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 Posted: Wed Dec 18, 2013 11:26 pm
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This was different.
He looked up at the crag before him. It was not a very tall crag — only a couple hundred feet high — but it was a change of scenery, an unexpected one. He had gotten far too accustomed to the forest, a sea of trees that went on forever. He had always been meandering his way through these trees, idly. He did not notice them anymore, their sturdy, thick, rough trunks, or the web of branches they formed above him. It had become a common, unremarkable thing. Now, when he came to this rock formation, it looked foreign. He knew what it was, but he had not seen a cliff, mountain, or anything but those tall, staunch pines in what felt like a lifetime. He stood there for a long time, just observing the jagged rocks, the loose gravel, and sharp lines of the cliffs before him. A gentle breeze came, and he blinked, snapping out of his trance-like state. He looked up now, up at the top of the crag. What was at the top, he wondered, the end of his tail flicking with the thought. Even if nothing were there, the view would be beautiful, no? He could see the expanse of trees he had been wandering through for days, see how far it extended. Either way, it would be a new perspective, a refreshing view, something other than the monotony of his days.
The climb was easier than he thought it would be. His steps were not as cautious as he imagined. He had not climbed anything in a long time. That was a lie; he climbed an innumerable amount of trees. However, climbing trees was much different than climbing rocks. There was more to consider, such as all the precarious, notorious loose rocks and slippery gravel, which loved to give way under the weight of careless climbers. He thought he would encounter much more of these dangers, but his feet found no loose rocks that he could not handle. He swiftly, elegantly scaled the sides, his feet gliding from one foothold to another. It was effortless, and that came as a mild surprise. He had learned to walk quietly, but he never imagined that his silent steps would translate to cliff climbing. He felt almost like a snow leopard, though he knew he could only dream of that grace. He had seen a snow leopard once in his life, and just sat there, watching it on the mountain. It climbed so softly, quietly, swiftly, and yet so deliberately. He marveled at the beast, and he rarely marveled at anything any more. But now he was climbing like one, swiftly, quietly, gracefully. Something tickled his heart then, something almost familiar. Was it pride? Hell if he knew. He did not know emotions anymore, at least, nothing beyond ambivalence, solemnness, anguish, and the agonizing mix of all these emotions that translated into nothingness. He did not feel anything anymore. That was also a lie. He felt something... these enigmatic emotions that seemed to be hidden, blanketed, lurking beneath the surface of this shroud of numbness. Either that, or they had just become commonplace, in such a way that he did not notice them anymore, much like the pine trees that he had lost himself in for the longest time. And now, when this new emotion came along, he was struck by it, almost dumbfounded, just like when he came across this crag. He simply stood there, unsure what to think. This emotion... pride... was the same.
He reached the top of the crag much sooner than he had expected; he could thank his swift climbing for that. He was further surprised that he was not tired. He thought that scaling the cliff face would exhaust him, since it was something his muscles were not used to. He did not know what to think anymore, but that was no longer important. He quickly dismissed the thought as he gazed out at the land. He had not been in such a high place in what felt like... never. He could not remember the last time he had climbed, or the last time he sat on a vantage point and looked out at the scenery before him. At the same time, he remembered so much. He remembered all of his past, all of which felt more like a dream. No... It felt like a high, that brief, beautiful part of his past. He leapt off into the skies, flying, as the wind had caught him and swept him up with it. He was laughing and singing, flying from today into tomorrow and beyond. Flying so fast, and enjoying every moment of it. It was beautiful, but as beautiful as it was, it was also brief. His wings did not slowly fail him. He knew he was flying in a storm, but he was ignorant and chose to ignore it. It was a grave mistake. He was struck by lightning and quickly crashed, spiraling down, but did not hit the ground. He fell into a maelstrom, which dragged him under, pulling him further and further away from the surface, mercilessly, and he was powerless to stop it. His high was over. And he did not know the drug he took which started it.
He sighed then, eyes and mind coming back into focus as he stifled his memories and drowned them as they had drowned him. Now he saw the landscape again, the endless expanse of green that stretched as far as his eyes could see, off into the edge of the world. He found himself wondering how far he had walked, and better yet, where on earth had he started. What started this endless amble? Why this endless amble? He was not accomplishing anything, or bettering his life in any way shape or form. He knew that there was much he could do to better his quality of life, but he was no longer concerned with life, rather, quite the contrary. He thought about death, brooded over it, and one could go as far as to say this miserably lost Elder obsessed over it. It has occupied his thoughts ever since the day she... he dismissed the thought. Even so, he often found himself wondering about it. Actually, he only wondered one thing.
