I have told my tale a thousand times. Not once was close to the truth. Something about the snap and crackle of the fire on those chilly winter nights, about those eager faces gathered around, upturned expectantly and glowing like small moons in the firelight, bade me to tell it differently. Those were mystical nights—meant for escapades of great adventure and lore. The truth was much more difficult to accept. But I regret that now. “Little Dove! Little Dove! Tell us again! Tell us how you escaped the Forest of Angry Gods!” This was an echoed chant, quickly gaining momentum as it passed from one set of lips to another. Heads shook in assent. Hands beckoned me to go on. I sighed, and it was taken for consent. My beloved folk settled in closer. Children stretched out on their stomachs like lazy pups. Parents leaned into one another cozily, romantically—as mine was a tale of romance. That much of it was true. My heart twisted with familiar ache. For this was the tale of my love. With a god. An angry god. And how that madness nearly ended the world. I took my time to begin, staring up in wonder at the waking stars, chewing on my bottom lip while choosing words. But I should not choose them. Not any more. The cry of a wolf sounded far off, then another, and another. The howls were chilling and beautiful, much like her. And I knew the cries for what they were: their encouragement to tell the truth, laced with a poorly disguised threat if I did not. I did not feel like wrestling with the wild dogs later, much as I already knew who would win. “Tonight—,” I shifted uncomfortably on my stump of a stool, “—tonight, you will hear new things. And tomorrow, I hope you forget them.” ————————— I will begin with the cause of all your relentless jokes through the years. My name, Little Dove, was meant as my memorial. A name for a small, frail creature not expected to live past his fifth summer. A name given to later remind my mother of her son who flew directly into the afterlife, instead of fledging her nest to face the world as all her other hearty sons had done. I hated Little Dove as a child. But I cannot imagine myself by any other name as an adult. It is my legacy. The weak boy died long ago, in a forest with an even larger legacy, but born from his ashes was one who kissed a god. But even that is still a half truth. I made it to my sixteenth year, perhaps in thanks to my father. Every summer he made a laborious trek—over the Laughing Plains, across the Screaming Sister rivers, under the cold, jagged caverns of Webbed Rock, and then to the entrance of the Forest of the Angry Gods. Here the spirits walked. The forest moved. It spoke. It shook and swayed, and croaked and hummed—a great quaking, restless place. Ivory leaves dangled like translucent pearls, sparkling and glistening, catching color like fire. They were ever changing, reflecting shades of sky and earth, scarlet flowered paths, and thick emerald mosses. That year, he brought the best fruits he could gather and laid them before the thick line of trees, not venturing in because the few who tried never ventured out. Leaves crackled in response, but with strain he could hear it was indeed the stirring of a woman’s voice. “And what is this?” It asked in mockery. “I do not need your worm-ridden fruit.” He fell to his knees. “What would you need then? You always say the same to my gifts. What would it take for you to grant my son his health? He is a walking corpse. Please.” His last word was a shaky, tearful plea. The owner of the voice stepped between the trees, her form still a shadow as she made her way toward the light. “Send him in to me. A trial of life. A trial of death. A trial of love. A trial of hate. Survive these things at my hands, and he’ll never die.” “I’ll go,” I said, stepping out from behind a bush. A moment before I was so faint I thought I’d drop to my death before speaking. When I was in view of the forest, however, strength returned to my limbs and my blood began to sing. “I’ll go. I am old enough to handle this, father—let me.” My father lurched forward on his knees and clutched the ground. “Little Dove! You followed me?! H-how did you survive?” I couldn’t answer. My gaze had traveled from my father’s blanched face to the forest, and what I saw there would rob any person of speech. This was where my tale differed from the truth. This is what I hid for so long. It wasn’t just that the girl standing between the ancient oaks was young and beautiful—her raven hair a dark, sleek waterfall to her waist, deep curves beneath a hugging sheath of twisting vines and budding flowers, bronze, dewy skin, and large onyx eyes that flashed with a strange violet fire. It was that she was mine. A truth I knew immediately. A truth I knew because memories soared in like diving flocks of birds, of another time, another life. And there, we belonged to one another. With the awareness of all only known to gods, I suddenly knew everything. I was sick because we parted. I was sick because we were torn