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Sunlight streamed through the thinly clad trees of the forest, the toll of Orangemoon certainly taking hold upon the flora of the area. Yet the air was surprisingly warm for this time of year, the wind balmy against my naked neck and oddly spiced—a freak accident. The birds weren’t around to enjoy it, having flown south with an internal, primordial design to find the hottest, dependable days; the creatures of fur and meat were undoubtedly huddled up in some cave, fat and healthy, brooding over the coming winter months. Had I a cave to dwell within, I would’ve joined their ranks and slept away the bitter cold. One could only wish.
Fear is a different poison upon reflection; regret is a different beast with age. I knew not which one was wreaking its havoc upon the marrow of my bones, the crooked joint of my horn—but it was working rather valiantly. The invigorating wind did nothing to bite through the chill of my soul, my heart. Time did not move for me—rather my wounds festered, skin rotted away to reveal the puckered, infected flesh underneath. With every step forward I rubbed this laceration raw—some masochist part of my inner nature may have enjoyed this self-inflicted torture, and had I not been nauseous with the aforementioned poison I probably would have focused on that morbid observation with greater detail.
I do not hide the fact of my flight, for fled I did. Was I a coward for running away from the honor of my dear mother and the strength and dignity of my awesome brothers under the mere selfish, instinctual avoidance of death? Or was I a hero for defying the monster that lived within Mandrake—I do not deny that something within her mutated into a monster somewhere within her twisted wiles—and aiming to eke a living away from such insane nonsense, an honest man living amongst honest fellows, possibly taking an honest mate and having honest affairs? Whatever the grand scheme working itself into my head was irrelevant, because the outcome was the same regardless. For life away from my demented family was not a life; it held no color for me, no variety, no passion or drive. I was a fish washed up upon the beach, thinking I could fly on wings that weren’t there—I was nothing without Mandrake and my brothers. It was a useless endeavor to escape from their influence.
Perhaps the bastard mother had designed that kind of forthcoming from the start?
So here I was on this freak of a warm day, treading through the threshold of some forgotten island from which the murmurings of legends carried upon the wind. Legends of my brothers; notoriety of Mandrake. The trail of blood they left was vivid red upon the cobblestone path, and it was no problem of mine to follow it.
It was time to face my fate. I did not seek redemption, forgiveness, the antidote or any other sort of heroic endeavor. I only wanted life—for running away from death is the adverse of any intent of a living creature. We drive to it headlong, adrenaline pumping, believing ourselves to be invincible. Then we grow old and wary of our time to leave, imparting wisdom into the younger generation. And death comes to us, and we leave with them, old friends who happened to miss each other for the past decades.
That, or I would be met with a gruesome, drawn out, torture-filled end. Come what may. I welcomed an end.
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