When would it come?
'Do not follow me, Tristan...'
He remembered her haunting words, the last words she ever spoke to him. He would meet her again some day, he knew that, even she knew that, but he knew all too well what she meant. Had she not said that, he would not have been so keen on staying in this forsaken, empty place. He had no friends, he had no family. He had no purpose, he had no reason. He only stayed because of those five, miserable words. That mere sentence cursed him; she cursed him. Why did she do this? He knew there was something off about her behavior, something more sinister lurking behind her beautiful, emerald eyes. But he could not see past them, he was too ignorant to look. He should have searched, he could have searched. But he chose not to, and that was his grave mistake. That mistake, the rock that gave way beneath his careless weight, the one that let him fall. He had fallen so far, and he was too tired and broken to rise back to his feet. And now? He was eroded, decayed, useless. Still, he remained true to his word, and could only wait for the end to greet him, rather he go meet the end himself. Her wish, his honor... that was all he had left. Her curse, his word.
He looked up at the sky, smiling inwardly. "I hope to see you soon..." |
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Posted: Wed Dec 18, 2013 11:28 pm
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The white Elder stood on the plateau at the top of the crag, looking out over the land spread out before her...simply looking.
What was she doing up here? Nothing in specific: she had been on a path, and this was simply where that trail had taken her, and at the edge of the plateau was where the trail had ended. And with nothing better to do—no family to care for, no tribe to lead, despite her Elder body—here she stood, looking out over the land. There was something quite distinctly odd—and perhaps even somewhat wrong—about being this high up, her taller than the trees, instead of the other way around.
The trees, which stretched and spread away for miles and miles...miles and miles below her feet. She hadn’t even realized how high she was getting while she was climbing up here; it was only now that she could tell. She wished that she still didn’t know: the height was beginning to terrify her.
Slowly, she crept back from the edge, and started to turn around, to return the way she had come. Why? Because she had nothing better to do; nothing else to do.
She was neither settled nor a nomad, adult nor Elder. Instead she stood in that twilight area of between places, both and neither simultaneously. While her paws had taken her to this place, it was not somewhere she wanted to stay. She had yet to find any place like that, where she would finally stop roving, and settle.
From time to time, she would find somewhere promising, even perhaps someone promising, and spend some time there, with that person...but nothing ever came of it. If alone, she would eventually find the area not to her liking for one reason or another: not enough prey, too open, too closed in, too isolated, too near others, the litany of flaws went on and on, never ceasing. When it ceased, only then would she settle.
And as for others...she had met a few foxes in her time, but none she could call so much as friends, let alone lovers. It was rare for her to find and approach another fox, rarer still for her to take interest in them. Impossible for them to return the interest in her, it seemed. She would try her best to start and maintain a relationship, of any kind—friends, lovers, or even mere acquaintances—yet shortly enough, everything would fall through. She and the other fox would simply drift apart (although they had never truly been together in the first place), and she would move on, both metaphorically and literally. It was these times that prompted the longest and furthest wanderings of her feet: she felt the need to move on, move away, put literal distance between her and the other.
As if that could help, somehow.
She still held on to the delusion, at least. It was better that way, easier; easier than to face the truth, to ask the hard question, of why, why she could never so much as make, let alone keep, something as simple as a friend. Friends were something everyone had, she was given to understand—everyone but her.
So of course the reason, the flaw, the fault: they all must be hers. Easier, then, to continue to live like this, the way she had always known, rather than to ask the question of “why,” and face the hard truth.
Easier, then, to live in ignorance, rather than to face the truth.
Perhaps the same could be said of her wandering from place to place—easier to simply accept that she had yet to find somewhere to stay, somewhere that appealed to her—rather than to ask the question of why there was nowhere on Earth that held any appeal for her at all.
Or perhaps it was because she was lonely, wherever she went: if she made a friend, an actual friend, rather than something less than even an acquaintance, would she settle then?
She thought so. That was the easier answer, the safer answer, at the least: much easier to accept that answer, than to ask yet another hard question of herself, of her life.
Freya spared one last glance for the forest spread out below her (seemingly less intimidating now, perhaps because what was inside of her was far more intimidating than mere heights and distances could ever be), before finally turning, to begin to follow the path back to where she had been. Although her current settlement within the forest was hardly appealing enough for her to want to call it home, “there” was still better than “here”—“there” was always better than “here,” it seemed, when it came to Freya’s life.
But she stopped, mid-stride, when she heard the voice of another, practically right beside her. Partly, she was pleased that she (mostly) refrained from jumping in shock, partly she was incredulous that he could have snuck up on her without her even noticing. Had he been that quiet? Or had she been too lost in the depths of her own mind to pay any attention to anything that did not immediately concern her?
Another question not to be answered, if Freya could help it.
Instead, she turned her focus to the male. Black, with small bits of white and grey...and an Elder. A fellow Elder. Yet she could see no marks on him that designated tribal affiliation...unless that mark on his tail ring was the tribe’s tattoo?
She was about to ask him to whom, and which tribe, did these lands belong, when she realized what it was that he had said. ‘I hope to see you soon.’ Of course he couldn’t be speaking to her, but...there were no others around either, not that Freya could see. So then...
“Excuse me,” she ventured, eschewing the usual polite questions and introductions—forward for her, “but to whom are you talking?”
Another glance around the plateau, down the trail which she had taken, and even down the rocky unstable sides of the crag, and yet she could not see any other foxes. Not even the least hint that another had ever been here, besides them two.
And come to think of it, that wasn’t the sort of thing you said to another person who was around, either...the more she thought about this other Elder, and his one simple statement, the more questions it raised, the more mysteries it created. Surely though, somewhere, there must be an answer which would explain all. Or all about what he had said, at least—Freya held out no hope for answers about herself, nor any desire for them.
She liked her easy life, her simple life. Would she be happier once she had found somewhere to stay, someone to stay with, somewhere to settle? Perhaps. But before that could happen, there would have to be suffering, she was sure. Her answers could not be without pain, of that she was certain. At least there was no pain to be had here, in finding out the answers of this other Elder.
Surely, the flaws all lay with her; surely, all others were innocent of them. |
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Posted: Wed Dec 18, 2013 11:32 pm
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Tristan blinked, looking over his shoulder at... another Elder? His eyes followed her pristine white form as she came to his side, scanning the area around the both of them while he continued scanning her. He found no evidence of any tribal affiliation, and for a moment, he was relieved, having been reassured that he had not carelessly strayed into another tribe's territory. However, that relief passed as quickly as it came, for he found that he would now have to answer her question, explain that he was not talking to anyone, really, anyone present, at least. He waited a few moments before finally sighing, gaze falling to his paws, chuckling lightly. He almost felt embarrassed — embarrassment was an emotion just as foreign to him as pride. "No one you would know, miss," he replied. "You would think I am crazy if I told you... but I guess Elders talking to their invisible friends is not too unorthodox?" Elders tended to talk to the Higher Beings who graced them with their elevated status, no? He certainly had not spoken to he who had raised him to Elderhood in what felt like a lifetime. It was as if his God had long since abandoned him, disgusted with his failure. Tristan had failed his God by allowing his tribe to fall, yet the God had not stripped him of his Elder status. It was something that Tristan had contemplated for a long time. Perhaps the 'Deity had forgotten, or maybe he felt that Tristan had something left to offer the world. Both seemed very unlikely. The most plausible explanation was that the 'Deity knew Tristan would be constantly reminded of his failure if he remained as an Elder. That, and he would have to explain to all that he encountered why he was an Elder without a tribe.
He looked out once again, gazing at the vast expanse of trees. Tristan was not one to talk much, but he felt compelled to speak to this Elder. He had not spoken to another Elder in a very long time, and this particular Elder interested him. He curious as to why this Elder did not have an affiliation to a tribe, if her story may be similar to his own. He briefly indulged in the idea that he may not be alone, that he was not the sole Elder who had failed his tribe. It was very unlikely; there were plenty Elders out there who had never led a tribe yet who still attained the elevated status. Nonetheless, he could not be the only failure, could he? The thought frightened him, guilt and regret wrapping around his throat. These were not unfamiliar emotions, and he quickly put them to rest, swallowing them. He flicked his tail as he did so, blinking. He detested them. They could not leave him alone for a mere social interaction. He always had to keep them in check, so they did not make themselves known in the presence of others. That would be more he would have to explain, more he would have to talk, more he would have to feel.
He detested feeling. He had grown very adept at stifling feelings all together, repressing them, not feeling them at all. He avoided the storms now, finding more comfort in a quiet apathy than trying to make sense of the truculent plethora emotions which boiled beneath. He would not be able to live through the storm which lurked deep within. It would debilitate him. He would no longer be able to function, not even to perform basic tasks necessary for survival, not eat, drink, or sleep, not that he did much of any of those. He found that repressing those feelings instead served him much more than allowing himself to feel. He wondered, however, how much he could get away with repressing, just how much he could possibly stifle, before they all broke free and took him by force. He knew he could not keep this up forever, but he did not know what else to do. It was his only defense, and he had come to terms with the fact that he would eventually exhaust this defense, more likely sooner than later. He knew he had to find another way to deal with all his demons, but, in order to do so, he would have to face those demons, which is exactly what he was trying to avoid. It was a vicious cycle. For now, he could continue his unhealthy tendencies to repress. No one needed to know just how bad it had gotten, how miserable he truly was. Not even this Elder beside him.
Tristan returned his focus to the white Elder, tearing his eyes away from the horizon to look at her. "What is your story?" he asked. He did not bother to ask if she was tribeless or not; it was an educated guess. If he was wrong, he assumed that she would tell him. She would probably mention a tribe, if there is or ever was one in her life. If not, it made her all the more interesting. Any conversation in which he was not the main focus was an interesting conversation to the Elder. He detested thinking about himself, talking about himself, explaining himself. He detested telling his story, reliving every wretched moment leading to his failure and after, how he carelessly ignored the warnings, how he let her slip away, how he let his tribe collapse, how he could never bring himself to forgive himself for everything that had to be his fault. He detested the pain which it stirred. So much pain. Searing agony, ravenous, insatiable, tearing at what little he still was, ripping him apart, bringing him to the ground, eating him alive, torturing but never ultimately killing. He detested his failures, his victories, his defining moments which carried no weight now. He detested his decisions, his life — or lack thereof—, everything that he had become.
Tristan simply detested himself. |
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Posted: Wed Dec 18, 2013 11:34 pm
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‘You would think I am crazy if I told you... but I guess Elders talking to their invisible friends is not too unorthodox?’
“No, I suppose not,” she haltingly replied. Elders—other Elders, proper Elders—often communed with their patron Deities, did they not? So Freya was led to believe, although she had no experience for herself. Never had she heard the voice of one, for all that she had often prayed to any and every Deity, back at the beginning, back when she had been raised to her current position, without having done a thing to have earned it.
Others spent years of their lives devoted to faith, dedicating themselves to serving a particular Deity, finding a place for themselves, gathering myriads of others to their cause. She had no great faith, even after having been raised, she had no land for an absent patron, nor was she any great evangelist. Others—she assumed—could speak words of great passion, and persuade others to their faith. As for herself, she could hardly persuade another to be a friend, let alone to leave everything behind and follow her.
Other Elders had a passion, a purpose, or failing all of those, a direction. All these were things which Freya lacked. Freya simply was.
‘What is your story?’ the other asked, pulling Freya out of her thoughts, and back to the present.
“My...story?” Freya repeated tentatively. “I’m, I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” The last word trailed off, so that its ending was barely audible, as Freya ducked her head, and busied herself with tracing patterns on the rock with a forepaw.
“I don’t really have one,” she replied with a little raising of her right shoulder, something almost, but not quite, able to be deemed a shrug. Unhelpful, she mentally castigated herself. She was being unhelpful.
But what was there to say? That one day she had been an ordinary kit, the next an adult, and after that, an Elder, with no effort on her part at all? She hadn’t earned this honor which had been bestowed upon her. Perhaps there had been some mistake, perhaps there had been some confusion, perhaps some other, more worthy fox, was supposed to have been raised, but Freya was given the approbation instead.
“And what about you?” she asked, the words coming out in a nervous rush: an attempt to deflect attention away from herself and her shortcomings and her failure and her unwilling deception. “What’s your story?”
Surely he had one, surely he was more...interesting? self-assured? of a real Elder? than her. Surely he was simply more than her. That marking on his tail ring had to be the mark of his tribe, she had decided. Surely he must be a real Elder, a proper Elder. Nothing like her, or what she was: a normal fox who wore an Elder’s body like a sham, one which she was unwillingly complicit in, one which she was unable to stop or escape. Surely she was the only one whose form was a mask, hiding what lay beneath—the same couldn’t possibly hold true for him, or any other fox in the world, besides her.
She let herself get lost in her own fantasies, of what his tribe was like, what it believed, the deities it followed. Fantasies of what it would be like to be surrounded by scores and scores of other foxes—a concept foreign to Freya in her solitude—and to be a leader to them—a concept completely alien to everything that Freya was. She was no leader, not even of her own life, let alone of the lives of others. Merely keeping herself alive was already responsibility enough; the simple task of keeping herself happy—or even contented—was already more than she could handle. To be responsible for others, even if only for their survival, would be too much, and as for their well-being or happiness? That was simply beyond anything she could ever manage.
Sometimes, as now, she wondered what the Deities had been thinking when they had raised her to be an Elder. She felt no closer to the Deities now than she had felt back in that short and peaceful time when she had still been a normal adult. She did not even know who her special patron was, who she ought to blame (or perversely, thank) for her current Elder status . She did not know the intentions of this patron, what plans they had for her, why they had turned their attention to her, or what had caused them to raise her. There was nothing special about her; the only things special was what that patron had wrought, turning her into a tribeless Elder. A living mockery of the natural order.
Truth be told, she was a little intimidated by the stranger. He must have a tribe, and responsibilities, and must therefore be infinitely more capable than her.
She waited in quiet anticipation of hearing his story, of how he had come to found his tribe, how he had gathered his members, and rose to become an Elder in the proper way—she longed to hear of his success. It wasn’t something she could ever achieve for herself, but she still took a pleasure in it, that there were other Elders in the world, who had come into their status the right way, for the right reasons: for their ability to lead others. She was no leader, not even of her own life. She simply drifted from person to person and place to place, no anchor to hold her to anywhere, to anyone, though she dreamed of finding such an anchor every day. . Just around the next corner, just over the next hill... The anchor had to be nearby. One day soon she would reach it. With no effort at all, she would finally find it, and through attachment, finally find freedom.
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Posted: Wed Dec 18, 2013 11:38 pm
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Curiosity briefly flashed in the dark Elder's light eyes as this other Elder's voice faltered. 'What does she not understand?' he asked himself as her voice trailed off. His gaze followed hers as her eyes fell to the ground, and he watched as she absently ran her paw over the surface of the stone. He assumed the action was absent, at least, for he knew, at that moment, her mind was submerged by a cascade of thought. Perhaps he had breached a wall in her mind, inadvertently knocking that one loose stone out of place, and now she had to compose herself and all those thoughts antagonized by his simple question, organize them, and build that wall anew. He knew the feeling all too well, well enough that this observation made him feel guilty. He did not wish to cause this other Elder any discomfort; he had not intended to do so when he had originally proposed that question. For a very long time, he had been devoid of interaction with others. He began to wonder if that prolonged period of solitude had caused him to grow unmindful of the feelings of others. Three simple words could agitate what others preferred to leave forgotten, or, at the very least, at the back of their minds. He roused those thoughts in this Elder, and he found himself wishing he had not done so. Maybe he should have left her to initiate the conversation, so she could direct it. Perhaps she would stir his own thoughts and agitate his demons, but Tristan could endure, for her sake. It was not as though he had locked those demons in his own little box; they wreaked havoc incessantly. He did not know how to properly manage them; rather, he had simply grown jaded. These beasts were characters far too common in his life, and now they seemed to be all he truly knew.
His jaw tightened just enough to avoid detection, a pained smile tugging at the ends of his lips. "I'm sorry, miss..." he apologized, his voice soft, gentle, sincere.
She then did redirect his question, and now, despite having wished she had done so before he had, he found himself at a loss of words. Unlike her and her claim to not really have a story, he did not know how to tell her his. There was too much to explain, and, at the same time, there was too much without explanation. He did not know where to begin, as he did not know where to end, or if there even was an end. Now it was his turn to turn his gaze away from the other in favor of a more comforting view. Even after all this time, he could not look at others when he told them what he had done, though he could not claim to have told many. What made this Elder so special that he found himself willing —however reluctant that willingness may have been, it was willingness nonetheless— to confide in her? Perhaps it was due to how tired he was. Lord, he was tired, and his Lord did not care.
He was a husk of a being, only traipsing through the lands on grounds of some honor he desperately clung to in order to attempt to repent for all that he had done.
His lips parted, but it took a few more lengthy moments for words to form, finally filling the heavy silence.
—And I'm being called away right meow, so I'mma finish this post tomorrow. 'Rea. Don't read. None of you read. This is a rough rough draft. Look away. It's horrid.—
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