Mark was a good student because he was a good listener and patient, both with himself and his teachers. He was--or would be--a good shaman because he remained calm under social pressure and expectations while drawing strength from service to others. His inexperience added flaws and cracks in his composure and learning, but the foundation he’d been building was sturdy.

He called on that strength of character now as he set his box down and knelt in the dirt before the tree. No. The Tree. Mark let reverence and respect settle into his bones along with a not insignificant portion of healthy fear. He came in supplication before a greater spirit exactly like a priest before a god. It was up to the god to listen to his prayer or smite him for his insolence.

The air vibrated with waiting awareness. The spirit knew Mark was there, but made no move to interact. It merely watched him neutrally. He was neither aid nor impediment to it. He was an existence within its domain, nothing more.

Well, that was not entirely true. Daniel’s presence added a strange flavor to the air. It was not quite fondness, but perhaps dutiful compassion? Familiarity? Acceptance? Mark had no words that encompassed the whole of the subtle sensation, only knowing that because Daniel guided Mark and stood beside him, some of that positive regard spilled over onto Mark and his actions.

Without that acceptance, Mark doubted he would have been allowed to set up items for formal magic. His actions skirted close to ritual because he needed the structure to bolster his personal magical strength enough for what he intended. The Tree had no patience for presumptuous ritual after the death mages so misused it. Only Daniel tempered its regard to neutral anticipation rather than active rejection.

Starting so low in its favor worried Mark given he was indeed coming to it hoping to use its magic. He only hoped that it took into consideration the fact that Mark was asking, not demanding, and would take no as an answer without complaint. This spirit had limited human interaction and of those engagements, it was Riordan who left the biggest imprint.

Heaven help them all.

Mark favored herbs and tinctures for his casting. They bordered between physical and ephemeral for him. They could be eaten or drunk. They could be mixed into a paste and used to create figures. They could be burnt, the smoke spreading magic in the air. They could be planted as seeds. He could apply such things in endless combinations to himself, inside and out, and to the world.

As casting methods went, herbal mixtures and charms were only fast if prepared in advance. Mark lacked flexibility in emergencies until he reached a stage where his foresight was strong enough. However, having a style that used physical and spiritual resonance meant Mark could empower an effect beyond his personal capacity, so long as he had the time and knowledge to do so.

Mark started by drinking a tincture he’d made of protective and strengthening herbs. The mixture tasted flowery and energy burst inside him like the sunflowers that were one of the main ingredients. He breathed, letting that potion pulse through his breath and blood, filling his body.

Next he prepared the ground, clearing leaves from a patch of dirt near the Tree’s roots. Mark took off his shoes, letting his bare toes dig into the sandy soil. He paused, reluctant, and then decided to go the full way. He needed every benefit he could get. Mark hadn’t blessed his clothing or dressed for ritual, so the most powerful state he could put himself in would be the most natural one.

He was grateful for the shroud of night now as he stripped naked in the woods, carefully not looking at Daniel. The night air wrapped around Mark, making his skin come alive. His sense of connection grew.

“What--” Daniel sputtered, drawing Mark’s attention anyway. The ghost was staring. Then, noticing Mark notice him, Daniel looked away, his face on figurative fire. “Naked, huh?”

“I am speaking with a spirit that arose from nature. The more barriers I remove from that communication, the easier and safer this will be. So yes, naked.” Mark tried to sound matter of fact about it. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

He knelt in the dirt, feeling the connection where the tops of his feet through his shins to his knees all pressed into the ground. Mark was rooted now, magically speaking, sharing the same earth as the spirit. His own inner spirit pulsed and breathed inside him, feeling the flow of life in the world.

Mark ignored the breezy feeling on his exposed genitals, tucked his legs in tighter to keep his balls off the ground, and pulled out a mortar and pestle. He hadn’t been sure he would do this stage, but it felt right now that he was here.

He placed fresh thyme, taken from Norris’ kitchen rather than Frankie’s workroom, into the mortar, creating a base that was a request for the good opinion of others while also enhancing his self identity. He added sage for grief and wisdom and witch hazel for protection. A bit of natural spring water turned the herbs into a runny paste.

