Artemis (shaftsofgold) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-05-17 20:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | artemis |
WHO Artemis
WHEN Saturday morning
WHERE Inwood Hill Park, Manhattan
WARNINGS TBA
Artemis came upon the place entirely by accident. She had been in a black mood ever since she’d arrived in the city. Her unceremonious sacking from the Forest Rangers stung more than she cared to admit. She’d always taken an easy-come-easy-go attitude towards the modern world; she set down few roots, rarely settled long in any one place, never took a backward glance. The strictures and trappings of mortal society always chafed at her. And yet. And yet, as a ranger she’d been able to cling to a small semblance of her former domain. Not quite mistress of the wilds, but a guardian of this pocket of forest, at least. It had given her… if not contentment, then at least a kernel of purpose. Now, she just felt old and foolish. Artemis had come to New York City seeking distraction — with so many gods calling the place home it could always be counted upon for that, if nothing else — but seeing family again, all wrapped up in their own lives and intrigues, only brought her own gnawing emptiness into stark relief. Gods, she missed her forests. She missed her girls. Missed having a place she could sink her heart and self into. She’d taken to running each morning, setting out in the predawn twilight without any particular route. The destination wasn’t important, only the act itself. For a short while, her world contracted in on itself and there was nothing but the thudding rhythm of her limbs working in concert, the satisfying buzz in her muscles and the burn in her lungs, until it almost seemed that she might outrun her own melancholy. So Artemis’s feet carried her through the park gates without much of a thought. New York City had an abundance of parks, some of them even quite pleasant, if you liked your nature tamed and landscaped to within an inch of its life. But this… A dozen or so strides in, she felt it. A familiar thrum that carried on the air, somewhere between sound and scent and taste, as faint as the brush of a distant memory. So quiet she thought herself imagining things, until she rounded the tennis courts and the forest showed her its face. Towering trees clung to rocky slopes, gnarled and ancient. Thick scrub sprawled gloriously across the paths and outcroppings, and the dense canopy above bristled with unseen life. The sight of it stopped her in her tracks. A virgin forest. Artemis hadn’t realised there were any places like this left in Manhattan. Half in a daze, she strode into the trees, quickly ditching the beaten path to clamber hand and foot up the boulder-strewn slope, and the forest welcomed her into its embrace. After some time roaming, Artemis found her way to a sun-dappled clearing where the ever-present thunder of New York traffic was almost drowned out by birdsong. Here she sat and laid herself on the forest floor, heedless of the dirt or the shrivelled leaves that tangled in her hair. She closed her eyes, breathed in the rich, earthy scent of moss and leaf litter mingled with late spring blooms, and felt the ghost of a smile. It wasn’t true wilderness; not really. More like the memory of one, a relic of what had once been. No longer feared or venerated. No longer boundless. Just a quaint keepsake of a bygone era, hemmed in on all sides by a world that had left it behind. She and the forest had more than a few things in common. Still. For a while, at least, she could pretend. |