Glow Era

A branch that decided to become a lantern. The light is not strong enough to read by, but it is strong enough to be the only argument against the dark in a small region of forest, which, in this era, is enough. Animals approach in the manner of people approaching a stranger's porch — slowly, ready to apologise.

The spirit that gives the forest its evening colour. Without it, the trees would still photosynthesise and the path would still exist, but neither would feel inhabited. Visible only at the hours when no one is paying close attention, the spirit prefers to be acknowledged sideways, in the corner of the eye.

A crown that quietly outshines the sky behind it. Once worn, it cannot be put down; the wearer has been demoted to a stand for the light it carries. There are worse retirements — the crown is gentle company, and the duties it asks for are mostly a matter of standing still in the right kind of weather.

An overlord remembered mostly by his glow. The territory has changed names several times; the figure has not. He still keeps the office hours of an older era — long, silent, illuminated — and runs the same paperwork through the same green light, ignoring with great dignity the absence of anything to govern.

An elder grown half into the mossbed. Sitting and lying have, for him, become the same posture. The voice, when it appears, comes from somewhere lower than the mouth, and the forest answers as if it were being addressed personally. Visitors are advised not to interrupt; the conversation has been ongoing for a while.

A guardian listening to the slow part of the forest — the conversation the trees only have with each other, on a timescale no animal can usefully attend. The guardian hears it well and says nothing about it. The role is custodial; the discretion is the work.