The world continued encroaching upon him. He was careful in his steps, easily able to sort out his options; which route to take, what food, however little remaining, to eat and how much of his depleting strength to use in his strides. He perished the thought of a world without The White. What kept him moving despite his frigid bones was the warmth of The White, modest and eternal.
The White sought to cover all, but unlike The Storm with no motive or direction, The White merely erased the unnecessary and the ugly. Where The Storm destroyed and littered the ground with those that could not keep up its pace, The White generously covered its destruction, leaving a safe path for him to travel. His discerning eye painted a path, bold and black, straight ahead of him as infinite as The White itself. With this deeply grooved path, The White was now not just below and above him, but surrounding him, ensuring he could not slip off. It couldn't happen to him, not in the world where The White was his ally.
This approach is what has kept him alive, finding the road only his eyes, deterred by light, could find within the veil cast by The White. But even then, splotches of grey would drip upon these walls, creating warped and murky figures as they trickled slowly to the bottom.
These figures appeared many times, each approaching with empathetic charisma. They all reached out to him with a volume that opposed the now faint echo of foreign voices. With arms outstretched, they promised comfort, being sure to watch the road ahead of him carefully and warn him of oncoming danger. They would offer guidance and protection, taking lengthy glances at the surrounding walls with fretful eyes. The White had used their energy against them, burning it away like firewood, forcing them into this state of desperation. These were the ones who dared not turn their back on The Storm, more aware than even he of its monolithic influence.
Truly, he had no idea what they looked like and barely noticed them when they first appeared. Their transparency made them easy to ignore. Even if he didn't recognize them, he knew when he felt this pain he was on the right path. In his most private moments; still, silent and sojourn, those moments he could feel the fingers of The Storm reach under him trying to silently lift him from his sleep, he would feel nothing. They were much too scared to reveal themselves to him when he was in this state, not against the sepulchral aura leaking from his mangled form, not against the advances of The Storm, and not without the blinding white that covered their prints.
They struck from the shadows, desiring to be known more than anything, but unwilling to be irradiated by the light. How comfortable it was in those shadows, one of the few spaces to escape The White. This lie comforted them, as they knew as long as he willed it and The Storm raged on, there was no true place that could escape from The White. They would soon learn keeping up with his pace was a chore no act of altruism could justify. They were naturally weak and dependent, and when one would eventually wear itself and abandon him, it atrophied. It's once complicated shape wasting away to outlines, until eventually collapsing behind him. It wouldn't be long before another would prey upon him with the same outstretched arm. The process was so mechanical, dropping in and out with such frequency and routine, they felt more like one hideous and persistent phantom than a horde.
He would find a particular wound on his back ached every time they were near without fail.Perhaps in one encounter their branches tugged at this spot, or just as probable, with time they slowly wore down his already ragged body until the wound appeared. Perhaps the wound was already there and it was simply irritated by their presence. But as he carried his legs through the covered path, these thoughts faded with The White, the cries of these figures joining the chorus of whistle and wind. In those moments of weakness he had almost let slip his conscious and succumbed to The Storm. The Storm that was desperate to embrace him, The Storm that pilfered moments from him, The Storm preying at his soul. He would only be allowed so many mistakes.
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...
