The Sick Dryad

As the Wicker Goddess raised her thorny branch, its point aimed directly at his chest, Oliver did the only thing he could think of: he spoke, his voice quick and desperate. “Wait—have you tried to cure your daughter?”

The question gave the Wicker Goddess pause, face twisting with suspicion. “Cure her?” she scoffed; her voice laced with bitterness. “The sickness is a curse, wrought by the Bone Lord himself.”

“What if I tried?” Oliver offered, his heart racing as he saw the branch still hovering menacingly. “I’m not from the Breach Between, and maybe that makes a difference. Besides, I’m clearly not going anywhere.” He glanced pointedly at the vines ensnaring him. “Isn’t it worth the chance?”

For a moment, the Wicker Goddess seemed torn. She regarded him with a piercing stare, her eyes smoldering with distrust. But finally, she lowered her branch. “Very well,” she hissed. “But be warned, if you try to deceive me, I’ll end your life before you take another breath.”

With a flick of her wrist, the vines coiled around Oliver and lifted him, carrying him through the twisting corridors of the fortress. The walls were rough, ancient stone, overrun with moss and thick roots that snaked across the floor. Shadows clung to every corner, the light from the moon barely penetrating the dense foliage that seemed to pulse with life.

At last, they entered a small, dim room with a bare stone floor, the only feature a rich plot of dark, loamy soil. Curled upon it was a young woman, her slender form naked and green-skinned, her body emanating a faint, sickly glow. She lay trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes wide with fear as Oliver was set down beside her.

He spoke gently, hoping to ease her fear. “I’m here to help,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Your mother brought me to see if I could heal you.”

The girl spoke—a soft, vulnerable-looking creature with leaves and delicate vines woven through her hair—shook her head. “It’s a curse,” she murmured, her voice thin and weak. “You won’t be able to break it.”

“Maybe,” Oliver replied, “but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?” He gave her a reassuring smile. “What’s your name?”

“Fernwyn,” she whispered, looking down. Her skin had an unusual gray tint, and he noticed how she shivered, though the air was warm. She was visibly distressed, and Oliver’s heart went out to her.

“And what sort of being are you?”

“I am a dryad.”

“Tell me how you feel,” Oliver continued hoping to get some idea before the goddess got impatient and murdered him there.

“It’s… horrible. I can’t absorb nutrients, and the light—it hurts. And… my back hurts, near my… near my backside.”

Oliver furrowed his brow, a thought forming in his mind. “It almost sounds like you’ve been poisoned, rather than cursed,” he said thoughtfully. “Could you show me where it hurts?”

Fernwyn blushed, but before she could respond, the vines snapped out and slammed Oliver against the wall, the Wicker Goddess’s screech coming down the hall from the courtyard where she was planted. “How dare you ask such a thing!” she screamed, the voice bouncing across the stone.

“Wait!” Oliver gasped, struggling against the unyielding vines. “It could be an injury! There could be something lodged there—a thorn or a splinter. I can’t help her unless I look!”

The Wicker Goddess was silent and her vines tightened around him, but before she could crush him, Fernwyn’s soft voice broke through. “Mother… please,” she murmured, turning toward the Goddess. “Let him try. He doesn’t mean me any harm. Kallen told me he was kind.”

Kallen? Wasn’t that the Wicker Maid he encountered in the Tortured Forest?

With an enraged snarl, the Wicker Goddess released him, though her gaze remained fierce. Oliver took a steady breath and turned back to Fernwyn, who was lying on her side, her face flushed as she slowly shifted, exposing her bare backside to him. He knelt, trying to keep his touch as gentle and respectful as possible and not stare at the view in front of him. Her skin felt soft, like the velvet petals of a flower, but as he ran his fingers over the small, inflamed area, he felt something hard beneath the surface. It was pretty big, about an inch in diameter.

“Here it is,” he said softly. “There’s a foreign object lodged just under the skin. If I can remove it, it might relieve some of your symptoms.”

The Wicker Goddess’s voice rumbled behind him, full of suspicion. “Then remove it, now!”

“I need tools,” Oliver replied quickly, glancing over his shoulder. “If I just dig in with my fingers, it’ll cause more harm than good. It’s also deeper than surface level. I need something to pull it out carefully. Otherwise, it could break apart and worsen the infection.”

The Wicker Goddess’s again was silent but her voice came back to him more subdued. “Speak. What do you need?”

Oliver quickly thought about it, mentally going over what he’d need. He had not planned to perform any sort of medical procedure, let alone on a Dryad. “I’ll need something sharp, like a small blade or needle, and a piece of cloth for cleaning. If there’s any water nearby, that would be helpful too. And, if possible, something like to grip and pull the object free.”

Moments later, they returned, carrying a small piece of polished stone, a strip of cloth, and a silver tool, perhaps an artifact from the fortress’s distant past.

He set to work, dabbing at the inflamed area with the cloth and making a small incision with the sharp stone. Fernwyn whimpered, her muscles tensing beneath his touch, and he tried to soothe her, speaking in a calm, steady voice. “It’s almost over,” he murmured, “just hang on.”

With the silver tool, he carefully grasped the object lodged beneath her skin. It was was small but tapered, and as he worked it free. Dark thick liquid oozed from the wound but he kept tugging and tried to sooth the crying girl. Finally, with a gentle tug, he removed it, holding it up for the Dryad to see.

“There,” he said, showing her the shard. “This was the cause. It’s not a curse—it’s a foreign object, likely laced with poison.”

Fernwyn’s eyes grew wide and she spoke. “Corpse bee.”

A rumbling echoed through the ground until a shriek of hatred echoed from the Wicker Goddess. “How dare the The Hivekeeper attack my family! He shall pay for this!”

Fernwyn’s breathing slowed, her face relaxing as some of the color returned to her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at him with a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Oliver could feel her relief, and as he met her gaze, he found himself smiling despite the tension still lingering in the air.

After a few moments, the vines returned and yanked him out of the room.