2 A Lute's Lament
The forest whispered with the crackling of frostbitten wood, a odd symphony playing beneath the tranquil shroud of snow, where the signs of life lay blanketed in a serene white.
The sprawling, dark clouds that decorated the evening-tinted heavens mirrored the intricate pattern of twisted branches below. With the moon's rise, a silvery glow washed over the woods, unveiling a pair of eyes shining like stellar twins.
A lone crow perched on the branches of the tallest tree. His piercing black eyes reflected the image of an aimless figure walking.
The bird turned its head leftward, observing the individual's laborious advance. Step upon step, the breath grew louder as a ghostly exhale rippled across the ethereal threshold amid the deformed trees.
Mist spiraled from his lips, unfurling like ethereal serpents into the night, his breath a weaver's thread in the tapestry of the forest gloom, with each puff painting his face in the air — transient yet haunting.
His attire was an ode to the old tales, despite his young age, forged from the rugged hide of unknown creatures. Each piece spoke its meaning between the lines, bearing the fate of time.
Yet, it was his eyes that truly held the essence of the forest's nocturne. They were verdant pools gleaming with an emerald fire, set in a human face as pale as the snow itself — two enigmatic wells promising depths untold, a living contradiction against the muted world around him
Like the ethereal portals of its very essence, they were the window through which one could glimpse the depths of its soul. A riddle concealed within a labyrinth of perplexity and forsaken recollections.
Flecks of amber danced in his green eyes, a silent defiance burning within, as if refusing to yield to the wilderness that threatened to suffocate his spirit.
What lay bare was an unwavering fear, a specter that haunted many mothers' hearts, a dread that seized their souls when it came to their cherished offspring. In the depths of hopelessness, individuals found themselves adrift, mere shadows of their former selves. Stripped of identity, they wrestled with profound loneliness and overwhelming helplessness.
In his skinny hands, he held an old lute, its worn frame marked with patterns of scratches and scars. The first string trembled upon the slight slide of his blooded finger.
The melody was a lifeline, a singular familiarity in the midst of chaos. His fingers didn't just play the lute; they sought it out, a yearning channeled through each tentative chord.
The cautious notes he plucked made him pause for a moment. The first note, and his eyes darted for the first time to his feet.
He was hungry. Each movement sent shivers of agony rippling through his frail frame, the cold gnawing at his bones and intensifying the relentless ache that clung to him.
As the poets of old sang, when the heart's torment eclipsed the body's afflictions, the mind sought refuge in the shadows, a fragile veil between hope and despair.
Bricks upon bricks were etched in a dome around the thoughts. They distanced themselves from the nightmares. The borderline that a wounded mind tried to avoid was when the faint line between the protection and the abyss was at a tear from breaking down.
On the second note, a small but salty droplet of scalding liquid formed on his cornea. It attempted to capture the faintest hint of familiarity but instead found itself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Thoughts that had once been vivid and lively now appeared empty and barren, like a blank canvas awaiting a skilled artist's touch.
However, the conflicts tormenting his tired soul were more vast and intricate than even his wildest imagination could comprehend.
Three words accompanied the third note that resonated through the stillness. Whispering his name, "Asdras," he felt a shard of his old self flicker within.
The fourth note invoked the word "fire" in his action. It was as if a dormant fire had been kindled within his very being, infusing his body with a vitality previously unknown. With each stride, he tore through the sparkling blanket of snow, leaving behind a trail of blurred footprints.
The crow observed him as he dashed across branches and rocks. Mindlessly, he avoided each obstacle with dexterity, without losing his rhythm.
The fifth note emanated a haunting cry from his lute, resembling the call of a nocturnal raven. Hungry tears filled his eyes as he spotted a rabbit running amidst the frozen bushes.
Together, they pursued the animal as the crow aided him, like in the old tales of nature about ravens teaching young wolves how to hunt their prey.
With the lute strapped to his back, Asdras' primal instinct guided his bare hands, tearing into the rabbit with a fury born of survival. He did not glance at the crow as he offered a share of his spoils, an unspoken pact sealed in that moment.
The sixth note brought in the tune of the windy snowflakes as he rose from the ground. A pair of yellow eyes glowed between the dark trees.
A snow leopard surged forward, its lithe body driven by the howling wind. With the grace of a dancer, it extended its left claw, targeting the boy's exposed core. In a reflexive response, he twisted his agile frame, preparing to escape, but then froze abruptly, an eerie stillness overtaking him.
