The fall of the Cult of Leaves began and ended with the song of a long and mournful winter. We open with the beginning of the ritual to choose the yearly sacrifice.

Villagers of Saul, a small range spread along a mountain, gather to the ring of posts in preparation for sunset. They carry with them offerings to burn the next night.

Greeting each is Paris Warren. 17 years ago when he was first appointed leader he was far more enthusiastic. Overtime as his youth faded his belief gradually followed.

"Sweet Tides," He shook comely Venessa Trout's fair hand. In the other she held a wooden shoe, painted blue with white starbursts. "Though not sweeter than you," He added before letting it go.

She made a quick note of surprise, then laughed and walked off to make room for the next in line.

"Sweet Tides." Old Frederick's usual scowl was deep and unapologetic. His hand was even more unpleasant, rough like sandpaper, and cold like death. Paris hid his revulsion but not well.

"If only your father could see you now," Frederick harrumphed, slumping along with a plain jar. His wife, just as unpleasant, followed close behind. A plain rag doll swinging after her.

"Sweet Tides!" Paris called as she passed. He held out a hand, which she swatted away, as though he were some particularly loud fly. Shaking off the sting he greeted the next in line.

A young girl with short disheveled hair and low bangs stared up at him. She shivered beneath a blue coat that looked at least two sizes too big. Tied around her wrist was a little white ribbon, marking her as one of Martha's.

"Hey there," Paris bent down. "What's your name?"

Clutched in her hand was a paper star.

"Sandra."

"Do people call you Sandy?" She nodded, but was already starting to turn a embarrassed rosy pink, aware something was wrong. 

"Well, Sandy, it's nice to meet you, but I think you're in the wrong line," He pointed her over to the other side of the ring of posts where a group of kids her own age were gathered. "My son's over there too, Sky, you know him?"

She didn't answer, already running off to join her crowd. Paris watched her bobble away.

"Looks a little like Deirdre when she was a tyke doesn't she?" Thorne Jenkins joked, heartily grabbing Paris's hand.

"Can't say I see it," Paris replied. "Sweet Tides,"

"Sweet Tides." Jenkins parroted mockingly over him when he restated the mantra to the next person, falling in beside him. "What does that even mean?" He held up his prize, a shabby wood carving of some type of local bird. Or maybe a hut. "There's nothing sweet about waste."

Paris followed his gaze to the centre of the ring, where the great bonfire would be lit. As the line worked through him the villagers made their way to the ditch, tossing their offerings into the depths, forming a growing pile of wood, hay, and cotton. All gathered around a central post about 15 feet high, topped with an ugly iron carving of a snake, jaw agape facing the sky.

"What waste?" Paris joked gesturing down to Jenkins' scrap. "And Sweet Tides to you milady," He added to the next woman in line, kissing her hand.

"Shameless." Jenkins tutted as she passed. "What would your father say?"

Paris barked out a laugh. "May the gods have mercy, you stupid summer child." He mimicked his voice, loud from an ear gone deaf and shaky with age.

"Save some for the rest of us!" Jenkins tossed in, using the same tone.

"And who exactly would 'us' be?" Olive Jenkins cut in, sharp as a whip. Her thin black eyebrows pointed in suspicion, harsh green eyes narrowed in on her husband. Thorne froze, colour draining from his already chalky pallor.

Paris snickered.

She strode off, chin high. Thorne was left chasing after her, bleeding apologies that went unheard.

Just past them Paris could see that little girl from earlier, Sandy, watching him. He offered a friendly wave before continuing the greetings, the words numb to his mouth.

Thankfully he would be relieved when it came time to give the ceremonial speech. 

Once that had been his least favourite part of the ordeal, but after years of hammering the words into him eventually his fathers efforts bore fruit.

"What a night!" He opened with a warm chuckle. As the leader he stood at a podium, propped up on a wooden stage about as high as his waist. 

A perfectly timed gust of wind cut through the circle of pillars. Paris tightened his scarf and fixed his hair. "Right then, a thousand or so years ago the gods blessed us with this life and this land, with food, drink," Jenkins cheered from the back, earning venomous looks from the elders. "And love,"

From there the dialogue flowed out with the ease of a steady stream. In the crowd the older folk devoured every word, in their strange, quiet, way. Faces fixed in stone. 

