imovipositive:

You’ve been working at the botanical garden for about a week when it dawns on you that you’re about to make a serious mistake.

You know it’s wrong. You know all the arguments against what you’re about to do: they’re good ones. They’re persuasive. But you can’t help yourself.

At some point in the next few months, you are absolutely, 100% going to fuck your boss. Your married boss.

His name is Hebryvyth, he’s five hundred and sixty eight years old, and he’s a sylvan elf. His hair is mossy green, his skin the crinkled brown of old-growth bark. His eyes shimmer like dewdrops left behind by the retreating night. What are you supposed to do about that? When he speaks to you, his voice is low and calm and patient, even when you’ve just badly mangled a cutting that was supposed to be grafted this week. Even when you’ve ripped a bag of fertilizer or tripped while carrying a tray of samples, scattering them across the floor. When he shakes his head at you, his huge crest of horns– velvety, like an elk’s, because it’s still barely midsummer– sways like a metronome, and you find yourself hypnotized by it.

You had graduated only a month ago, the ink was still practically wet on your diploma, and finding this job this soon had been a coup. You loved the city and didn’t want to leave it, but there were limited opportunities to use your degree in such a tightly-packed urban setting. There was hardly any greenery left here. But the botanical garden in the Commons had an opening, and your labwork had always been excellent, so two phone calls later you were sitting in front of Hebryvyth in your best (only) suit and trying not to stare.

“So, Y/N,” he’d said in a voice like the wind sighing through the branches, “what is it that draws you to nature? If you love the green, why live in a city that has so little of it?”

You’d stammered something out about preserving what little beauty remained, making sure everyone got to enjoy it, and some cliche about dirt under your nails. You could hardly hear yourself talk. Your pulse was pounding in your ears as you took in every detail: the smooth lacquer of his fingernails, the tiny leaves poking out from under his starched collar. Whatever you said must have impressed him, because a week later you were getting the full tour.

On those occasions when you reflect on your misfortune, you suppose the trouble started on your second week. You arrived at your workstation– a standing desk in the corner of the lab, next to the trash can– to find something resting there already. A flower crown, woven from wire-thin branches and covered in blooming lilac. The scent of it filled the air around your desk with heady sweetness. You picked it up in trembling hands and noted without surprise that the plants all looked alive and blooming. It fit your head perfectly. You walked around with your head in the clouds for the rest of the day, even when Rachel two desks over came back from her lunch and saw it. “Oh, that’s a pretty one,” she said without a trace of surprise. “He makes them for all the new employees. Kind of a ‘welcome aboard’ present.”

That may be so, but this one was special. You knew it. This one was yours. And someday, Hebryvyth would be too.

By the time you had met his wife, your crush was terminal. It was at a gala celebrating some important anniversary for the garden; you’d been assured that you didn’t have to show up, but you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to dress up for Hebryvyth. You squeezed into your sea-green dress and spent an hour looking at makeup tutorials on YouTube. The few sylvan videos you found were rather heavier on wood stain and varnish than blush and concealer, but you eventually settled on a look that seemed “foresty.” At the gala you’d clung to Rachel, one of the few people you recognized, until Hebryvyth came by to say hello. He wore a tuxedo tonight and his horns were hung with ribbons and little tinkly bells. Every movement was accompanied by a windchime carillion.

Behind him was another sylvan elf: tall, with high cheekbones and long, flowing locks like the branches of a willow tree. She wore a simple, sleeveless chiffon gown that clung to her like cobweb. Her bare arms looked like tree branches in midwinter. She smiled down at you– God, she’s tall, you remember thinking– but there was no warmth in it. It was as though in one look she had pierced your deep and secret desire and it amused her. Go ahead, try, her eyes said. I’d love to see it.

“This is my wife, Eliatiss,” Hebryvyth had said. “Elia, this is Y/N, our newest employee.”

“A pleasure, dear,” she’d said, and extended one hand. What could you do? You shook it with a big, fake grin on your face. Her touch was surprisingly warm and gentle, though it still felt like shaking hands with a scarecrow. “You look lovely,” she added, and turned to her husband. “Come, dear, there are some people here from the Academy that you have to meet.”

Meeting her, you realized now, had been the start of something new. Before that, it was a crush. Now, it was a competition. You had always been a bit shy at school, and your few attempts at flirting had been painfully awkward. Now you studied seduction the same way you’d crammed for an Organic Chem final. You went out and bought an array of new tops, some scandalously low-cut. Well, it was summer. There was nothing wrong with that.

At work, you found excuses to spend time with Hebryvyth. This, you realized quickly, was more exhausting than you’d expected. With a title like Director of Operations, you’d expect him to spend most of his time in the office pushing paper around. He leaves most of that to his secretary, a faun named Glorianth, and instead spends his days wandering the park. As often as you can, you join him on his rounds, sweating and toting your watering can and your pruning shears.

His technique is not like any you’ve studied. He’s touchy with the plants, getting down on his hands and knees and plunging his fingers into the wet soil. He presses his ear up against the bark of a tree and listens to it. He carefully plucks a single petal from a blooming rose and places it between his lips.

Then he tells you to cut here or trim there or take a sample from this bush. And you obey, but you’re careful to bend at the waist and hold the watering can two-handed in a way that pushes your breasts up and out. Is he looking at you? You don’t dare check. When he makes a joke– and he does, often, in the same soft deadpan that he always uses– you laugh and laugh. You find excuses to touch him, to draw his attention to areas of new growth or worrying patches of blight. When you find a small cluster of orchids growing wild in a rocky cleft, he actually compliments you, and for the rest of the day your feet barely touch the ground.

One day in mid-July you call him over to your station to ask about an unusual pattern you’ve noticed on some of the elm bark you’ve recovered. You stand at his shoulder as he turns your samples over and then peers at them under the microscope. When you lean in to look, your boobs press against his side and you feel his breath in your hair. You don’t dare say anything. He doesn’t respond to your touch at all. He just waits until you straighten up, then nods at you and tells you you’re doing a great job. As he leaves, Rachel scurries over to your desk.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N?” she hisses as soon as Hebryvyth is gone. You look around before answering. It’s just the two of you and Glorianth in today, and the faun is bopping her head with some poppy music video and playing Solitaire on her work computer.

“I’m just looking for elm-leaf beetle eggs,” you say, as nonchalantly as you can. “They’re a real pest, you-”

“Don’t play stupid!” she says. “I’ve seen the way you act around him. Jesus, everyone’s seen it. You’re not exactly being subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, but your heart’s not in it. Damn! You thought you were being subtle.

“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes. “One, he’s like… more than ten times your age. Two, he’s married. Three…” she bites her lip and trails off. “One and two should be enough. You gotta stop this, Y/N. This is a bad idea.”

“What’s three?” you retort. “You want him yourself? Are you actually jealous?” It’s just a clumsy misdirection, but to your surprise, she blushes and looks away. Is she really?

“No,” she snaps, then softens. “Look, I’m just trying to help you. This is really not a good idea. You have a good job here. You’re a smart girl. Don’t mess it up for yourself.”

“Oh, should I be thanking you for your wisdom?” you say. You don’t mean to bite her head off, but you’re suddenly so angry. Her jealousy is leading her to sabotage your burgeoning romance. And she’s only three years older than you! Maybe she tried what you’re trying herself, you reflect. It didn’t work for her, but it must be working for you. Otherwise, why would she warn you off?

“Thanks for the advice, Rachel,” you say as sweetly as you can. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” You turn back to your bark samples and bend over to look in the microscope. With a last shake of her head, Rachel stalks back to her desk.

After that, she doesn’t come around nearly as much, and she must have spread the word because nobody else does either. That suits you just fine. Hebryvyth still seems to enjoy your company. In fact, he’s started to request you accompany him on his rounds of the park. You walk as close as you dare and breathe deeply, inhaling the woody scent of him. It’s like stepping into an old-growth forest. Once, when the two of you are walking through a little valley, a hidden grove at the center of the park, you take his hand. He starts slightly, but doesn’t pull away. All you can hear is the thudding of your heart. You stare straight ahead, back ramrod-straight, sweat beading on your forehead. When you reach the end of the valley he gently pulls his hand back, but his fingers caress your palm and you nearly faint.

The two of you exchange numbers, ostensibly to communicate when you’re at opposite ends of the park. You haven’t gotten any kind of official promotion– certainly not a raise– but you’re his deputy now, and he often sends you on little errands. Let the others grumble. This is love, now you’re sure of it, and love must be free to bloom. It would be wrong to hide your feelings. You haven’t discussed any of this with Hebryvyth. In truth, you’re not even sure how to bring it up. But in your moments together, you can feel it pouring off him, a desire as strong as yours. A yearning, like a seed’s yearning to grow and flower, to become a tree. The same primal force that pushes saplings up through six inches of soil.

You’re just as clumsy at flirting by text as you are in person, but you fill your messages to him with emojis, smiling and winking and occasionally blowing a kiss. You call him Hebry, and he never corrects you. You send ribald jokes and innuendos that would make a sailor blush. He’s more subdued, but sometimes he surprises you. You didn’t think people his age even knew about the eggplant emoji.

