Freya sat near the campfire, her fingers lingering on her thighs as her gaze fell into the burning sticks. The orange flickers of fire ate at the cracked darkened wood. The sparks were dying out, as the fire was having less to burn. Freya turned to the pile of dry branches beside her. With an absent mind, her fingers caressed each one, and she sensed that a few were still alive, if slowly dying out. With a flick of power, she eased what remained of the plant’s life to come to an end. No sense in making it suffer. The piece of wood tightened and stiffened, becoming a deeper brown as flecks of bark fell on the ground.

The elf took the branches and tossed them into the flames.

A shuffling sound beside her. “Something wrong?”

Her master spoke with that same soft concern that tainted his expression whenever he looked at her. A look of empathy and shared pain, as if he could read her thoughts and feel them himself. Sometimes it felt like he truly could read her.

It was a look Freya was not used to seeing on a human. Less so to be aimed her way. There was a strange comforting unease about that. The sensation of another piercing the barriers and seeing what lay within…

Freya glanced at Tomas, her Master. The word was thought but not spoken.

Master.

“It is nothing.” She shook her head, attempting to reassure the young man. “I will stand guard. Rest well.”

Freya knew Tomas was aware she wasn’t telling him everything. It was the source of that concern, a look of a person wishing to know but not daring to pry. Was it perhaps fear of what he’d find? Or that the mere act of asking might hurt her further?

The elf looked upon the young human as he gave her a trusting nod and laid down to rest. Her thoughts pondered upon the feelings that welled within her chest. The emotions were warm, reminiscent of times past, flowing fresh through her like wellspring water.

Emotions she thought long gone and dry.

The bond, she knew. Some of these feelings intensified by that core aspect of every pokegirl she’d thought to fully rid herself of. And yet now, as she felt like arid land taking in its first rain of the season, she wondered.

Perhaps it wasn’t the bond but her that had hoped for this freshness to her heart.

Her eyes returned to the flickering flames, and she thought of summer, wheat, and a younger self.

Of a self once named Bran.

She had been an Elf, that much she knew as her consciousness came to be. There were very few things she knew for a fact, and one was that she was an Elf. Her first memories were of a void surrounding her, so deep it felt as much a part of her as it felt like it was a part of her surroundings.

Nameless, she floated in emptiness. Staying there was not much of a task, to merely exist was all she knew, so the elf had merely accepted the void and waited. For what? She didn’t know, perhaps for things that weren’t void, but her mind felt unable to grasp what those things could be.

The wait would not take long.

Or perhaps, the Elf was just unable to tell if time had passed at all.

The world around her exploded into existence; the void turned into light and heat.

The first thing the Elf saw was the golden fields, the first thing she felt the sun against her skin and the soft breeze and the ground under her naked feet. The world was no longer void. Her eyes turned to take in the soft earth between her toes before she looked upon herself, seeing the nakedness of her body before her eyes turned back towards the sea of gold.

It stretched as far as the eye could see, gold draping the land where blue hung from above. The Elf took it in with a sense of the coldness of the void, only feeling a steering of awe deep within the confines of her gut. The concepts her mind attempted to grasp were fickle- the void swallowed them, leaving her unable to do much other than stand, and stare, and take it all in.

The second thing the Elf felt was a hand touching her shoulder. Another flicker within the void prompted her to turn to look upon the first face she ever remembered seeing.

The woman’s short hair flowed in the breeze; her ears seemed similar to Elf’s, pointy and sharp. How did Elf know she had pointy ears? She didn’t know, her own hand reached to touch her own head, finding them exactly as the void had told her. What else did the void tell her?

“Are you my owner?” Elf spoke, taking care to look upon the face more closely.

“No.” The tall woman stood firm, reaching out to take the elf’s hand. “Let us go, Bran.”

“Bran?”

“Your new name.”

Even if the void within her greedily clung to the word, the now Elf named Bran felt that being named was important, important enough that, perhaps, one should do something other than blankly nod and take it in. Bran did not know how to react to receiving a name when she’d had none.

