The mountains had always called to him; a herald of snow and ice, a beckoning of the chill instead of flames, instead of embers, instead of the glow of infernos. But he’d forgotten the forest had once appealed to him too – caught and tethered him in its mist, in its fog, in its labyrinthine design, so much so that even now he could hear the wild wails of the sea crashing into its knoll, into its cliffs, and he wondered just where on earth he was supposed to be, if all these elements wrapped themselves around his shell. There was war, there was savagery, there was might and derision within his chest too, breaths of ardent insurrection and cold-blooded nonchalance, the taste of fury, the paradigms of lost, embittered, rancorous hope, and the stark determination of a beast who roared and howled, who defeated and fell, who endured, persevered, then forgot the beatific details of triumph.
The thicket was dense, even amidst the crisp sunlight, and he could see traces and outlines of branches, brambles, and thorns in the thickened shadows; a place he might’ve hovered in the midst of impending battle, where he could hide and ambush an adversary, where he could dive from sturdy boughs and plunge his knife, his sword, his cutlass, into their flesh, wreak havoc and let loose infernal war cries. His eyes took in the slightest breeze, raised his head to the air as if he could sniff out those traversing nearby; a fruitless cause, before wandering further down the trodden path. If he were more aware of the sights and sounds of this glen, he would’ve meandered completely off the lane; but this was a scouting mission. Instead of forging on ahead and constructing a home, ensuring he had some shelter, he dove headfirst, heedless and reckless, into the unknown – embracing those siren wails scorching his ears, drumming away in his senses. It went against his more meticulous actions, the calculating ethers, the Machiavellian ruses; but wove back into their counterparts, because if he didn’t understand or comprehend the grounds he now trod upon, then he had no chance of gaining an upper hand, of understanding the world he’d been thrust within.
The old kingdom was easy; rampage, ravage, pillage, and plunder, take what one wanted, feast on the weak, the downtrodden, and leave nothing behind. He’d learned – he’d succeeded and then failed, tripped and stumbled and fell straight into the void, into the abyss, and now there was only the murky dawn catching him in its path. The cretin was silent and still for a few moments, stealing the sounds unfurling around him – morning songbirds, the scattering of animals, and when his hand reached out to vegetation, the withering, dying fronds curling and coiling back into his palm. He watched them flicker apart, turn crisp and disheveled along his skin, then closed over their decaying threshold; letting the disintegrated edges descend to the forest floor. It appeared other things had followed him from the great beyond, and he was death again, the Reaper begun anew, an insignificant scythe sent to slaughter once more.