As usual they were the only ones who offered such devotion, those closer to Paris's own age were far less disciplined. Such as Jenkins, who he could see at the back. He was leaning against one of the posts with his hands shoved in his pockets. Next to him was Olive, struggling to fight a yawn.

Even Paris himself, despite being actively saying the words, barely paid attention to them anymore. It was like staring at something familiar for too long and watching it shift into something meaningless and foreign. 

Behind him the kids were impatiently waiting. Some more fidgety than others. Preparing for the second part of the ritual, or at the very least, eager to get it over with. 

"And with that, let us begin." Paris finished, solemnly stepping to the side. Hands clasped in front of him. 

He nodded to old lady Nora, a stack of quivering bones wrapped in thin baggy skin wearing a black cloak and carrying a curved wooden walking-stick. She returned the gesture in a far more ceremonious fashion, fully dipping her head forward. Once she had herself righted once more she began to lead the children into the woods.

Watching Sky be engulfed by the snow reminded Paris of his own turn through the ritual. He had been about two years older, having celebrated his twelfth birthday just a week prior.

It had been particularly cold that year, he could remember that the clearest. He had worn three layers; a black long sleeve, a hefty green sweater, and the thickest coat he could find. Somehow the harsh winter chill managed to cut through it all, striking his bones like the strings of a fine instrument causing his teeth to chatter.

He hadn't gone in especially worried, though he knew some others his age at the time who had. Olive's sister Milly Prescott had been dragged into those woods crying and dragged out with tears still coating her freezing face.

She was the most vocal about her fear but there were others; wary glances towards the seemingly endless maze of white coated trees, flinches at the sound of wind knocking snow from branches. 

While they waited in line Paris had stood between River Montague and Jordy Peterson. 

River was short, and on the heavier side, with a doughy freckled face, a toothy smile and a pitchy laugh. Jordy was tall and reedy, a few scars across his forehead and a few more on his cheek from a fight with Rusty, a stray cat (Though he claimed it was a wolf and bared them with a deluded pride despite wolves not being seen anywhere near the village in years).

Those two had made the wait seem longer than five minutes, making him yearn for the ritual to start so he could get some space back.

Despite not fearing the ritual itself, the woods were eerie in the winter, especially on the cusp of night. Something Paris didn't realize until they passed the wood posts that marked the boundaries of the ritual grounds. They went from the crackling of the fire and conversation amongst the adults to this strange, unnatural silence cushioned by the snow.

They marched in a line, as they had been instructed extensively leading up to this by old lady Nora. Even back then she'd been considered elderly though she couldn't have been over 50 at the time.

The ground was sacred and to remain untouched. The ritual was the only instance anyone was permitted to cross that boundary, and even then access was restricted to the kids themselves.

For his first time crossing that line Paris had anticipated some kind of sinking in his stomach or a buzzing sensation or some other kind of sign that there was something mystical or special about that place. All he received were trees blanketed away in snow, like a house that had been shut away for the season. 

It was creepy, in a grounded, human kind of way, but not the chills down his spine he had expected. If he was being completely honest he had been a little disappointed.

The line of kids kept going, but the discipline they'd shown from before had steadily begun to disappear, along with their tracks as a steady fall of snow filled in the gaps. River and Jordy had moved first to link arms, walking in front of Paris with comedically large steps while attempting to trip one another. 

Following the bushel of trees was the meadow. Gentle hills covered in fresh snow, clean and untouched. No disturbances, not even from the animals. Signalling the next part of the ritual. 

The kids all separated, realigning themselves so their backs were to the trees. Except for one.

"What are you doing? Miss Nora said to count down to ten before we start!" Paris had shouted, though it came out squealish and cracked from puberty, making him sound more like a whiny child than he would've preferred.

A few paces onto the field was the oldest of the batch, 16 year old Willie Cobbler. 

"Or what? Why would the Gods care if we wait ten more seconds?" He grouched back.

