03-08-2020, 01:09 PM
It makes no difference, that he’s been gone, does it?
Druid is no memorable being, not a creature celebrated for existing, nor mourned for his absence. He simply IS, that’s all he’s ever been. Isn’t that enough?
The trees, now, they can’t really say that he’s been missing, ever mindful of his haunts- wooded landscapes drenched in sap and leaf riddled sediment. No, the forest does not notice him gone, because he had never left it. Druid was always there, lost in the menagerie of veridian, seeking comfort and familiarity against the rust, rigid bark. Liver stained chestnut, disappearing into the timbers, an eternity spent searching for purpose- at least it felt infinite.
Cold clings to his lips, breath finding its way into the chilled air- puffs of smoke and fog, hanging, clinging like white sheets. Even his whiskers beg to evaporate, turn to ice, thin things- they would break. Break like he never did, not even in his most trying of years, though he has been close, a time or two. Surely he isn’t the only one.
(She has died how many lifetimes over? Again and again, a loop without a start or finish. Time waits for none. Was she even real? Sometimes he wonders if he is real too.)
It could have been yesterday, walking this same path, smelling these same smells, tasting this same bitter Winter. Perhaps it was.
druid
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