03-14-2017, 10:22 AM
He trembles, awakens. Awareness comes slowly, like a thick fog is clearing from his brain. Eyes blink open, steely and dark as ink. One would expect them to be sleep fogged, but they are sharp, focused.
Slumber lifts slowly from a pale frame as he shifts, stretching limbs that have been still for far too long. He rises stiffly, shaking years of dust from his pelt, from large, thickly feathered wings.
The years fall away easily, sloughing off like so much dead skin. The advantage of being immortal, of partaking in the immortal sleep.
But this world is different, strange and new in a way he has never before encountered. Not in all his very long years.
---
He had awoken on the mountain, a strange place he has no memory of. The descent had stripped him of his wings, ripping them from his body and replacing them only with a smooth expanse of white pelt. His invisibility is gone too, and only time would tell if the immortality that has kept him on this earth for so long is still his to claim.
He finds the meadow, the forest, the field. These have not changed. But the Tundra, it is gone. Wiped from the earth as though it had never existed. Since the moment of this discovery, a hollow pit has churned inside his gut, loss and confusion and anger roiling inside of him in a tangle of emotion he does not wish to acknowledge.
He had fallen asleep in the snowy north and woken atop a desolate mountain. And now, he is empty, stripped of all that he had been.
So he lingers in the forest, a pale shadow slipping through the trunks. His life (not for the first time) has lost all meaning, all purpose. Even so, he cannot bring himself to go to the field. He cannot bring himself to start over.
Slumber lifts slowly from a pale frame as he shifts, stretching limbs that have been still for far too long. He rises stiffly, shaking years of dust from his pelt, from large, thickly feathered wings.
The years fall away easily, sloughing off like so much dead skin. The advantage of being immortal, of partaking in the immortal sleep.
But this world is different, strange and new in a way he has never before encountered. Not in all his very long years.
---
He had awoken on the mountain, a strange place he has no memory of. The descent had stripped him of his wings, ripping them from his body and replacing them only with a smooth expanse of white pelt. His invisibility is gone too, and only time would tell if the immortality that has kept him on this earth for so long is still his to claim.
He finds the meadow, the forest, the field. These have not changed. But the Tundra, it is gone. Wiped from the earth as though it had never existed. Since the moment of this discovery, a hollow pit has churned inside his gut, loss and confusion and anger roiling inside of him in a tangle of emotion he does not wish to acknowledge.
He had fallen asleep in the snowy north and woken atop a desolate mountain. And now, he is empty, stripped of all that he had been.
So he lingers in the forest, a pale shadow slipping through the trunks. His life (not for the first time) has lost all meaning, all purpose. Even so, he cannot bring himself to go to the field. He cannot bring himself to start over.
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane
