Benjamin was choking on black flowers.

The dryad before him was laughing, a broken, screeching sound that was nothing like the silvery bells he was used to hearing from fae like her. Vines entangled his limbs, his friends laid on the ground, unmoving, and his ax was tossed aside, the handle splintered in the middle.

The demonic corruption had seeped in too far, after all.

It took all of his strength to break one arm free of the vines, but no matter how much he tore at them, his bare arms weren’t enough to hurt the dryad, only causing more of the cruel amusement.

Each broken branch erupted in ten more, showering Benjamin with more petals blooming a sinister color under the winter sun. Each torn-off vine dropped to the ground convulsing, before dissolving into black goo.

In his struggle, Benjamin managed to grab one of the swords dropped by his companions – a short sword, barely more than a dagger for someone of his stature, but it was still a weapon, it was still cold iron.

It was something that could hurt her.

The laughing turned into pained screams, not less jarring but a lot more welcome. With each plunge of the sword the vines grew thorns, bleeding Benjamin dry, but he’d seen too much carnage today to care, lost too many friends in the last months to do anything but welcome death when faced with it.

The dryad fell, but the vines didn’t release their hold. Benjamin stayed locked in the dryad’s embrace, too wounded and exhausted to fight it.

Flowers kept falling, a crude image of an ending spring.

Before Benjamin closed his eyes for the last time, he wondered if the black petals would drown the bodies completely.

Perhaps that wasn’t the worst grave one could wish for.

—–

Tried something longer and more structured, but I wasn’t liking it, so have some super short flow of consciousness instead.