Finally, the moment you’ve been working towards arrives. You knew this was all building up to something, but it still shocks you when it arrives. Friday, you’re getting ready to go home and enjoy a solid weekend of Netflix bingeing, when you sense someone behind you. You sigh and ready yourself to politely tell Rachel to mind her own business.

It’s not Rachel. It’s Hebry. He’s standing there, tall and solemn, staring at you with his dewdrop eyes. His horns are magnificent. Most of the velvet has peeled away, leaving arcing spires of what looks like ivory. The tallest tines are wrapped in flowers and their petals rain down gently like confetti.

“Y/N,” he begins when he sees you looking at him. “Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow?”

“I…” you begin. All of a sudden the reality of your situation crashes onto you. Is this what you want? Is it really? Last chance, an inner voice tells you, and to your annoyance it sounds like Rachel’s. You brush it aside. “That sounds lovely,” you say. “Where?”

He hands you a slip of paper with an address on it. It’s in the suburbs, but you figure you can catch an Uber. You accept it with shaking fingers. “My house,” he says. “Six pm.” His eyes linger on you for a moment and then he’s gone in a trail of falling petals and floral scent. You clutch the paper to your chest and sigh.

Your barely sleep at all that night. You toss and turn for hours, eventually reaching into your bottom drawer and retrieving the vibrator stashed under your socks. You buck and thrash on top of your sheets until they’re soaked with sweat and you’re breathing hard. Finally you drift off, but your dreams provide no relief; in them, you’re a forest nymph, a tiny creature draped in diaphanous silks. You skip through the forests until a looming, horned shape chases you down, pins you to the ground, and ravishes you slowly and thoroughly.

You wake up confused and tangled up in the sheets. A shower sets you partially to rights, and after a bowl of cereal you set to work. Makeup first: foundation, concealer, blush, highlights on your nose and cheekbones and forehead. Lipliner and lipstick and your stubby eyebrow pencil. You throw open your closet and try outfit after outfit. They’re all wrong for some reason or other: too dowdy, too gaudy, too slutty, not slutty enough. You wish you had prepared better. You finally settle for a dark blue cocktail dress long enough that you’d be ok with your mom seeing you wear it. You put your hair up in a bun and admire yourself in the mirror. Now that’s a good look. It’s still early afternoon, so you lounge around on the couch watching a Netflix comedy special. Your roommate comes home and gawks at you. “Damn, Y/N!” she says. “You look hot! Going out tonight?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound indifferent about it. “You know. Might be fun.” You gently deflect any questions about “the guy.” “Just someone I met online,” you insist, and though you don’t think she buys it, she’s polite enough not to dig into your business. Finally, it’s late enough for you to call your car.

Your driver drops you off at five minutes of six, and you catch your first sight of the house. It’s impossible to mistake it now that you’re here. Most suburban houses don’t have a tree growing right up through the middle, its broad canopy spreading like an umbrella overhead. The neighborhood is pretty toney, and you wonder just how much the Director of Operations makes. A ripple of doubt twists your tummy. Is this a mistake after all? You get the feeling that you are terribly, hopelessly out of your depth. No, you tell yourself. This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve been aiming for the whole time.

Your heels click off the stone path that leads to the front door. You ring the doorbell and wait politely. The door is mahogany and carved with a bas-relief pattern of leaves and twisting vines. Just as you think you should maybe knock, it swings open. “Good evening, Heb–” you begin, and stop. There’s nobody there.

“Hello?” Your voice echoes in the anteroom. You step inside and peer around the door. Beyond the little entrance room, the center of the house is open, revealing the massive trunk of the tree at its core. It must be ten feet across. Smaller plants are everywhere, sitting in pots or in little hanging troughs. It’s warm and humid in here, almost like a rainforest. A spiral staircase leads upward, around the tree. You step further inside and close the door behind you. The house, as far as you can tell, is still and empty. The only sounds are your footsteps and the fading echoes of your voice.

“Hello?” you call again. You look left and right, and a horrible thought grips you. What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s gotten cold feet? You knew this was a mistake, you knew you shouldn’t–

Footsteps fill the air. Is it Hebry, come to tell you to go home, it was all a mistake? Or is he here to apologize and usher you inside for a magical evening? You look around frantically, then look up in time to see the figure descending the spiral staircase. Your heart sinks. It’s worse than either of those options.

It’s his wife.

TO BE CONTINUED…