The Wood

The Hunter's Demise

The man walked slowly, stumbling occasionally as he limped down the path. The wood was quiet, the only sound the man's footsteps. He carried two packs, one on each shoulder, and in his arms he held a boy. The boys clothing was torn and bloodied, his skin pale and white. The man seemed to be shaking, his shoulders shuddering, his arms shivering, every breath deep and labored. Only the tears sliding down his blood-stained cheeks betrayed that these were not symptoms of exhaustion, but of sadness. He had been walking for three days, tending to the boys wounds and keeping the two of them warm. But each day, the boy's breath grew shallower, his body colder, his heartbeat slower. And the man knew the boy was doomed. But he couldn't accept the fact that the boy was going to die, so he kept on, spending time and energy on the dying boy. And once the boy did die, the man wept, holding the body in his arms, whispering a single word. They had stopped at an old abandoned monastery, the sturdy walls covered in moss. In the middle of the courtyard, a small grove of white roses. He saw them and felt a sudden great rage fill him. He raised his sword and slashed down, slicing the first flower into a shower of petals. He began to hack at the flowers, his breath ragged, tears streaming down his face. The sword went up and down, up and down, until not a single flower lay unravaged. White petals were strewn across the ground, the dirt marred by his blade. He sank to his knees, dropping his weapon, and held his face in his hands, sobbing. Slowly, he lapsed into silence. He dug a small grave in the courtyard with his hands, slowly, while singing a slow, sad song to himself. Once he finished, he shakily stood, staggering over to the body of the boy. He carefully lifted him up, carried him over, and slowly lowered him into the earthen cradle. He placed a stone atop the grave, to serve as a marker, and then searched around until he found a rose that wasn't too badly damaged. He packed dirt around its roots, then stroked one of the petals, the small motion full of sadness, and longing. He began to speak, only saying a few short sentences before lapsing back into silence. He stay, staring at the rose for a long time. Finally, the man looked down at the blade in his hands, the sword stained red with the blood of his old friends and neighbors, dirt sprayed across the blade of the sword and a single rose petal stuck to the cold steel. He looked to sky and then the man plunged the sword into his stomach as tear drew lines down his dirt face. His last word was the only word he had been uttering the past few days.

"Why?"