“Yes,” Bran said in confirmation.

The woman’s steps moved through the golden fields, her eyes hardening ever so slightly as she walked, eyes distant on a target Bran could not see. “You will help with these, when we get to the farm.” Her hand gestured at the plants all around them.

“Yes,” Bran said, feeling the warmth, the plants singing to the sun and the breeze and the soil.

“Do not worry,” the not-owner said, fingers squeezing Bran’s hand. “I will teach you.”

“Yes.”

“Bran!” The voice sharply rang across the fields like a clap of thunder. Any who heard it flinched for they knew that tone and had learnt to fear it. But none flinched quite as hard as the recipient of the name herself.

Her hands were muddied, moving the soil near the roots so she could sing to the plants. But she was being called. Slowly, the elf stood, her head barely managing to peek above the wheat.

The origin of the call was none other than Guiselle. Bran could only hide the grimace by lowering her head. She’d been spotted, so she knew she could not delay very much. Her steps began taking her towards the farm proper.

As all good workers, she made sure not to disturb the crops, keeping her footfall to the soft soil instead. It also kept the plants happier, stepping on them always left them hurting and aching. Healing them would always take more effort later too.

Guiselle was no patient woman however; her short green hair waved with the soft breeze as her sharp eyes kept on the younger and less experienced elf. The woman’s foot tapped away against the soil. “Are your tasks ready for the day?”

“No, ma’am.” Bran was quick to confirm upon reaching the taller Elf, speaking honestly and directly. “I still had a fifth left.”

“I will give it to Stem, then.” The woman raised her voice. “Did you hear that, Stem?”

“Yes ma’am!” A voice rang far afield, the source hidden by the fields of wheat.

With a nod, Guiselle returned her focus on the Elf before her, the gesture of her head signalling she wished to be followed. “Come, I have a task for you.”

Bran could only hang her head slightly at this to hide her expression. New tasks were always hard, and Bran grimaced slightly at the thought of what it might be. She’d heard of Root and her new tasks helping with the reaping, and Bran had heard the tears all the way from her shack.

The whipping that had followed as well.

Bran really hoped it wasn’t reaping.

The Master’s house came into view as they approached. It was painted light green, only two floors in height. The windows were large and made of glass; wood was the sole other material that it was made out of. It was a fragile structure, and it had burned down once, but Guiselle and the workers had helped sing trees to make a new one.

It might be smaller than the houses of other Masters, Bran knew, but the house was alive as many smaller trees had made up its foundation and outer walls. The only reason the Master did not wish for a larger house was because he did not like having many pokegirls inside the house other than Guiselle and the twins.

At least Bran was sure it was because of that, though Stem had said it was because the Master was poorer too. The concept always felt alien to Bran- what else was there to want for other than a dry bed, full bellies, the singing golden fields, and the weekly tamings?

A sound drew Bran’s attention as it broke her of her thoughts- it was a new sound. A wailing sound.

The sound became stronger when the front door opened harshly, paint and bark splintering under the force. One of the twins stomped her way out, glaring, her figure drenched in sweat and her expression an angry scowl. “Quickly, we can’t wait any longer.”

Guiselle hurried her steps, and so did Bran.

The Twin gave Bran a deeper glare but said nothing. The Elf followed behind her mentor and did not say anything in turn. Gaining the Twins’ attention was always a dangerous game that was best avoided entirely.

There, in the small living room was the other Twin, a bundle of cloth wrapped between her arms that she held close against her chest. She frowned as she looked at Bran. “Clean her, I can’t have her naked and dirty in the house.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Guiselle declared, tugging Bran along towards the bathroom.

The Elf had caught the scent of freshness. She wasn’t sure why it was fresh, but it lingered in the air, along with many other new scents.

There was little time to think of the scents as she was put into the bathroom.

The water was cold; it made the elf begin shivering on the spot. She would’ve preferred if it were rain water instead, at least that wasn’t as chilly, and it didn’t smack her face the way the shower did. This definitely did not feel like it was a new task, but Bran suspected it was only a preparation for the new task, which made her wonder if she would have to harshly shower with cold water often from now on.