"But she said!" Paris doubled down.

"Oh yeah? Well Leroy played two years ago and he said no one did it, and at least five didn't even leave their mark. They all went to the river, had a snowball fight and came back when they got tired. You really think it took six hours just to tag a tree?" Willie scoffed, then tugging his scarf back up, kept walking. The snow crunching beneath him.

"Just humour us." Olive interjected. 

Willie stopped but didn't come back. "10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1." He listed off in one breath, voice dripping with sarcasm. He glared over his shoulder at her. "There. Happy?"

The others didn't look convinced. Olive rolled her eyes but was the first to follow after him, strutting along with Milly in tow. 

River and Jordy laughed and ran after them to take the front, still linked. 

Paris did his own count before following the crowd. Just to be safe. 

The meadow was a fair size, a few hills over a space about as big as the main part of the village; the schoolhouse, clocktower, council hall, stores and most houses. 

Beyond it was the tree. 

Jordy and River reached it first and started chasing each other around it. The sheer size of the trunk completely blocked them from view once they both got behind it. 

It's impressive width wasn't the only thing that made it stand out. White, brown and red hand prints were speckled across, starting around midway up, (About as high as Paris's house) and spiralling down just stopping short of the massive roots. One of those handprints was his father's. 

When he reached it he pulled out the tin of red paint his father had given him and took off a mitten, briefly exposing his bare hand to the cold to add his own mark. He used the snow to wipe it clean, leaving a streak of red, then did his best to pat it dry on his pants before tugging the mitten back on. 

"Oi! Deirdre! Hurry up!" Willie called, arms crossed. A streak of white paint that started as a handprint behind him, covering a few of the past marks. "How much longer do you want to be out here?" 

Deirdre Cobbler was somewhere near the back of the crowd but at the sound of her brother's voice she flinched and hurried over, stumbling awkwardly through the snow that had been shaped by the bootprints of those who came before her. 

He tossed their shared paint for her to catch. Jordy and River were still messing around and one of them got knocked into her, causing her to drop it before she could get a decent grip. In one smooth wave white fell on white. 

"Dude!" River exclaimed. Jordy fell into him and noticed the spill. 

"Oh shit, sorry!"

"Here," Paris offered her his. Her eyes, already buggishly round, were wide and scared, but she accepted. Carefully she made her way over to the tree and squatted down to press her hand just above the roots. 

Turning back to him she shyly handed it back. 

Willie snatched her by the arm as soon as she was done and pulled her over his shoulder. Setting back for his moody march home, apparently tired of waiting for her to catch up. She didn't make it easy for him, she wriggled around like a worm on a hook until he relented and switched so she was on his back instead.

"Aren't you coming?" Olive tapped Paris's ankle with her shoe.  

"What about the sacrifice? Aren't you scared of being marked?" He asked. 

Milly started sobbing again and Olive flashed him a dirty look. 

"The mark is horseshit," Willie answered for her, huffing a little from Deirdre's added weight. "The gods don't pick sacrifices, haven't for years. It's the elders you gotta be careful around. Leroy said the guy from his year had a scrape on his knee about as long as a thimble. Didn't even get it from the ritual. Guess what? Elders didn't care. They murdered him anyways."

Paris started to protest, shocked by Willie's brazenness. "What? Don't like to here it as it is?" Cobbler snipped.

The wind picked up again, whipping their faces red. 

Willie shouted above it. "Not sure what you have to be so worried about, your father would stop the whole thing if you got picked." His tone was harsh.

Even though they were meant to wound Paris still felt like there was some sort of comfort he was supposed to take from that. But instead that was the thread that began to weave a cloud of doubt that would chase him deep into adulthood, pondering over it on especially restless nights, starting with the walk back.

Paris disappeared into himself for the rest of the journey to consider those words. 

What would happen if he was picked? Would his father save him? Would he sacrifice his own son for the sake of the village? What would his father have done? 

Perhaps it was a small mercy he never had to find out. A day later the sacrifice had been declared. 

It was River. 

He didn't see the 'mark' for himself but from what he heard at some point out in those woods Jordy had grabbed his arm too tight, leaving a hand shaped bruise. 

