So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant flowers of song

The Forest Reverie- Edgar Allan Poe

There are exactly seven arrows left in Donghae’s quiver. He knows this because he wasted six on a boar that got away anyway, broke two when he retrieved them from the rabbits he managed to kill, and lost three to wild brambles when his foot got caught in a wombat hole. Really, he should’ve given up when he missed the boar the third time.

Plucking yet more twigs out of his gloves, Donghae decides he’s earned himself a break and promptly collapses into a sitting position, tucking himself against a tree and relatively out of view from the nearby path. Well, he’s pretty sure it’s a path anyway, but his eyes have been playing tricks on him for hours and his fever isn’t helping any.

A shift of leaves has him glancing up and the sunlight catches his retinas, leaving him blinking away little daystars as he squints to see what could’ve caused the movement. “,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes with grass-stained gloves and trying again. There’s a blur of orange and red that he’d be dead certain was a phoenix, only phoenixes don’t come this far south. Donghae stares at the mass of colours and rubs his eyes again, this time catching intelligent amber eyes glittering at him. He starts and reaches reflexively for his bow, but when