Self. The blank slate of his mind enveloped the field before him, endless, barren,and cold. A place where time was irrelevant. In this world, all that mattered was one's sense of self, as progress could not be plucked and decided by foreign hands. Those moist fingers would freeze over, petrified in place as a painful reminder: this was not a journey for refuge, but a war of attrition. The scars he carried were the only reminder he needed. Like everything else, the cold quickly froze over these wounds. If they were allowed to bleed....such thoughts faded in this wasteland.
His memories were faint, but his sores pulled them to the surface. History would play before him in those brief periods the wind was calm, memories of The Pack. Often scattered, each of them part of the whole's survival. The moment conditions worsened, they would join together, gaining strength through this ritual of connection. What happened when one couldn't achieve this strength was unknown. All that was understood was that on one's own, you were powerless. The Pack feared this more than anything else. Because of this fear, there was only a single truth to be accepted; The Pack lives for the sake of The Pack. But he was unorthodox.
The energy flowing through his body only grew stronger in his isolation. His stubbornness was one where rather than fight against the likelihood of death, he simply deemed it impossible and his body agreed. He didn't know what to call it then, this strength, and he didn't understand why he wasn't like them. All he knew was that to be forgotten and covered in white, with little more than some twigs and stone to mark where your body fell, was something that couldn't describe him, it simply wouldn't.
This would be his only tie to The Pack. He wasn't like them. Whether a disability or a gift, he assuredly wasn't like them. Their eyes accepted every ray of light. that vision allowed them to see so many colors and hues in the infinite sky, despite this incredible vision, or perhaps because of it, their eyes were completely blind to The Storm.
It drew everything into its faceless center, all ensnared in its powerful gale. The Storm and all its desire was no stranger to these lands. Simply existing, its presence seemed as fundamental as the feeling of hunger or pain. He wasn't able to see it then, amidst the chaos before his eyes. To see those infinitesimal moments of humility in The Storm's onslaught. But he could see them now, and what he saw in those moments between the winds rape of the land was The Pack dancing in the all-encompassing frost. They took pleasure in it as if it were a quilt. Had there been memories before The Pack's debauchery, where they were a unit unfazed by The Storm he was unsure. But even then, as The Storm raged on it was clear he wasn't like them.
For The Pack, the pressure of The Storm was an assurance of strength. They blindly accepted Its invitation, celebrating their own perdition as salvation. Within its icy tomb, to exist was to indulge in the grace of foreign appraisal. Bodies of all shapes and sizes pressed against each other in ecstasy, sucking the essence from each other like parasites. Fearing being prey if they separated, they remained in these beatific piles like totems to appease their unseen benefactor.
He ran, only able to see black and white before him. He thought it was rain when it finally happened. One by one, each body crashed around him. Back then as far as he could perceive a heartbeat would deafen them, but now they were much louder. It was inevitable, as The Pack expanded into The Storm, it could not support its own weight.
The Pack lives for the sake of The Pack. The motto appeared with these terrible visions in his mind as the sounds of impact grew louder. The Pack lives for the sake of The Pack. One of them fell in front of him, halting his movement with the impact. The Pack lives for the sake of The Pack, but... That was enough. Before him, The image of The Pack, scattered and all it's useless limbs that could no longer live. Begging for relief from these memories, his vision began to wane, now blurring. He felt a soothing feeling wrap itself around him as the vision became too murky to decipher. His eyes shot opened, everything erased once more. That wind, those sounds, these scars...The Storm very much alive. Shaken, but grateful, he took this last remaining memory to enforce his future. The Pack lives for the sake of The Pack...and dies for the sake of The Storm.
YOU ARE READING
The Wolf and The Rose
Short Story"A warrior no one remembered, who survived a war no one knew." In this introspective tale we see a lost soul set on a path very few have endured, and fewer have come out retaining their sanity. With nothing but his own will supporting him, will he b...
