He was dying.
Artillery had rended fur, flesh, bone. For all his might, for all his tricks, he was still only just one being. There was only so much he could do.
And now, Nobody knew the end was coming soon.
Those bastards.
The bear drags himself deeper into the woods. Away from the fire, away from the screeching of metal, of man. The forest was a quiet place. The forest was home. It was where all things came from, and thus it made itself a fitting place to come here to end.
Each breath rattled his bleeding body, it sent a deep ache into his bones. His body is tattered, his hat threatens to fall and cover his eyes.
"Old god," he croaks, "do the woods still walk..?" His voice is a low, pained growling. But the trees cared naught for what tongue is spoken. The trees know many. The trees know the tongue of the crafty squirrel, of the birdsong, of the clever rabbit, of the nimble deer, of the stalwart wolf.
It too knew the tongue of the dying bear.
The leaves rustle softly. There is no wind to blow them.
Nobody comes to a stop, exhaustion makes his paws — once deadly weapons — feeble and trembling. He collapses, lays there against the cool dirt. It begins to grow warm with blood.
That was alright. The woods didn't mind. The soil will soak it eagerly. The roots will take the nutrients. Their leaves will grow bright and they will grow healthy.
His ears twitch, perk up slightly at faint sounds. The leaves again rustle. Two birds, black with glinting eyes, watch him from their perch.
One would assume that the scavenging corvid would be an unnerving sight. Something waiting for you to die. But Nobody felt no such feeling. For the birds did not watch with hunger, they watched with pity.
The feeling of being watched permeated all throughout, but again Nobody did not fear this. Why fear your place of birth? Why fear where you belong?
The woods watch, because they care.
Oh, brave bear, you are falling, whisper the leaves.
"…Not much time remains for me, I'm afraid."
All things come to an end, dear cub, the trees reply, Are you satisfied with the path you walked?
The drain of color from the world that indicated his presence was blurring. Ebbing away. Drawing itself closer and closer to him.
He could see, perhaps for the first time, that his blood was red.
"Indeed they end…" he wheezes, attempting to shift himself so that he can raise his head to the trees. In the low light of night, it almost looks like the thin birch trees have eyes. "Funny," he chuckles, "I thought I would go out in glory. Yet here I am. An old beast dying in the woods. Alone."
There is hardly glory in martyrdom, an elk somewhere bugles, a sound like a distant ghost's scream, and you would be more alone in a crowded city than you would be here amongst me. There is almost amusement in that.
"Then let us hope my purpose was fulfilled," Whatever that may be. He huffs quietly, head coming to rest down on his paws and eyes scanning the dirt. His name had been stripped away long ago, replaced by a title. Replaced by a role. He used the power it granted to help others. To stand against horrid injustice and tear it apart with tooth and claw.
And yet in the end? It has claimed him.
He did not win this time.
He failed.
…
His ears droop down. A low, mourning sound rumbles forth from his throat.
You did good, whisper the woods, pushing against his doubting thoughts, it is okay to rest now.
"…It is?" he rasps past thick blood, eyes flicking upwards once more.
Of course. You fought well. You did what you could. But change is brought on by hundreds, and do not fret, for there will be change. You are not dying in vain.
It was a sort of comfort, to hear that.
Perhaps it wasn't hearing, as more as it was a feeling. The woods did not speak, such a thing would be absurd. But the trees did think, the trees did know, and the trees knew how to make others feel.
"…Who will be next, after me?" Nobody croaks. "We are a succession. One after another. I am not the first Nobody, I am not the last."
I know of the faceless. Of your ilk. the branches creak. A bird somewhere chitters.
"But do you know what comes next?"
There was silence, for a time. Careful consideration. A squirrel scampers up a tree, it pauses for a moment to stare at him, before continuing up and away into the dark. He continues to bleed onto the dirt.
The crickets click out their songs. Like the woods themselves hummed in thought. It reverberates through the leaves. A firefly lands on his snout. He has to cross his eyes to stare at it as it softly glows. An image that would perhaps be comical, if not for his bloody and beaten state. If not for his foggy eyes.
The mantle you bear is ancient. It is stained with blood and regret and hardship, the woods finally say, the firefly's wings buzz, allow something just as old to relieve you of its weight.
He blinks. A slow, tired movement. "What?"
Let me take upon the mask of the faceless. Of the unseen. With it I shall mold myself to its like. With it I shall carry on.