The silvery claws left their marks on the surface of his lute. The taut strings' melodic progression as they gracefully danced across the instrument's wooden frame abruptly turned into a discordant cacophony.
A ghostly echo lingered from the creature's restrained breath. He turned, redirecting his gaze to its prior focal point. Two figures, one a mere child and the other a wild creature, stood poised before each other.
Their eyes, brimming with a feral intensity, locked in a wordless exchange that conveyed the untamed power coursing through their veins — to survive.
The crow swooped down, attacking the leopard's head with its sharp beak, while the lute, bearing a deep scar from the encounter, hit the ground facing the sky.
The eighth note resonated through the icy air, a harbinger of the flames that now danced from Asdras' hands. He moved with a desperation born of survival, his fingers finding the throat of the beast even as its jaws clamped down upon his arm.
The teeth were buried in his burned flesh. His hands caved upwards toward the beast's head. The crow's digging out the leopard's eyes.
An icy gale of wind forced the ninth broken note as Asdras' animalistic expression of anger consumed his last bit of strength.
His body embraced the tenderness of the snow. Splattered blood tinged like red wine in the surroundings. The dead beast angled in a lifeless position across Asdras' torso.
The crow landed on the lute, its glossy black feathers shimmering in the moon's soft glow. It assumed the role of a vigilant sentinel, perched with an aura of sagacity, observing the numerous trials and transformations that unfolded beneath the shroud of dusk.
In that brief instant, the otherworldly resonance of the final note scattered into the expansive tapestry of their interconnected fates.
Asdras' last stream of hot breath danced in the air, his vision filled with blurry images as a dark feather brushed across his face.
In the distance, the crow's sharp cry pierced the air, its ominous call carrying across the landscape.
Echoing footsteps could be heard close to him, growing steadily louder. A faint gibberish voice neared the boy as a dark curtain veiled his senses.
He felt a sensation of movement, a gentle rocking that cradled the harshness of reality away, if only for a fleeting moment.
As consciousness slowly returned to Asdras. The young man found himself in a dimly lit wagon, jostled by its uneven motion.
His eyelids, heavy as if weighed down by the burdens of a nightmarish dream, strained against the desire to remain closed as the pain throbbed behind them.
With a weary determination, he forced his eyes to part, their trembling struggle in the slow blink of lashes as they fluttered open wide.
The interior of the wagon greeted his efforts — a rustic, weathered chamber of old and pallid wood. Coarse blankets draped haphazardly, their corners curling over the edges of makeshift covers and bedding.
A sharp yell from outside shattered the eerie quiet, cutting through the earthy scents of peltry and corn that lingered in the air. The soft murmur of wheels against the road almost put him into a trance.
The wagon shuddered to a halt. Its wooden frame creaked in protest against the abrupt command. Asdras angled himself to look at the entrance.
An old man with a visage that spoke of a life well lived showed up in the frame. Dressed in pale gray vestments, he carried an aura of reverence and wisdom.
Beside him stood a boy, around eleven years of age, with a mop of tousled dark hair and a mischievous gleam in his eyes. His brown skin blended with the leather vest adorned with cloth patches, and a wide grin stretched across his face as he regarded Asdras with curiosity.
"Hello," the old man smiled as he neared him. "Feeling better?"
Asdras held a confused look, not knowing where to nod, to speak, or to look around.
"You have a good fate, y'see. If a crow had not played my good assistance to his anger. We wouldn't find your body lying down."
"Yup, that's right," the boy drawled, spreading his arms wide. "We were gatherin' herbs when that fucking crow just up and went stirrin' a ruckus right above my head. I gave chase, and by Saint Rose's and behold, there you were, all sprawled out, and a big ol' leopard over you. Did you kill it?"
Asdras attempted to curve his body up as he faced them. But the stress and lack of strength in his burned arms caused him to fall, his eyes darting slowly as his senses faded once more.
"Hurry up, Brian, bring me that bag in the corner there," the man hushed his tone while checking over Asdras. "Not in the right corner, you idiot, to the left."
"Gosh darn it, ol' priest," he said, sidestepping to get behind the old man, opening the bag. "He's gonna be alright, ain't he?"
"Place thy trust in Saint Rose, and all shall be well," the priest intoned, his voice reverent as he examined the scorched flesh.
"Hey, ain't that more like a crow tattoo on his hands?" Brian pointed over Asdras' palms, his eyes squinting in curiosity.
"By the grace of Saint Rose, this unfortunate child is cursed..."
