White plumes trail a head, bent forwards in determination. The struggle against the ever-deepening snow is punctuated by wheezing breaths. The air bites at his face, red and raw as the wind caresses its tender mercies on what little skin is not bundled under leather and furs. The promise of relief looms ahead beneath the shade of thick pine boughs, heavily loaded with snow. Flurries dance between sun and shadow as he finds a trunk to rest against, his legs burning with effort. Silence reigns in the dark forest, sounds of wind and creak of pine muffled by the deep snow, smothered into submission by winter's grip. The only sound that comes to his ears is the crack of his knees as he squats with his back towards the sap-covered trunk, the rasp of his breath, and the quick march of his heart.
The Black Forest, full of mythos and wonder. Darkness and horror. He has traveled far in his many years, seen many a wonder, and shared memories both wonderful and worrisome. This forest has seen all that and more. Old Growth some would call it, that would be too light of a description for a place as timeless as this. This place was far more ancient than a man could easily put into words. The first step he took in this place, he could feel the weight of the ages on him. Somewhere in him, he knew he could walk for lifetimes through this forest and never see the end of the depths of mysteries here.
Getting to his feet with a small grunt, he re-slung his well-worn travel bag across his shoulders and continued to thread his way between the dark trunks. Shafts of sunlight glancing off the snowy shoulders of the pines, cascading light dances through his eyes, just one more illusion of this forest.
His quarry lies in a clearing not far from the forest’s edge. A granite strewn break in the thick trees, boulders covered in lichen and dusted with the trees’ detritus. He knows why he keeps coming here, although he detests doing so. It is always the same, though the names and faces change. But if he truly had to answer why he keeps making this journey, he had no true reason. At best he would call it an urge, an itch he can’t quite scratch, a bone-deep call to be a bit more than the day before. He could ignore that internal voice urging him to do the next thing. He has ignored it before, sometimes for longer than he intended. For so long in fact that he had forgotten what the voice sounded like at all. Those times pass in a blur, an empty gray blur of nothingness. Stagnant times, a sterilization of his mind and soul. Nothing grows in dead soil; for all intents and purposes, he was dead at those times. Only when he has had a nice long marinate in his fallacies does he notice that small whisper on the wind. That oh, so familiar voice, like the laughter of a good friend. He realizes how foolish he has been, and that voice chides him, gently but with purpose. “Look at you,” it says, “Look at what you’ve let yourself become. Are you happy now? Now that you’ve gone your way in your foolish stubbornness. “I know what’s best for myself “you’ve said. Have you gotten what you wished for now, hmm?
His foolishness has bitten him in the ass more times than he cares to admit. Yet he would never choose to discard those memories. His mistakes and the hard times he has gone through due to his choices. Dancing on the edge of Chaos and Order, overcoming his inadequacies, nothing has ever been greater for his journey than that. Hard times create hard men, hard men create soft times, soft times create soft men, and soft men create hard times.
Deep thoughts carried him ever deeper into the forest on his pilgrimage, a change in the light heralded his arrival at the clearing. Light filters overhead through snow-laden boughs. Lazy spirals of snowflakes drift on a silent breeze, illuminated in brilliant radiance as they dance through shafts of green-tinged sunlight. One such shaft falls cleanly upon a prone figure, resting as if in deep sleep against the time-worn granite boulder. A shock of dark hair covers their face, dirt ladened pants hide the thinness of the legs beneath.
As he approaches the small form, he sees the slight rise and fall of breathing. Still alive, he thinks, At least there’s some chance. As the man’s shadow falls over the figure, there is a slight hitch to the rhythmic breathing. A whisper leaks out of dry and cracked lips, “I’ve…been…waiting for you…”. The man hesitates, momentarily stunned. When is the last time he heard another voice? When is the last time he heard his own voice? He could recall plenty of insidious whispers in his head, but those never crossed the threshold of his lips. Lost to his musings, the figure, a young boy no more than 12 seasons grins lopsidedly at him. Green eyes, bright still in a thin and haggard face, dance with amusement at his hesitance.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
He leans down over the boy, pulling from somewhere deep in his travel bag, and pulls out a mug. Seemingly hand-carved horn from some beast. It’s bound in copper that has long ago lost its luster, like everything else in this place, it seems timeless. Reaching over he props the boy up and brings the mug to the boy’s lips. Water, cold and clear, runs down the boy’s chin as he slurps desperately at the contents. “ Not... too much.” he says, in a voice thin and raspy with disuse. Pulling the mug back, the man’s gaze takes in the boy, thin and scrawny, has yet to grow into himself. He was just in the phase between childhood and adulthood that makes one so awkward with their own body. His dark hair and green eyes blend well into the surrounding forest. Making him seem at home here lying against the cold stone. There is still a glimmer in his eyes of familiar amusement as their eyes met. As if this was just another everyday happenstance for this boy.