"…You are the Wild. You are the Woods. Do you not have more important matters to handle…?" Nobody coughs in return, ears twitching in slight apprehension.
You underestimate, little cub. I would not become any less than I am now. I would simply be gifted a way to walk amongst you. It would be an honor.
"An honor," the bear echoes quietly. He then rasps a laugh. "Then… perhaps I should bestow it to you." Nobody realizes quietly that he does not quite know how.
It grows quiet. Nobody stares into the trees. Into their depths. The gentle darkness stares back. In the night, there is a sleepy sort of stillness. Not motionless, but tired.
He was tired too. His body ached, blood still stained soil. Nobody takes in a shuttering breath.
Perhaps the way to pass the mantle is to rest.
…that sounds nice.
Let the woods walk.
The bear closes his eyes, exhales a final rattle. The firefly on his nose flickers its light once, twice; it's golden glow echoes a heartbeat. One beat, two beats, three beats.
None.
The light fades.
Despite the bloodshed, despite the pain, it is a gentle end. A peaceful one. An animal no longer taught with pain, now appears to sleep on the forest floor. Color bleeds back to the world. Its fur is a lovely, warm brown.
A gap in the world is birthed. An absence that had been taken up by a paradoxical absence.
The Universe screams its need for another Nobody.
The Woods reply.
The firefly spreads its wings.
And the Wild comes alive.
It sounds like breaking branches, snapping wood, bending grasses, rustling leaves. The howling of animals, answering a call. A wolf raises its head to the moon. Something fills the Nothing, and becomes that very Nothing. The Woods allow itself to embrace the emptiness. To let it use that emptiness as a mold. A mask. A puppet. A vessel.
The creaks of the branches soon sound like the crunching of bones. Compress, compress, compress. Bring in. Build. Create. Birth.
The Woods pour all that it is into the empty space. A shifting, squirming thing. Vines around branches become sinew against bone. Rocks and pebbles become teeth, become nails. Two shinier stones soon wet themselves with life so that that the Woods may see. Legs, arms, fingers. Mud and dirt and clay becomes organs and flesh and skin. Roots draw up their water, and like veins they pump it into the vessel. Water turns to blood. A heart begins to beat in tandem to the Wood's song.
Magic is poured into every crevice of the creation. It crackles against skin; makes it shift and crawl. An ancient, wild power uncontrolled and untamed. It is a loose form that is crafted. Animals circle, eyes glinting in the night. Each of them give themselves to the Wild so that it may taste their power. Taste their form. The crafty squirrel, the birdsong, the clever rabbit, the nimble deer, the stalwart wolf. All who reside within the Woods offer themselves so that life can be breathed. So that their gracious host can walk amongst them.
And walk amongst them it shall.
It blinks in the low light, like something newly born. For it is newly born. Before the body of the bear is a towering man. Old, grizzled, heavy. Like the woods that birthed it. Clad in a dark grey coat embroidered with marks like feathers and leaves. A bearded individual with eyes far darker than any human's should be, likes the shadowed space between the trees. Its right eye shines brightly with an ancient power. It thrums and breathes; a compass, twirling in the air to find it's True North. Motes of pale light glimmer against the air. Fireflies.
The new Nobody stares down at the previous, its his eyes shine with a solemn pride.
The wounded bear, the last of life's warmth fading into the dirt. He approaches, crouches down. Places a hand against the fur of the bear's head.
"…Rest well, old friend," he whispers in a rasping voice, like the gentle crackle of fallen leaves underfoot, "ya've earned it."
Nobody takes the hat, places it upon his own head and straightens to stand. The twenty third tips it to the twenty second, and turns to depart into trees that part in his wake. A glow grows from his hand, a deep black silhouetted by a vibrant green.
As he leaves, roots and vine rise from the earth. They are of the same darkness, the same green glow. They wind themselves gently around the remains of the bear. Flowers sprouting from quick to arrive rot.
A final, loving embrace; the body turns to dust. Naught but a skeleton left against dirt.
It still looks as though it is just asleep.
All that now remains amongst those vines, soft leaves and bone are patches of pale blue flowers pushing through the dirt and taking root. They shine in the moonlight as the canopy above parts to let them see the stars. Let the bones see the stars.
The small clearing glimmers with the blue of the blooms.
« Carroll #022: The Last Stand || Fret Not, Dear Heart, Let Not Them Hear ||