a breath of air -forrester oneshot-

s i g r u n .


"Fight the weakness, your heart's still beating
We are, we are, we are savages"

The forest breathes, its heartbeat pulsing out a rhythm only heard by those who have learned to listen. It

surrounds me. Consumes me.

The quiet whispers of the babbling brook. The gentle caress of the wind blowing through the branches. I am alive in it as it is alive in me. My skin breathes it in, from the peaty loam beneath me to dewdrops that cling to edges of leaves like silken web.

I am not royalty who bleeds ichor and weeps ambrosia. I am but a humble servant paying fealty to the spirit of the hunt. Can you not see him standing there? Ethereal in the moonlight. Existing between the rays cast by sunbeams.

A noble brow, crowned by the antlers of the stag.

A mighty bow clutched in one hand.

I

am   
        the
            bowstring
pulled

taut.

The

dagger 

u

n
s
h
e
a
t
h
e
d
. 

I am the hands that take, the arms that reach.
A chooser of the slain. For I know this land is ours.

Ours by right.

Our hunting ground, deep in the heart of district seven, untouched by time. Here, we are a part of it all. I am the squirrel, climbing nimbly down the old oak tree. I am the summer storm, nourishing the roots of the old growth with red water.

It will not be time to feed the gods for months.

I whisper a few words in the old tongue for safety. It is said that heard by the wrong ears, the old tongue can drive a man to madness. The whistle that follows is answered by the nearby birds, who pick up my song and spread it from tree to tree like wildfire.

I am a flock of crows, warning of the danger to come.

Hopping and twitching its nose in the tangle of the undergrowth, the moment has almost arrived. I will slip my skin, bare my teeth and snap the chain that tethers the animal to my soul.

I pounce, my knife finding its mark.

I am the wolf, holding a bleeding rabbit in my jaws. A sharp twist to the right prevents it from suffering.

We are not cruel.

It will be a fine offering to the spirit of the hunt.

By right, the first kill is his and his alone.  

Fillet, skin and carve, arrange an altar of entrails. Feel its death drench my hands, paint my mouth, dab war paint on my cheeks. 

This is the way. 

Bless the hunt this morn, I beg, nailing the tiny hide to a the nearest tree trunk and tasting the sap and blood that flows with my tongue. 

I lay back on a bed of pine needles and raise my blood soaked hands to the sky in worship.

I am—

—content.