The Fatalist [JUDGE]

The Fatalist [JUDGE]

Birch Posts: 37

Windtossed Foothills Warrior

Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 84 Months

Adoptable

08-24-2012, 06:20 PM (This post was last modified: 10-15-2012, 09:05 PM by Birch.)

Birch is wild but never free- the burden he bears is present in each heavy step he takes further from the forest. Where wood splintered, a dark and thick blood flowed. It stained the white coat red with the death of an arborun. Its base had shattered- the roots that sprouted from its trunk and then sank into flesh frayed outwards and created an image of dilapidation. What is left of a comrade now lies still upon the earth. Grass has grown over the body- vines have swirled over it and mushrooms have sprouted from open wounds. In respectful silence, Birch stood over the body of his father. He had shed no tears and betrayed no emotion; such weakness had never been the way of his family. He walks further from the scene now not because he cannot bear to see it any longer, but because there is nothing left to see. His father is dead- to honor a hollow corpse will bring him nothing with pain. And so, his father of the same name grows into the land once again.

He leaves the memory in the forests of his home. He leaves the pain behind and comes instead to this new land of deserts, snow, and oceans. The vast forest that stretches across its center is dead. The animals here have no voice, the plants no vitality. He is a strong representation of life in contrast to these weakened trees that have wilted in a too-long sumer. He stands still among other trees and sticks out in the shadows. The birch built upon his forelegs and withers rises high above many other plants here; the rippling roots that rest just beneath the skin of his legs seem to be the healthiest in this forest. Even the peeling bark around his ergots, the flakes of white that reveal the red of the blood and seemingly wooden flesh beneath, is healthier than that of many trees in the area.

If he were one to ever feel, he would miss home. Standing as he is in this shadowed wood, he is aware of the fact that he has left his homeland far behind, and left questioning only if he cares. He feels no attachment to the glens of his youth. Oh, his youth- how long ago that was. He feels so much older now- to witness the death of one's parent is to age one's mind several years. What was once strong, wise, and old, is now gone. One is expected to take their place. Whether they like it or not, they will someday. Unless, that is, they run.

He has run, run far and fast from the quickly fading recollection of his father's herd and family and his responsibility to keep them safe. Were his father alive, Birch knows he would be ashamed. He knows he should hate himself for his cowardice, regret his decision each day. And yet, he stands stolidly in an unfamiliar wood after months of travelling. It is too late now to turn back; for that he is almost glad.

He wouldn't ever want to anyway.

img © Odalaigh

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