In the tent, he sobs, a cry of anguish stuck in his throat, while I am stuck in place. Here, I observe the horrific scene, wishing to shield his eyes from it but like a person faced with a bear, I remain still. Yes, I’m as still as an owl asleep after a night filled with the thrill of the hunt.

For weeks, we searched in the forest of endings for any signs of the fool’s father but there was nothing. Today, it all changed. We had come across a camp full of items that struck familiarity with the foolish man I travel with. He grabbed for each one, frantic, and panicked as his eyes scanned the abandoned camp.

He called out for the man he spent months searching for.

“Father!”

His tone was desperate and foolishly full of hope. For a second, I was a fool too. I thought I would see a happy ending in this forest known for its tragedies. I looked around, noticing the askew state of the camp, which made it obvious that whoever was once here was long gone, but then I smelled it. The scent of death. It reeked, hitting my nose like a hard slap as we neared a tent. I wanted to call out to him so he wouldn’t see what I knew he’d find, but I didn’t. Instead, I stopped walking, my eyes downcast as I waited for him to discover the tragic scene.

I remember the sound he let out. A sharp, woeful scream that had reached into my heart and squeezed. Soon the sound of him dropping to his knees follows and I find myself wishing to be carried away by the wind. I am not carried away.

Still, I am stuck in place, forcing myself to listen to his grieving cries. A good person, like a hero in a tale, would probably go to him and try to provide comfort. I am not a hero. I do not comfort people.

Yet, here I am, ensnared by some strange spell he has on me. I look at my hands, dwelling on their strange behavior as of late. About a week ago, I spoke to him by the fire. He was a bit different than his usual cheerful self. Shrouded with a depressed look, he studied the flames as if they were a tome.

He was thinking. He’s always thinking but no weighed thoughts are ever spoken. How strange, because he was rather talkative to me when I was in my animal forms. Maybe it was the form I was in that was the problem. I didn’t like it much myself. In this form, my movements were more clunky, unused to walking on my own two feet.

It was that spell he put on me! It was turning me into a fool.

He didn’t seem to mind, though—my sort of companion. I wasn’t sure if we were friends. What even is a friend? Over the years, I preferred to shift to more solitary creatures. If I were a wolf, it’d be one that preferred solitude, never finding a pack—a lone wolf. As a human, I don’t know what I’d be. The fool did call me his friend but I was so afraid to ask him what that meant.

Some days, he wakes up early to cook breakfast, which usually consists of the most inedible food imaginable. It was quite strange how almost endearing I found it, even if I laughed as I picked at the food on my plate. When we walked through the forest of endings, I pointed out any familiar berries or plants we came across. I didn’t cook myself unless it was a potion, but under his gaze, you’d think I was telling him a sacred recipe.

With just a simple gaze, his spell ignites in me and now it overflows as I hear the anguish in his voice. Before I even realize it, my legs move and I’m inside the tent next to him. Looking around, I see blood covering the tent and his father’s innards scattered about. Still, I am not prepared for the sight of his father’s rotting corpse, so a sharp gasp escapes my lips.

The foolish man’s hand is touching an unrecognizable face as he continues his endless sobs.

Looking away, I plead with myself to leave. He needs privacy, I reason in my head but the reality is much more simple. I am afraid. I do not comfort or give words that bring ease. My mother always said I inherited my father’s barbed tongue.

I wish she were here and not just some figurine in my pocket. She had the best words of comfort, along with the warmest of hugs.

I could leave.

I could shapeshift into a bird and fly away.

If I do that, how long will the fool live? What if whatever killed his father comes back?

I do not leave. Instead, I continue to watch, my stomach turning at the disturbing sight.

“We should go...we need to scout for a good place to camp for the night.”

“No, I’m not leaving him,” the fool says, his voice cracking.

I want to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but I don’t. I don’t dare get closer to him. I resist his spell, refusing to be his fool.

“Would you like to join your father in death? We need to leave before whatever killed him comes back.”

“Willow, please,” the fool pleads, uttering my name like a line in a sacred text.

His tone wrestles with my heart. I move back, not letting myself follow the advice my heart utters. Go to him, it says as if my nearer presence could make a difference.

Instead, I walk away, muttering a protection spell for him as I do. I decide to scout the area alone but as I leave the camp, there’s a voice in my head telling me what a foolish thing to do.