[open] that day even the sun was afraid of you; any

[firion]

that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried

The day passes quickly.

For the first time, Firion feels a strange and unrooted agitation. It simmers in his bones—racing through every inch of him until he nearly vibrates with his frustration. He runs, but even when his coat turns to crushed goal, throwing the jaguar spots into stark relief, he does not find an outlet. He drinks until his belly is full and roams until there is not a spot of his home that has gone unturned. But no matter what he does or where he goes, he cannot shake the feeling of dread in his bones—the feeling of something gone horribly awry. It leaves a bitterness on his tongue that turns even the sweetest grass foul.

He should have known, he thinks.

When the night comes, the feeling intensifies instead of wanes. It billows in his lungs, leaving him at turns sorrowful and gnashing his sharpened teeth in rage. His coltish legs cannot stand still as the moon rises and then crests and his heart pounds until it nearly beats out of his youthful chest.

It comes slowly, and then all at once. He feels it as the moon washes over him. The way that his flesh slowly begins to peel from his body. The way that his body begins to slowly decay. He feels the death that rattles prematurely in his veins, stopping his heart but not pulling him into the grave.

He weeps. He rages. He asks questions that do not get answered.

The hours pass as he moves blindly—running into a headwind that does not stop him.

When finally the dawn comes, and his golden body returns, he stands in the forest,

soaked with sweat, aching, and alone.

so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried