Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 64: It should have been green

Change of POV chapter
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From a very young age, Gidden had learned to respect the forest.

The forest is sentient, you see, a wise older captain of the guard had told him once when he'd been green and inexperienced, ready to take on the world by the horns.

The forest, it merely tolerates us, he'd said. It could just as easily swallow them whole, reclaiming the land, and devouring the pockets of civilisation that people had so painstakingly built. The earth would pull back the well-trod roads, moss would creep up huts, trees would tangle like spiked teeth, and not even empires would remain, their grandness swallowed by creeping ivy and thorns.

Nature had been here before them, and it would remain long after. Best make your peace with it, boy, the old captain had told him. The mushrooms always prevail.

Still, Gidden had never been afraid. Not truly. There was a sense of ease in knowing how inevitable it was. The forest was a constant reminder of his eventual mortality. An unending cycle of life and death, right before his eyes. It was brutal and cruel, and it was life.

He preferred it. Took comfort in the simplicity of the forest, in the rules he knew to follow like they were carved into his bones. Respect the forest, he knew, and it would be kind to him in turn. Respect the forest, and it would allow him to return home at the end of the day.

Now, as he stalked through the dusky foothills, up to his knees in snow, he knew those rules had irrevocably changed.

It should have been green. It was springtime and flowers ought to have been poking shyly from the slowly melting grounds, covering the lush, sloping green hills in bursts of colour. The air ought to have been redolent with pollen, the wind rippling through long grass like crashing waves. Bears ought to have been waking from their slumber, toddling drunkenly from their caves. Birds ought to have been building nests for their hatchlings. The death of winter should have been receding, letting go.

It should have been green.

He touched a palm to the gnarled bark of a pine, scorched with dark magic. He could feel the residual acrid demonic energy seeping through his skin, twisting in his guts like worms.

There was no respect for the sacred magic of the woods. Even the forest had been bowed by the darkness suffocating them. That, Gidden knew, was the beginning of the end.

He didn't bother lighting a torch, following the scent of woodsmoke. It didn't take long for him to spot golden firelight seeping through the skinny branches.

In the clearing, Ronan sat by a fire, tending to a small pipkin. He'd set up a tent and two mats, a couple of maps laid out on a makeshift table.

He looked up when he saw Gidden, tilting his chin at the letter gripped in his hand. "What's it say?"

"The chamber has voted. Tomorrow they start preparations for sending the troops." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Father wants me back home."

Ronan nodded, mouth pressed into a line. No one was surprised, they knew it was expected.

"You'll leave then, no?"

Gidden dropped beside the fire, tipping his head back. Once, there would have been stars in the sky. Now, there were only ever dense snow clouds.