Re: 2/2
Turning, you tick your head and the wolf rushes to follow you as you head East once more. You'll have to catch something on the way back, there is nothing for you in the West. Even though the ground is dead and there is no sign of life except for you and the wolf, you keep that bow clutched tight in your hand. White knuckled. There is a determination not to stop until you find something, and it pushes you forward to the point of dehydration and exhaustion. You gave the last of your water to the wolf several miles back, but even he is panting now. There is a brook slightly to the North, and you head in that direction with the awareness that you simply can't afford to go thirsty. It is only a half mile out of the way, and by the time you reach its bank, you are flushed and soaked through with sweat. The temperature is warm this evening, and you know it is far too early in the year for so many of the trees to look so vacated. You don't recall the black leaves originating back this far, but you try not to think about it when you drop to your knees by the water and draw some of it up into your hands. The wolf at your side whines a pitiful sound and you give him a tired glance while gesturing to the river, "Well, go on then." He has to be thirsty, but his whining continues and his teeth nip at your sleeve and pull on your arm in a ferocity that refuses to let go. He drags you half back against the bank, and the water slips through your fingers when you shake loose from him. He does not relent; his nips turn to bites, and he growls at you in a way that is entirely foreign. Glancing up, you take in the sight of the brook for the first time. The full extent of it, where the water bubbles over rocks and moss-covered boulders further down, skinny twigs protrude from the shallow banks and it is only upon standing, upon advancing, that you see things are not what they seem. The rocks are dozens of dead birds, the mossy boulders are rotting bears curled in on themselves, the twigs are antlers rising out of the water where bucks lie and the water rushes over their pelts. Gurgling, it almost sounds like laughter.
Something is wrong, and despite your thirst, you take off at a hard run back into the East, back to home. You refuse to succumb to exhaustion or sleep, and the wolf at your side limps as you two carry forward through trees that fail to go green again, no matter how much closer to home you travel. The smell of soot and ash reaches you long before the treeline, and the worry that it brings is a spur in your side, driving you forward in a breakneck pace with your bow drawn. Breaching the treeline to your village, many of the houses are gone, reduced to nothing but smolders. Women and children weep in the streets, some men are dead on the ground while others seem to be missing completely.
You're still a young man and it doesn't make sense to you, war. You've heard about it, but can't fully fathom it even as you walk through your village on your way home. But home is not there, it's thatched roof is ashes and the stone walls are blackened. The wolf whines again, and you know that his home is the same. The forest gone to black, all the grinning ravens.