She really hoped she didn’t have to shower every time.

“Clothes,” Guiselle commanded as the shower came to an end, using a towel to dry the shivering elf.

Clothes.

Bran hesitated as she heard the word, glancing around until she found the pile that had been brought into the bathroom. Plain, white, and easy to get dirty. Bran already didn’t like them, because she knew that dirty clothes always needed being cleaned later.

And that might involve having to shower so she would not dirty them further.

A large white shirt, baggy and not hers, but the one she’d wear all the same. Bran was then brought back to the living room. The angrier Twin barked an order to sit on the only chair available and wait, and the Elf complied. Bran had responded quickly, sensing the eyes of the Master as he entered the room and looked upon those present.

The Elf was sure she didn’t want to anger him, so she made certain to sit more stiffly.

“Hold him. If you drop him you’re dead,” the Twin spoke with a look that appeared to wish death upon the stiff Elf already.

The bundle of cloth was placed upon Bran’s outstretched arms. The Elf felt like trembling in anxiousness, looking upon the baby and making sure to hold him closer to herself. At first this had been from the threat from the Twin and the look of the Master, but as Bran looked upon the small creature within her arms, something warm welled within her.

It took a hesitant second before she readjusted her tender careful hold upon the baby boy to something that felt more natural. The gesture immediately earned slightly more relaxed looks from those that stood inside the room.

“He is my son. Roan,” the Master spoke with that raspy cough to his words that made his breath smell of acrid smoke. “And he will be the Master one day.”

“You will help take care of him, Bran,” Guiselle stated with a hand upon the elf’s shoulder.

Bran could only nod, unable to look away from the boy.

“Young Master!” Bran called out into the fields, feeling exasperation course through her. Not for the first time within recent memory either.

There was no response, merely the warm breeze and the rustling of the wheat fields. The human had learned how to avoid Bran’s sharp ears quite some time ago. It made her goal all the harder to accomplish.

But the elf was not helpless.

“Young Master!” She called, louder, approaching the fields, using her hands to amplify the call.

The wheat was placid, bathing under the hot sun. A wave of contented bliss… for the most part. But it was not the case for all of the wheat. Some stalks were crying in pain and discomfort, their voices dissonance upon the singing field.

Bran approached them, her fingers gingerly helping them heal with but a tweak of her power. Their voices would not take long to join the song. “Young Master!” She asked a bit more exasperated now; the young human was in the fields somewhere no doubt.

Bran’s steps moved slightly faster, not wishing for the plants to be harmed in this little game. What had prompted the young Master to hide within the wheat like this? It could be dangerous if a feral had sneaked into the property and had gone unnoticed. And harming the wheat was always something everyone was told to avoid.

Not Bran. Bran was the Master’s son. None could tell the young boy what to do unless they’d been ordered to by the Master himself.

As the Elf walked into the fields, Bran noticed the trail had been far shorter than she’d thought- the young human had circled back out of the field not longer after entering it.

She’d been tricked! The human had no doubt run through to keep her distracted.

That made Bran scowl, asking the grass and the moss within the dirt, focusing on the discomfort that felt freshest and the pain that stung. Her ears sharpened for the dissonance in the song. “Young Master! It’s time for lunch!” She called, still, no sign of the young human. He shouldn’t be too far.

Her steps took her back towards the Master’s house, following the trail, paying close attention to the plants all around and underneath. And just like she’d suspected, it hadn’t taken her long to find her charge.

Bran’s steps came to a halt upon seeing the young Master frozen near the door, looking inside with stiffened shoulders.

Then came the sound of a slap, a crack against the silence of mid-day. It made Bran flinch as she heard another. And one more. A whimper followed before another crack.

The Elf lowered her voice upon the realization of what she was hearing, and what the young Master was likely seeing. “Young Master, we must not disturb-”

“Roan?” The Master’s voice rang out. He spoke as the door had opened ever so slightly by the young Master’s foolishness.

