For all his life, for all he knew and desired, reason was optional. Too often the option was to abandon it. He denied what was offered to him, and in turn the world left its stubborn child. Further and further away, he would stare at its back, with both scorn and impatience. The blurred line between his defiance of The Storm that stripped away his right to exist, and his desire to make himself known despite it, was more rigid and defined then at first glance. It was a crack that divided those two realms and with his narrow vision made it impossible for him to ever comfortably exist in either. He would force it shut with that strength that occupied a chamber in his being. Occasionally, something would ricochet off the walls here, and resonate in his body. His journey had dragged him far and taken much from him. Of all the things he lost, this resounding presence was the only thing that ushered a clear response.
Each aftershock loosening the chains in his mind, warping those once pliant memories into stone walls his ragged body could much less consider approaching, let alone break through. His scars were silent as the sound echoed, slowly creating a rhythm. It was awkward and hard to follow, keeping in its own measure with no end. It spoke a language he could not yet understand, but he knew it was beckoning him as it rattled his frigid bones. Step by step, his feet joined the ensemble, accompanied by an uncontrollable bobbing of the head. A distinct heaving completed this symphony, creeping in quietly and filling the yet unidentified void in the piece with its timbre. This feeling wasn't joy...and yet... Bones aching, breath heavy, and skin damaged. He was sure these were the throes of death, and succumbing was not an option. This malevolent rhythm that dragged his unwilling limbs through the cold ground, despite how his body ached and cried in pain, had endeared itself to him.
It was persistent, and eventually successful in pulling him into its pace. How he hated it, it was the one thing in this prison The White could not erase. But there was nothing to pull him away from it. The Storm would only crush him, and everything else was being held down by The White. However he accepted this, at the very least, it was his rhythm.
He almost dropped dead the moment the thought came into his mind. His rhythm. The words echoed. His rhythm, he repeated to The Storm. HIS RHYTHM! It could not be mastered or controlled, it hid away from the world, immune to The White and ignored The Storm, and it was his rhythm. He trusted nothing and served nothing, but this rhythm moved his limbs like a marionette. He felt a warmth over take him. His pace slowed, his pain now fading.
He had lost his control, his memory and now his fear. His eyelids dropped with the weight of a meteor, wiping out all else in existence. The White no longer existed, and The Storm's wails quieted to a murmur. His rhythm had reached such a speed he could no longer make out any of its erratic tones. His scars hushed, eyes shut, and breath held. He opened his eyes, unsure of what to expect. He began...
The moment light peered into his eyes, they burned with a passion he could not endure. Flames filled his vision, an array of blues, reds, yellows and greens reeled through this new world in a torrid hybrid of light. Other sparks joined this festival before his eyes, each drifting to a place it felt comfortable. They would burn in their desired spots until taking on forms that no silhouette could ever imitate. Things he had never known, massive blue holes that rippled from the slightest provocation, Green giants touching the now violet sky, lined with shades of brown that seemed to hide below all these new things. He was wrong about The Pack, their eyes would not have been able to handle this level of color.
He instinctively lapped at his face feeling a wetness he hadn't known dampen his face. His vision didn't blur this time, it rippled like the waves of wind that traveled this new land, the drops leaking faster now. He still couldn't walk forward, and he immediately knew why. He still needed to know his fate, without a doubt. With dread, he used the only strength he had remaining to look behind himself
He knew without a doubt, he had truly died. The world followed his gaze, as if he was staring into a reflection of the world in front of him. The only sign he had even traveled were the small droplets of red that stained the field up to where he now stood. For the first time he was able to see the color of the scars that carried him so far. He was surprised to find small green bulbs engraved in the small patches in his fur, now covered by a layer of hardened skin. He knew without a doubt the nameless pup haunted by The Storm had finally died with no ceremony or sympathy, alone in that world of white. Leaping forward, he celebrated his birth as The Wolf.
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...