apart and that wasn’t supposed to be. Me feet moved faster than my inner being, and it was some moments I stood there before her as empty headed as a fish. “You finally came,” she said quietly. Tears like fat strands of beads poured from her eyes. She reached to touch my face and I swatted her hand away. “You killed me.” She said nothing to my accusation, but her dark eyes narrowed. “No—that’s not right.” I frowned down at her. “You were going to end the world. And I got in your way.” My father stirred behind me. “Little Dove? W-what is this?” One fine black brow quirked up. She looked at me in disbelief. “Lord of Beasts is called Little Dove?” Between clenched teeth, beneath my breath, for only her ears and mine, I said, “Why, my darling Flora Queen, did you kill me?” My hand shot to her throat and closed in. I held her there, her soft pulse beneath my hand. Not in revenge, but in fear for my father—as one would restrain a dangerous beast. I willed him to run away, and to my surprise some vestige of my power remained and I spent it. He stumbled over his fruit offering and ran back the way he came. When he was gone, I relaxed some. “You loved them more than me,” she said in barefaced hurt. Her eyes pooled again with a dam of tears. “Everything—your animals, and even mere humans—you loved them all more than me. I wasn’t trying to get rid of you. I was trying to get rid of them.” “If I had destroyed all your flowers, your trees, your plants,” I cast my eyes wildly about the forest, “which also vied for your affection, would you have understood?” “No,” she whispered, biting her bottom lip. “I would have hated you.” She stretched slightly beneath my hand in discomfort and I loosened my grip. I dropped my arm away slowly. “You owe me a favor for not seeking revenge just now. And I have already completed your trials so you will grant my father’s request while I am still stuck in this weakling body. One, your trial of life—my life was always yours. Two, a trial of death—for you have killed me. Three, a trial of love—for I have loved you wildly. And four, a trial of hate—for this is what I have left for you. Do you agree?” She held her hand over where mine had just been, and nodded. “But, my Fauna King—do you not have the power to heal yourself?” “I do not. And this form will die soon without your help. I do not wish to leave these people yet. I treasure them above my own life.” I knew this would hurt her. I didn’t care. In all of this, my mate had learned something too. My affection was not hers alone. It would never be. “Then I will choose the method to heal you.” Flora lifted to the tips of her bare toes, and her hands cradled my face. I flinched, but her touch was ever familiar and warm. She tugged me close, eyes fluttering shut, and I allowed her kiss. It was tentative at first, lips whisper soft and careful, but hurt and anger and rage won out and the kiss became a violent storm. It was the taste of blood that finally drew us apart. Her strength became mine in that exchange. I would live this life until its natural end. This much I was satisfied with. When Little Dove took his final breath someday, I would return here, to the Forest of Angry Gods. “Never again, Flora. Never will you hurt what is mine.” She was petulant and weakened, and could only nod. Both of us, too hurt to say another word, turned away and walked our separate paths—she to the deep of the wood, and me toward my father’s home. And this was how I truly escaped the Forest of the Angry Gods. ————————— Silence greeted the close of my tale. And then they began to laugh, one at a time, until all were heaving and rolling like disorderly waves on the shore. One disheartened child asked, “So you didn’t fight with a family of bears? What about the lions?” Another took a breath and steadied herself. “What do we call you instead of Little Dove? King of beasts?” This question renewed the laughter. Only my father, as old and withered as a slice of sun baked meat, did not join in. He stared at his sandaled feet, then looked up at me shaking his head. It was too hard for them to take. “Just call me King of Doves, then! Can you blame one for trying to raise his lowly place in life? Just give me that much!” I teased. With my self deprecation, they coo’ed like birds and bowed exaggeratedly at me with hand gestures of mock honor. I was a great joke for the rest of the hour, until the fire burnt down and my people began to filter away to their homes. My father hobbled after them, sending me a toothless smile over his shoulder before disappearing. I sat alone until the last ember died. I felt like that last spark—at my end, insatiably tired and spent, more of the heart than the body. And I missed her. Time had cooled my fury. The gaping rift between us was waiting there, ready to mend. The wolves howled again, a song of comfort, and I sent them a silent thanks. Theirs would be the last sound I heard as Little Dove. My head dropped forward, and when I lifted it again, I stood before a familiar forest.