Bran remained as still she could, trying to not be seen from inside. But the young Master was right there in plain sight of those within. The young Elf’s hands clenched as she heard a chuckle.

“Come in, my boy. I was just giving Berry some discipline.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Bran heard her fellow elf whimper.

“Is it… does it hurt?” The young Master asked with a shaking voice.

“Do not worry about it, boy, it is the only way bitches like her learn. Isn’t that right, Berry?”

“Yes Master, thank you Master,” the voice spoke with a slight shake, like an autumn leaf.

Bran’s hands clenched harder, remembering when she’d broken the Master’s shovel. The memory stung her back even though it’d been healed seasons ago. The young Elf had to wonder what Berry had done.

“Here, I’ll teach you how to do it properly,” the Master spoke. “Close the door.”

Feeling powerless, and clenching her fists tightly, Bran saw the young Master give her one last look before the door clicked shut.

In the horizon, thunderclouds made themselves known.

It had been a day of reaping.

Bran’s hands still shook as she sat inside the bush. Her eyes remained distant, trying to ignore the feeling of the wailing dying plants. The screams of pain, the weeps of the field. The worst were those stalks of wheat she had helped grow herself. She’d known each of their voices. None had names, but she knew each one.

It was one thing to see the reaping, to hear the pain from a distance... and another to do it oneself. Bran was shaking as she hugged her knees, remembering the words Guiselle had told her, that the reaping was necessary, for them to have food and provide food for others. She told herself the words, that it was needed, without reaping the Masters could not live or survive from the fields.

And above all, she told herself that as bad as slaughtering crops might feel, according to Giselle, it could never compare to culling a tree.

Bran didn’t want to think of having to cut down a tree as a possible new task. The trees surrounding the Master’s lands had names, unspoken and impossible to say with the human tongue, but each of them had a name.

Reaping the wheat was already making her turn green, her gut wanting nothing more than to empty itself. Reaping a tree would likely bring her to wailing tears.

The Master was going to punish her.

She had been bad, leaving her task because she couldn’t keep going.

Looking through the bush’s foliage, Bran’s eyes saw the brown that had replaced the gold, the sky was gray. It was going to rain soon, perhaps tomorrow.

There was thunder in the distance. A storm would be soon upon them.

“Found you,” a voice called out.

The Master! Bran hadn’t heard him approach! Panic ran through her, an icy cold thrust into her heart, but not before his hand reached through the bush and pulled her out. The other hand slapped her across the face, knocking her down before she could stand up. It had been a mere slap, but the human had not held back.

His hand would likely need healing later, but it was Bran’s face that burned the most right now.

“Young Master…” Bran whimpered, hand caressing the sting in her cheek.

“We both know you need to be punished, Bran,” the young man spoke with a frown of determination and a sadness in his voice. “You have to do your tasks.” He reached out to grab her wrist, looking upon her eyes with sternness. “You only stopped for a break, nothing more. You need to return or I will have to get the Twig.”

A deep shudder ran through Bran, she nodded, lowering her head. The Twig was far worse than any slap, not even the broken shovel had gotten her the Twig. Many whispered harsh words of warning. “I’m sorry, Master, thank you, Master.”

His hand caressed her hair so softly. “Good, now go finish your task and I’m sure I can get you to sleep in the house tonight.”

Warm bed, soft sheets, a soothing meal… With some hesitation, Bran nodded. The mental image urged her onwards what the threat of further punishment might not have. She stood on shaking legs and turned towards the fields where her sisters pretended not to notice her return.

As if she’d never left.

It began to rain.

The night was cool and quiet, only the sound of the rustling fields and trees around them. The moon shone from between silver clouds. The storm had passed, but the soil was still wet, the fresh scent lingering in the air.

Bran did her best to stifle her moan as Berry’s fingers caressed her small breast, seeking the points of ticklish delight. The blonde Elf laid on the grass; in her nakedness, she remained still to allow the other’s curiosity to slowly be sated.

