Short Stories

Prompt #16

The tree from which all life flows is built upon the bones of the dead. In another time they wandered freely through both worlds, swimming and dancing in cool water...

A rowan tree stood atop a silent hill, even the wind daren't sway the tree, for fear its roots would give way. All around the hill the air was empty and silent. Nobody came within the sacred giant at its centre apart from its guardian. To those who had lived here long enough the tree was cursed, an unnatural creation. They remembered what had happened and they despised the wooden structure even if it did provide them with a new life. The survivors of the Forest War knew them, the bones buried underneath the tree were friends of theirs. Sacrificed to end the war.

The post-war survivors saw the world in its new vibrant colour alike everyone else, but in certain areas the sky may fade to grey, invasive memories from the past replacing the reality in front of them. The fishermen by the river, doing their duty to provide food for their families. As they fished they sang songs of long ago as they revisited the past, the boats full of the dead flowing down the river, the blazing battleground drying the small river so that it was no more than a few puddles stretched along the minor valley in the land. Living in a world of colour with grey blind spots.

Children ran amongst the stream in the summer, their parents allowing them to enjoy the coolness of the running liquid that dazzled onlookers under the roaring sun. It was a joyous day for the young, to be free to splash and play without a hint of worry. Ignorance is bliss was the saying. Their parents watched them run around as they did when they were younger, they would remember their parents and older siblings as the world faded to grey in front of them, only to be freed by the high pitched squeals of the children. They would never forget what this new life was made of.

Each night around the campfires, families would sing and dance, honour the fallen and pray to the forest god for protection. Every night was full of hints of happiness and forced smiles and grins, false confident belief in the future as they saw the shadows of what it was built on flicker and dance amongst the flames. Their guilt would condemn them to join their loved ones in the darkness, to dance in the fire instead of around it. To force the happiness and not the smile. Who decided that they would be the ones to sacrifice, who had chosen those bones as a life source. Nobody dared to ask the question, it was all too taboo to ask about the great tree to others, only if you were a war veteran, old and memory fading away as your soul dimmed each day.

In this world they knew it was kill or be killed, the truth was harsh, but reality was not fair. Plagued by memories of the past, all the older generation could hope for was for their haunted life to be desensitised and turned into legend, so as to not pass on the trauma to their beloved children.

The one who felt the most guilt was the guardian himself. He alone was entitled to that position, he was the last one who had agreed to the sacrifice. Now left alone, drowning in survivors guilt, the guardian stood protecting the tree that he and his brothers and sisters had created with their lives. The tree needed watching, to protect it from others, people still holding a grudge against the days of old. It also needed watching to prevent the darkness seeping out. It didn't happen very frequently, but sometimes during hard times the darkness would leak from the tree hoping to capture the mind of the vulnerable and cause the War all over again.

The guardian was best suited to this job through his immortality, a consequence of his actions. Whether it was a blessing or a curse to live out his days forever was a hard choice. Sometimes he was relieved he could stay and watch over his fallen comrades forever, other times he wished he had just fallen with them, instead of suffering with the memories that he did.

But the people of the forest were not the only survivors of the war. A kingdom that thrived on the other side of the forest was also a guilty survivor. It's buildings and stone pathways stained by the invisible blood of their own soldiers and loved ones. The current king was a young prince once, a ignorant and obedient soldier to his father and his people. His famous victories in battle carried the reputation of the kingdom to newer positions and to a booming economy. But the young prince was now an older and weary man, scarred by the events he had witnessed with his own eyes. Haunted by the blood on his hands and the countless innocent lives he had taken over that day. People were reckless and at first his vengeance for his father fuelled an unquenchable fury inside of him, one he now understood was a violent and terrible. He had slaughtered thousands, included children - even the screaming and petrified children.

His people admired him and remained faithful due to his victorious feats, but nobody knew the guilt he felt for the pile of bodies his throne sat upon, the pile of bones that his life was nurtured by, the pile of souls he tossed carelessly aside. Survivors guilt. He could remember when the two kingdoms had been allies, had been at peace and helped each other advance amongst society and the world as a whole. Now the isolation of his kingdom only emphasised how his terror had tore apart the tranquility of the land.

The only thing he could do was prevent entry into the forest, to protect the tree hidden and protected deep within it. The forest people had sacrificed their own kind to prevent the war and had summoned darkness that was unmatched by any other evil. He knew that the only thing he could do was never set a foot inside the forest again, or sacrifice his kingdom to the depths of purgatory.