was bombarded by imagery, the blood that had cascaded on the floor, the walls, and his feet. The twirls, the insane twirls that made him smile and faint. Flashes of moonlit trees spinning around him as he wandered, dazed and almost drunken in the rush of beauty of what he had done.

Ergot pushed himself up, noticing his lute partially covered in decaying forest floor. He gently revealed it, eyeing blood splatters and a single fingerprint in blackish red. Was it his? Or was it a spirit, who had to have somehow been behind a rape. Squinting his eyes shut, Ergot sought deliverance. Enlightenment. He had changed, and now he was in denial. He took a step back, studying himself. His hands weren't the only things hurt. His heart was, too. His pants had a few rips on the knees. Had he crawled? Had Ergot become a leather legged beast? He smiled at that thought, caressing where his knee bent, slowing taking in the pain that flared up. His elbows had dried blood droplets on him, rain that stained. he cleaned himself of his bloody betrayal, pausing to taste and wonder. No dreams, no imagination had run off and screamed into the night while he was down and out.

There were smells in the air. They were banes; Ergot could have told you how old the rose blooms put into the ironware pot was if they were making a love potion. He could murmur one incantation and it'd turn into a sick, alkaloid filled sludge.

The scent of rotten willow wafted through the air, and Ergot was cringing, startled and stumbling back. His eyes filled with tears, smelling the scent of pharmakia. That was occult. That was beyond even Ergot's reach. His tears fell onto his cheeks and he could have screamed, the acid pain was beyond his comprehension. Was he imagining the salt? Ergot stared from within, his new thoughts were envoking power. Sweet, sensory and logic filled madness. He touched his own cheek in wonder. He realized that he was in fumes. He ducked low, grabbing his lute and running from where the wind was blowing from. He continued, only pausing when he was in a twilit meadow. It had to have been close to morning. He looked into the sky from the clearing where he stood, feeling tinges of cold vapor that was free of danger and pain.

Ergot sucked in the air, sitting himself down and hiding his face within his arms. He had to get used to this. Something was an oddity, he was no longer his former self, and he needed to understand. He gazed at the sky until the sun struggled from the trees' outstretched limbs, breathing deeply in a hyper reality of thought.