Their bodies were bathed under starlight, hidden from sight within a small meadow.

Their little secret hiding spot.

There was a heat within Bran that was slowly pooling in her lower belly, an enjoyment of the softness of the other Elf’s touch. The younger of the two sensually licked at the nipple, drawing a slight shudder.

The Masters were never this gentle, or patient...

“Freya?” The voice startled her awake, escaping from her memories and unto reality.

The Elf wriggled as the young man’s rough fingers were slowly tracing lines down her flanks, causing goosebumps to spread through her lightly honeyed skin.

“Hm?” She wondered, making sure not to move, drinking in the feeling as her body warmed up. With her back laying on the small mantle they’d set down on the forest floor, the Elf moaned lightly as her Master’s fingers continued downwards, teasing at her thighs.

“You looked like you were elsewhere,” he spoke with a soft breath. It wasn’t a chiding one, more akin to an unspoken question.

“Just reminiscing,” came the honest response. She slowly opened her legs and gave her Master the space to further tease her lithe body. Her eyes closed, urging herself to stay in the present rather than ruminate on the past.

“What about?”

Freya wanted to sigh, her Master could sometimes be so dense… The Elf’s fingers moved up her hips, reaching upon her breasts and gently teasing at the erect nipples while Tomas’ breath tickled at the flower between her thighs. A part of her didn’t wish to speak, to only languish in his touch, on the delicious sweetness that was grasping at the growing warmth.

“The past,” she teased as her Master’s insistence was made clear by his lips falling upon her belly button and no lower.

“Should I feel jealous?” He asked, a finger moving up her inner thigh, almost touching the heat that grew on her lower abdomen.

With a slight whimper, Freya spread her legs further for him. “It was just a memory.” Slowly, she looked downwards at the young man, her smile broadening. “But I like this one better, Tomas.”

Using his name made him fluster, his face turning a deep red as he turned to look the other way. “If… you say so.”

“I do.” Freya relaxed back into the mantle, squeezing her smallish breasts and letting out a slight gasp. “I very much enjoy this.”

“I’m sure you’ve had better.”

His words made her laugh lightly. “None better, Master,” she replied honestly, her hands moving back down the expanse of her toned body, reaching to brush her fingers against his own. She smiled, knowing he understood she was not lying.

The young man became more eager now, a serious nod followed by a kiss lower in her body. His touch was clumsy, not yet quite familiar with her body. But he was an eager student, and Freya more than willing to teach. Soon enough his tongue was tasting her petals, and it became a game of unspoken communication. Tomas would seek for her more sensitive spots, and the Elf would guide him with quivering words.

The ultimate torture, however, was that the human had enough skill to intentionally keep her from finding release, leaving her panting, moaning, and desperate. Her body was more than happy to accept his own desire, wrapping, tightening, and bringing greater pleasures upon them both.

The moans were stifled, both his and her own; the night was dark and the forest dangerous. And as much as Freya would’ve loved to be as vocal of her enjoyment as she could have, it was her own experiences that drove her to urge both of them to remain quiet.

With the explosion of liquid heat within her womb, satisfaction washed through them both.

The human, spent, moved to lay besides her. Freya was quite happy to remain close and draw upon the heat his strong body radiated. His arms pulled her tighter against his warmth.

“Thinking about the farm?” Tomas asked, breaking the usual silence as he kissed the crown of her head.

Gently, Freya turned around so she could face the young man, meeting his eyes with her own pools of green.

Sometimes, she hated feeling like this young man barely half her own age could read her like this.

Quietly, the woman leaned forward, pressing her face against the expanse of his chest. “Yes.”

“Do you miss it?” He wondered. There was that edge of concern in his voice, that little question ‘do you want to go back?’.

A young man, full of insecurities.

Freya shook her head.

“I prefer it here, with you.”

Being close to this human, she understood why it reminded her of her days in the farm, in the fields, under the sun, tending to the plants and helping them grow. The small happiness of a simpler time.

After all, her Master’s heart was warm, how could she not be reminded of summer?