That was the first year Paris pretended to be sick so he wouldn't have to go. He found out later Jordy wasn't in attendance either. But the next few days he was absent from school as well, a few more days after that he was declared missing.

A search party was sent out that went on for roughly three days, but it was Martha who found him. She had been out to meet Willie on a secret rendezvous before she was officially betrothed. 

Paris had been stuck studying inside when he heard her scream. His father ran out to investigate and Paris followed in his wake, glad for any excuse to leave the house. They approached the river's edge and found Martha, standing over a large dark clump, hands over her agape mouth. 

He never got a clear view of it, his father blocked it off from him, and when he noticed his presence in his shadow he angrily demanded he return home and leave the adults to take care of it. 

Paris was happy to listen, he saw enough.

Jordy's thin blue forearm dangling out on the river's bank, icy water dully knocking it about. 

_

Sky was the first to return from the woods. His cheeks were pink from the cold, eyes plagued with deep circles from exhaustion, dark hair wet and matted to his face. Paris welcomed his embrace, patting his head, a little surprised when Sky didn't attempt to shake him off. 

He had a duty to stay until the other children returned but he didn't make Sky wait like he'd had to, instead sending him back with Thorne. 

It was just after midnight when the last ones made their appearance and Paris could finally make his, back home, to his bed, where he ought to have been a long time ago. 

The walk home was long but quiet, a welcome change after having nothing to listen to but the anxious chatter of the parents. 

While the village itself was quite compact the same considerations had not been lent to the churches or ritual grounds. By the time he got back his legs were properly sore and the sky was starting to lighten, though the stars were still out, shimmering down at him. 

Growing up he remembered hearing stories about how each star is a soul, that the gods put the souls of the fallen into the sky so they can watch over their descendants and guide them from above. 

He hoped that wasn't true. He didn't like the thought of his father continuing to judge him from beyond the grave. 

The front door opened with a squeak and he could hear the shower pitter patter to life. His face was numb from the cold and tingled on walking in. He yearned to keep going and fall deep into the nice warm sheets of bed but forced himself to turn left.

Entering his fathers study unnerved him more than the ritual grounds ever had. He could never seem shake the feeling he was intruding, even going so far as to keep the door permanently open so he wouldn't attempt to knock for permission to enter. 

Mind you, his father had been dead for three years now, and Paris had been the one using it a decade before that but it somehow felt like his. It even smelled like him, the stench of ancient cologne persisting more stubbornly than a skunks.

Paris collapsed onto the leather black chair and rest his head on the back, allowing himself a minutes rest, before he would force himself to confront the sea of paperwork scattered about the desks surface. 

When it was fully his father's the only decoration was a hideously massive family portrait on the wall above the small fireplace. 

It still hung there, Paris had added his own additions: Two pictures, perched on the windows generous edge alongside several bottles of wine. The first was Deirdre. The second was Sky. 

He pushed himself forward, beginning to shuffle through the papers.

"Dad!"

Sky burst in, not yet dressed a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked alarmed and was holding his arm as though he were afraid it would fall off if he let go. 

His arm marked with a distinct red swirl.

Paris gripped onto Sky's arm, trying to comprehend what he was looking at. Sky started to cry. 

"No, no," Paris muttered, confirming Sky's fears.

"What do I do what do I do what do I do?" He sobbed.

"It's alright, it's alright, it was a mistake, I'll-" He swallowed. "Just-Just stay home, okay? In your room, you're sick. I can-I'll tell them you're sick." He nodded along to his own words and bent down squeezing Sky close into a tight hug, gripping the back of his head into his chest.

_

Paris didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep until a sudden knock at the door woke him with a start, causing him to hit the wooden floor awkwardly. 

From in front of the couch he could see Thorne's face in the window, much too chipper for the morning. A mug of coffee in one hand. 

He sighed in relief, better Thorne than a hoard of elders, and pulled himself from the floor to let him in. 

"Have a good night?" Thorne teased, watching Paris race around to find a change of clothes, temporary relief dashed when he remembered all the things he hadn't done yesterday. 