Grabbing a small paint brush, Mark used the paste to draw symbols on his chest, thighs, and the backs of his hands. As he drew, Mark held a prayer in his mind, intention made metaphorically manifest. Please, listen to my supplication. I beg your aid. I beg your peace.

Mark refused to ponder why those words were the ones that emerged from his heart at the moment. They felt true. He held them dear. He set the brush aside, along with the mortar and pestle.

Next, Mark drew a small seedling out of his box, its roots wrapped in damp cloth. The little vervain plant served as a representative for him, both a buffer and an anchor. He planted it in the cleared dirt in front of him. It grew best in full sun, but the partial shade of the spot wouldn’t harm it. The soil was well-drained and the time of year suited planting. Assuming that the Tree would allow the seedling in its space. Vervain was a magical amplifier and could potentially aid it, but Mark would move the plant if needed.

He pulled out an incense stick, pressed it into the dirt, and lit it. The smoke would help his voice bridge the distance physically and spiritually.

Preparations complete, Mark hesitated. His breathing sped up despite knowing he needed to be calm and breath in a pattern. Panic built inside him, mixing with the grief and trauma that drove him here.

“Are we doing the right thing?” Mark whispered into the night air.

Daniel settled next to Mark, his gaze on the Tree, though whether that was for Mark’s propriety or a deeper contemplation, the apprentice couldn’t tell.

“I think we need to act. This is the action that made most sense. Trust in yourself, Mark.”

Easier said than done, but the sentiment held true. Mark needed to be steady to hold against the presence of the Tree.

Breathing deeply, Mark drew air down into his belly, mixing with the incense smoke. He held it, letting the power and intention of the smoke, the tincture, and his markings blend within his body. His cells glowed with magic, drawing from the stored power of the herbs and from his own well.

Then he breathed out, sending his soul out of his body with his breath.

Mark spun his self tightly, winding that ephemeral body into a thread and slipping it into the seedling. He moved through its stem and dripped out of the roots into the ground. The soil cradled him, dark and surrounding like a womb. Or a tomb. Death and birth wove between the roots of this great Tree now.

He felt himself get drawn up by the Tree, sucked into its roots and into its spirit. A cacophony of images and memories bombarded him.

The sun warmed his leaves, feeding him strength. The wind brushed over his bark. A squirrel scrambled up his trunk, creating a nest of dead leaves in the crook of a branch. It gathered berries. Rain fell. Leaves turned brilliant red. The heavy water drops knocked the dying leaves to the ground. They decayed, nourishing his roots while he slept.

The sun returned, strong and warm. It soothed him. New leaves budded, delicately unfurling. So soft and fragile in that first growth. Cycles settled upon him. The squirrel returned. It wasn’t alone. The creatures mated, creating baby squirrels in a new nest. They left and returned. His leaves stretched like stiff muscles. His core grew another ring thicker.

Time passed. The squirrel died, its corpse feeding the roots even as the old leaves did. All living things grew and struggled and then finally died, returning to the earth. The earth should welcome them into its bosom. The earth did not judge. It welcomed all equally, purging away all the pains of life into a peaceful decay. From those corpses, new life sprang forth.

A smell of smoke drew him from the endless cycle. Cool air touched skin, not bark. He breathed rather than drawing in the air through his leaves. Markings itched on that skin, burning like mint. He hadn’t used mint. It must be the magics pulling him back, reminding him he had a body of his own.

He wasn’t a tree. He was a shaman.

Shaman? What was a shaman? What did it meant to him, this wisp of thought and spirit, to be a shaman?

A shaman was one who spoke to the spirits for his people.

Who were his people?

His pack. His friends. The helpless and the innocent. Himself. And, currently, Daniel.

He wasn’t Daniel’s shaman. He was, however, a shaman and Daniel’s friend. He carried a request for the ghost, so that words might be understood without words, intention without thought. Prayer. They were so tired of being lost. So tired of being helpless and afraid. So tired of bad dreams. So tired.

The fatigue in his thoughts sank all the way to Mark’s bones. He had bones. He had a name. He was Mark. He was speaking with the Tree on behalf of Daniel.

And what did he want? What was the request?

Enough power to be able to live in peace.

What will you give me for it?