Mug still in hand, the man stares into its now steaming depths. He sips at it, as a strong herbal scent fills his lungs. Clearing his throat, the man looks back into the deep green of the boy’s eyes and growls out “Who, are you?”
The boy grins, his teeth were shockingly white against the dirty face. “I suppose it has been a while since we last spoke. Still, I had hoped you’d remember me.” His voice was surprisingly strong for one that looked as deathly as he. The man’s eyes rove over the boy again. Taking in his features as a whole, not just focusing on the sorry state of his body. Now that he looked for it, there was a certain familiarity he found in the boy. The feeling of a half-recalled memory, just beyond the edges of his mind.
“Ah, I can see it in your face that you have some inkling of who I am. Perhaps today will be different.”
“Speak plainly, I do not have the patience for riddles.” A little heat crept into the man’s voice.
“Unfortunately, a riddle is all that I am, a mystery for you to solve. Else whys there would be no point to us speaking as such. To meet under such auspicious circumstances, in a place not known for its hospitality, in its throes of winter’s delicate touch.” The boy’s eyes glimmer with mirth, as the man glares back at him. After a moment the man stands up from his crouch in front of the boy, turns his back, and starts to walk away.
The boys’ laughter rings out through the clearing, softened by the surrounding forest and snow. “Oh, don’t be like that! I couldn’t help myself with how serious your face was. When’s the last time you’ve even spoken to anyone, eh? You’re rusty on even taking a little ribbing from a friend.”
“Friend!” the man spits out as he whirls to face the boy. “You’ve only mocked me in the few moments we’ve met, have yet to even give me your name, and you call me friend! You think with a body as broken as yours you would be a bit more grateful to the one who comes along to help you!” He finishes his tirade as he looms over the boy. The boy has withdrawn his smile back into a smirk but looks far from chagrined. “It feels good, doesn’t it? To be able to shout and rage, to be able to feel again.”
The man’s body freezes. When is the last time he had felt anything aside from weariness? That numb, gnawing feeling that’s ever-present on the edges of his soul. Just to speak aloud was a rarity to him, but to be able to rage at another person, was unique in a way that seemed to release all the pent-up emotion that had never had an outlet. His breath grew ragged and desperate as he the cold air steamed around him. A rolling tide of primal emotion seemed to swell from the depths of his body, he shudders as it makes its way up to his throat, his body clenches as he fights to hold down this feeling. Forcing it back to where it came and strangling it completely.
The boys’ grin fades from his face as he sees this play out. In its place, a deep wariness overcomes him. His entire body seems to grow less substantial, a little less life than the moment before. The moment passes and the man comes back to himself. With a final exhale of white breathe, he takes stock of his surroundings before finally settling his eyes back on the sorry shape crumpled in front of him. The mans’ face wrinkles with distaste for a moment, weather that was for the boy or with himself, he couldn’t say.
With deft moments he reaches out to scoop up the boy with a thick blanket he pulled out of his bag, turns him until the boy is situated securely oh his back, and ties the blanket securely around his own chest. The boy only releases a muffled groan once through the shuffle. “Thank you” the boy wheezes out between clenched teeth.
“Mmmhmm” replies the man as he turns back the way he came, heading from the frosted jade glow of the clearing to the smothered twilight that was the forest. The boys’ breath came in soggy gasps right next to the mans’ right ear, no fog formed when the boy exhaled. He picked up the quickness of his pace, stepping back into his trail of packed snow.