 "You get funnier every time we talk you know that?" Paris called back, now in the kitchen making a cup for himself (And fixing his sweater which he'd pulled on backwards).

"Heh of course, but ah, did ya hear? They, uh, they found the sacrifice." Thorne's tone dipped to be serious. A rare thing. 

Sky.

"What? Who?" 

Thorne gave him a funny look. "You doing alright man?"

Did he leave? Did someone see? What time is it?

"Yes. Yes, yes." He poured some coffee in his mug and nearly missed. "Just tired. Let's go, don't want to be any later." 

"Whatever you say." Thorne shrugged, following him outside. 

Amidst the village Paris's house was dead in the centre, right across from the council's hall and a five minute jog along a stone paved pathway to the main square.

Torches were lit all around, topping metal poles caging around the paths. All eight of the great fire pits were burning vibrant orange hues, high and full. They warmed the air enough for Paris to feel uncomfortable in his coat, but he refused to stop or slow for anything.

Crowds of largely women were gathered around a small figure, bringing beaded necklaces to adorn them. Paris pushed through to get a better look. They dispersed at his arrival, revealing little Sandy in a red dress. 

Her knee had a thin red scrape over a dark purple cloud of a bruise, but that was all it took to  damn her to this fate. 

She stared up at him, partially hunched beneath the weight of all the beads. He wondered for a moment if she even knew what this was for, what was about to happen to her, she looked so young. When her eyes began to tear up and she forced a smile he knew she did. 

When he didn't step back on his own he was pulled away to make room for the villagers to continue the preparations.

The walk back to the ritual grounds that night was a grim one. 

They brought her to the pit where all the wooden objects sat, waiting beneath a tarp to protect them from the snow, and tied her to the centre post. It jut out from the middle like an ugly bone. 

She tried to act tough in the beginning but once she was actually against the post she lost all of her composure to the painfully human desire to live. 

Back on the podium Paris struggled to get through his next speech. "The Gods are merciful-" He paused, Sandy cutting him off with a sharp scream. "They offer us so much yet demand so little." 

He stared down at the crowds. Every person gathered held a torch. Before the whole village would show up but in the last few years it was mostly adults. There were some kids mixed in, a few from last night, a few who had been too young, the lucky ones who wouldn't ever have to go through it themselves.

Paris felt his gaze drawn to one in particular. A little boy, curly blonde hair, waving a torch with about as much fire to it as a candle excitedly above his head. 

"Ahem," Sandy was still screaming but he forced himself to keep talking. "We asked them to choose their price," Paris held out a heavy arm, unable to look her in the eyes. "And they have made their choice."

And so had he. 

Old Frederick thrust a torch into his hand. He stepped down from the stage, approaching the edge of the pit. Standing so close dragged him back down to reality. It was his duty. His father had always done it. He was the leader. It was his duty. 

He made the mistake of looking at Sandy again. Sandra. 

She was so scared, shaking and crying, rattling against the post and attempting to kick the offerings away. She screamed for her mother. For Martha. He realized then that she wasn't wearing her ribbon. 

It wasn't too late. He could stop this right here right now. But if he did,  they would kill Sky. 

His hands were sweating, not just from the heat. His heart pounded hard against his chest, like a gavel. Judge, jury and executioner. That was what he would be if he did this.

He shut his eyes, unable to look at her. He couldn't do it if he had to watch her face. 

In one quick motion, before he could take it back, he tossed the torch to the pit. Thorne's ugly creature was the first thing to catch light, the others quickly followed. The flames raced hungrily for Sandy's feet. 

The screams were the worst part. Each one was a new knife hacking at Paris's heart. He should've watched. He was supposed to watch. He did this. 

But this time he couldn't. He didn't dare look past the toes of his boots. Mind painting images far too grotesque and vivid to dare. How could his father watch? 

The smell was a fresh horror; burnt flesh, shit, and vomit. 

When it was finally over he was the first to leave, feeling ill and heavy with guilt. But while there were stones weighing down his stomach his head was light, as the beginnings of peace knowing it was over settled in. 

But that would only be the beginning.