The leaves always seemed so lush and green in this part of the forest, brighter and more vibrant. Everything seemed more alive and inviting that the other areas of the forest. Where shadows were ominous, and winds caused leaves to scrape against each other in harshness, here the shadows were just as alive as the trees. They moved in patterns of dark and sunlight as the leaves danced, their silent voices echoing with the wind. That was just one of the reasons he enjoyed this spot. The biggest would have to be that it was always quiet. Other people didn't come this deep into the woods. Superstitious folk, they believed that the woods hid creatures, both mischievous and malicious, that would trick you into following them to their home, and you would never return. He had always laughed at those stories. He'd been coming to this exact spot for years, and had not once seen anything unusual or out of the ordinary. Well, there was the odd bird with strange colours on their wings, but they hardly drew him into becoming lost.
The young man sat himself down on his favourite stump, bringing his sketch book to lay in his lap, a piece of black charcoal clutched in tanned brown fingers. Eyes of soft moss gazed in an unending stare at the serene beauty that encompassed him, before the charcoal flew across blank canvas, creating smooth, dark lines. Trying to capture a single glimpse of the forest in a sketch. A smile spread across his lips, small and sweet, private. Safe from anyone in the solitude of his art. Or, at least he thought he was alone, but there was... something nagging, almost begging him to turn to his left. So he did, and his eyes met milk white skin flashed with red. In his glimpse, he thought it might be blood, until he turned fully to see that he was mistaken. It was a boy, with the palest of skin, with hair as red as the inside of the bray berries. He couldn't see his face, as red hair blocked it from view, but he knew where the eyes were looking.
In a quick movement, he had flipped his sketch book over, and moved away, off of his stump. His art was private, meant just for him. There was an uneasy silence and stillness between the two young men, before the fair one turned to face him, a bright smile splayed wide on his face. "That was pretty impressive." He spoke, and it sounded strange. There was an underlaying accent to his words that he just couldn't place. He blinked, and the strange man was back within his space, almost nose to nose with him. He took a step back, coming into contact with a tree. The other took the step forward. He seemed to enjoy being invasive, his gaze kept fixed with the other. The artist found himself staring into eyes of effervescent blue, and strangely, didn't wish to look away. An apologetic pout touched at the edges at the fair male's lips. "I'm sorry, I only wanted to see what you were drawing." He hadn't even noticed that there were thin fingers flipping through his sketchbook, until they were near the last pages.
"Like I said, these are really impressive." He mumbled. The artist thought it was strange, how he was looking through his artwork, yet he was still reeling from the blue eyes that seemed to still be staring into him. And then they were, the red head being back in his space. It was happening too fast to be real. He must have been dreaming. But some part in his mind knew he was wide awake. "But they're all of this same spot. Listen, I know a place.. Where the sun hits the stream and shadows play with the leaves." And just like that, they were walking. They must have been walking for some time, because he couldn't see the stump. But it had only been a few moments, hadn't it? His head was spinning. "The fruit trees are all in bloom, their petals dancing in the wind, their perfume in the air." There was a shower of white, as if it were snowing. But they were soft and warm. Flower petals.
They stood in a clearing, flower petals dancing around them as the wind circled. The clearing was cut in half by a little stream, that seemed to pool at the ends, as if it had no beginning. No end. "Are you ready?" The tanned boy turned to face his fair companion, finding his gaze locked back with those of bright blue, the different shades seeming to shift within their depths. "Ready for what?" His own voice seemed echoey, as if it didn't really exist. He could tell that a large smile pulled at the red head's lips. It crinkled around his eyes, seeming to give it a not altogether human twist. "To go to the other side." It wasn't one voice. There were many. Some loud, bright, and excited, and others whispery, old, wise. And all were inviting. His hand was in the fair boys, and slowly, as if moving through water, crossed the stream.
They went looking for him, in the days that followed, and they tried to find him. Oh how they tried. But they never found that tanned man. Only his sketchbook, laid open and unattended on the stump. Open to a page of a young man, staring intently at the looker, a small smile pulling at thin lips.
