Adrian returned to his hut just before dawn, the last shadows of night still draped over the forest canopy. He had spent the hours patrolling in his true form—hooves sinking softly into moss, mane damp with mist, fireflies swirling like sentinels. By four, he had slipped back to the hut, whispered his prayer, and burned a strand of hair. The smoke curled around him, shrinking him, reshaping him, pressing him back into his human form.
He had dozed a little, but never deeply. His body didn't require long hours of sleep the way humans did. Sometimes he slept standing, leaning on three legs in Kabalan form, eyes half-closed in drifting awareness. When he needed true rest, he lay fully on the ground, flank pressed against the earth, his human torso curled as if protecting his heart. Tonight had been one of those rare nights: an hour stretched flat on the mat, the ache of centuries in his bones eased for just a while.
The rooster crowed at five-thirty. Adrian rose, hair loose around his shoulders, and tied it into a bun. He washed his face with water drawn from a clay jar, boiled black coffee over the coals, and peeled two boiled saba bananas. He ate slowly, drinking nearly half a jug of water as he did. His thirst was constant, unquenchable—an echo of the horse half of his body, which could never survive without rivers of it.
By six, he stepped outside.
The village was waking. Smoke rose from kitchens, dogs barked, and the faint clang of tricycles echoed on the dirt road.
"Adrian!" a voice called. A woman in her fifties waved, her grandson beside her holding a notebook. "Pakitulungan naman itong apo ko. Biology project nila—may dissecting ng palaka." ("Please help my grandson. They have a biology project—frog dissection.")
Adrian smiled, kneeling beside the boy on the bamboo table. "Alright, let's see. Careful with the scalpel, ha? You don't cut too deep here—just enough to open the cavity." He guided the boy's trembling hand until the frog was laid open neatly. The child's face lit up, pride replacing nervousness.
"Salamat po, kuya Adrian!" ("Thank you, kuya Adrian!") The boy packed up his materials and ran off, just as the bell at the church tolled seven.
Another call came as Adrian walked back. "Hijo, baka isang timba lang ng tubig. Mahirap na ang likod ko." ("Son, maybe just one pail of water. My back hurts.")
He carried the bucket easily, setting it by the old woman's door. She beamed, patting his arm. "Yun binatang gwapo na, mabait pa." ("That young man is not only handsome, but also kind.")
Adrian chuckled softly. "Weekend po, Nanay. I'll come back then for the bigger things."
By seven-thirty, he was already striding briskly back to his hut. He swapped his sweat-damp shirt for a clean one, slung his satchel across his back, and headed down the highway. By eight, he was at the research station—punctual, professional, never questioned.
The station wasn't large, but it was steady in purpose: long tables cluttered with microscopes, herbariums stacked in glass cabinets, the scent of pressed leaves and alcohol preservatives clinging to the air. To his colleagues, Adrian was a botanist of rare skill, with an instinct for plant life that bordered on uncanny.
This morning, he catalogued specimens: a wild orchid brought in by a farmer, a bundle of fever-leaf he himself had harvested, a fern said to cure stomach aches. His notes were precise, sketches meticulous. No one knew that his knowledge was more than science—it was blood, heritage, memory older than any textbook.
By noon, he sat beneath a mango tree outside, his lunch neatly wrapped in banana leaves. He ate rice and dried fish, savoring the salt against the plainness of the grain. Alongside it, he chewed on slices of green mango sprinkled with salt and chili.
When no one watched, he plucked a few guava leaves from the branch above him and chewed them slowly. The taste was bitter, astringent, but it soothed something deeper in him—the part of him that still craved grass, leaves, tender shoots.
His colleagues teased him often for eating "like a farmer," always with simple meals, heavy on greens, rarely touching pork or beef. He smiled and shrugged, never explaining. Meat sat heavy in his stomach; too much of it made him ill. Fruits, fish, roots, and leaves were his true diet, a balance between man and beast.
He finished with another jug of water, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief. Horses needed rivers; Kabalan blood demanded constant hydration. To his peers, it was just another quirk of the quiet man from Panganiban.
The afternoon passed in a haze of reports, soil analysis, and field notes. By five, Adrian was tired—not with the sluggish exhaustion of men who sat too long at desks, but with the simmering energy of one restraining himself. He longed for the forest, for the stretch of hooves on earth, the weight of a mane down his back.
By six, he walked home, nodding politely to villagers but not lingering. They knew he kept to himself at night. The hut awaited him, silent and bare.
He lit a fire, pulled a strand of hair from his bun, and whispered his prayer.
The smoke rose, curling like serpents. His skin shivered, his muscles expanded, hooves striking the earthen floor. His chest broadened, his height towering, his hair cascading loose. His lungs filled with the scent of moss and moonlight.
Lakan exhaled.
The clearing glowed with fireflies, their lights flickering like candles. His court awaited.
Bayani stepped forward first, mane short and sharp. He bowed. "Lakan."
Luntian followed, calm and wise. "The balance waits."
Pilat, scar deep across his cheek, lowered himself silently.
They gave their reports. The duwende were angry, farmers had plowed too near their mounds. The diwata murmured of thin rivers, offerings forgotten. A kapre had moved closer to the fields.
Lakan listened, voice deep as earth. "Appease the duwende with food and rice wine. Remind the villagers of their promises to the diwata. Watch the kapre, but do not provoke him. He waits, always."
Then Bayani's voice sharpened. "And the woman?"
Lakan's chest ached. "She does not remember."
"She was yours once," Bayani pressed. "Why wait? Why let her slip away again?"
Lakan's voice thundered. "Because memory must be her choice. If Bathala wills it, she will recall. If not—" He stopped, the weight of the words dragging at him. "Then it is not for me to take."
Silence fell. His men bowed lower, chastened but loyal.
Later, when the court dispersed, Lakan lingered beneath the narra tree. He closed his eyes, locking his legs in the equine stance of rest. For twenty minutes he dozed, half-aware, half-adrift, the forest breathing with him. Then, when the clearing was quiet, he lay fully down, flank pressed to the earth, his human torso curling into the grass.
An hour. No more.
It was enough.
By dawn, he returned to the hut, burned another strand of hair, and shrank back into Adrian—the gwapo, mabait young man the villagers greeted each morning.
The cycle repeated.
The forest remembered.
And so, one day, would she.