Clover willow's Arc

Chapter 11 of 20

Clover tried to stand. Her legs folded under her, and she sank back beside the black stump. The grove was cured, but her hands still shook. She wanted to go to the guardian's tree and see him. She could not walk ten steps. The healing had drained her dry, and she had nothing left to pull from. Flower buzzed close to her ear. The fairy was small, no bigger than Clover's hand, with flowers in her hair. She had once doubted Clover belonged here. Now she looked worried. "You gave too much," Flower said. "Rest won't fix this fast. You need water that carries the grove's own strength." "There is no time," Clover said. Her voice came out thin. "I can't even lift my arms." Flower darted up and away over the grass. Minutes later a shadow crossed the meadow. A great white buck landed near the stump, six pale wings folding against his sides. His antlers glowed like moonlit bone. He had come before, carrying news down the slope. Now he knelt low, folding his long legs so his back dipped near the ground. "He'll carry you," Flower said. "There's a pond deeper in the grove. Its water holds old magic. Drink from it and it will give back some of what you spent." Clover crawled to the buck. She gripped the fur at his shoulder and dragged herself up. The buck rose slow and careful. His wings opened. They lifted over the trees, and the grove spread green and healed below. He set her down at the edge of a wide stone pond. A short wooden dock reached out over the water. The surface glowed faint blue, and tiny lights drifted above it like sparks. Clover crawled onto the dock. She lowered her cupped hands and drank. The water was cold and sweet. It ran down her throat and spread through her chest. Warmth returned to her fingers first, then her arms. The shaking slowed. She drank again, and again, until she could kneel without swaying. Her strength did not come back whole. But enough returned that she could hold her own weight. Flower landed on the dock rail. "Better?" "Better," Clover said. She flexed her hands. They no longer trembled. The buck waited at the shore. Clover climbed onto his back once more. This time she sat up on her own. "Take me to the guardian's tree," she said. The pond had bought her back her hands. She was no longer too weak to reach him. But she knew, as the wings lifted, that the water had given her only half of what the blight took. She would come to the guardian tired, with less to offer than she wanted. She had climbed out of one hole and straight into the next.