Post by ☪ঌяανєηƒαηтαѕуঌ☪ on Aug 4, 2016 5:19:11 GMT -5
"So wake up,
wake up dreaming . . .
And lie here with me . . ."
He was dying.
It happened in seconds, and I could only watch once more.
Watch him die again.
Only, this time, I watched his death from behind his eyes. And I could do nothing to help.
Wet fur and a heavy body- with me along as a passenger- hit the mud with a dull thud and a faint squelch. Helpless, hopeless, I could only hold on to his mind, and desperately try to comfort him, even as my being began to leave his body.
Torn away, spraying into the world like a dance of fireflies.
Mud splattered in his- my- our face. Blood and panic filled me- us, and I thrashed along with him, trying desperately to fight even as his body- and the world- faded from my awareness.
Oh- Not like this- We weren't supposed to end like this . . .
I never imagined such an ending.
Not on that warm day that I first saw him, a newborn kit in a dapple of sunlight.
Not even when I realized the tiny kit before me was dying. Yet, even when I had desperately lunged for his precious, fading life, the thought of an ending didn't pass my mind. All I wanted then, all I desired, was to grant him a beginning.
A beautiful, golden beginning, like the warm day that that perfect kit was born. Like the day I gazed from behind his mother's shoulder, sharing her eagerness and excitement.
It's so easy to forget that, what has a beginning, will have an ending as well.
Such is the cycle of life.
And the ending I now face, drowned in blood and mud and darkness, helplessly watching through his eyes.
Blood. Its rank scent mangles the cold night breeze, mingling with the darkness into a sickening perfume that chokes and smothers. I fight, I desperately pass on my fight to him, trying to grasp but a breath of air. Tears sting his eyes- my eyes- our eyes and I know that the source is my grief.
Endless, terrifying grief.
I still remember horrified grief upon the sight of that motionless, tiny body. Terror in my eyes and hers when we stared at her barely twitching son, his last breaths already fading, before they even tasted the sweet, sweet summer air.
Before those delicately closed eyes saw the wonderful daylight.
My heart wrenches- his heart- and a scream rises in me, and I try so hard to fight, to battle, to hold onto the world of night and blood and mud that's already fading into an eternal fog.
Not ready-! not ready-! we're not ready yet!
So much to do! We have so much left to do-! he has so much yet to do- not yet, cruel fate, please, don't make me leave him alone . . .
Please don't leave him so alone . . .
A shriek had torn my throat when I pounced forward, the mother and warm woods forgotten. For me, they were gone. For me, the day was gone.
All that existed was me and him.
The Spirit of the Woods and the Child Leaving Too Soon.
It had been my first day. My first, beautiful day. The first day I saw a mother joyfully awaiting her kit, the first time I saw birth and the miracle of blood and pain and life.
Terror crashed through me as the day faded.
All that remained was me and him. Both then, and now.
Grief, true and full, washes over me in a great wave, and the emotion comes from him, taking me away from my desperate fight. Grief and frustrated, pained weeping. Weeping for the end.
The blood is gone. The night is gone. All I can still find and feel is the gash in his throat and pumping of his heart.
The faint feeling of tears on fur fades away into darkness, crushed by the grief that carries me out to sea, away from the cliff ledge of his awareness and deep to the depths of loneliness. But I can't make myself fight, lost in the wonder of his grief.
His grief at losing me. His grief for what I'm losing. His grief for me.
Only me, and the remains of life already fading from him.
This already happened once before. The day I watched that newborn kit grow still, and realized he was dying. That newborn miracle had been dying, and terror had crashed through me like an earthquake, making me lunge into the other world for him.
Desperate, without thinking, I reached for those priceless tendrils of a soul's light, the light of unique mind, then tried to reach past them to catch what remained of his dying spirit.
The newborn kit's lifeforce, the newborn kit's spirit, already fleeing him.
My own gift, spirit from Spirit, sliding away from that tiny body and soul.
My claws stretched out, my being strained, reaching between body and worlds, trying to catch what was infinitely precious, desperate to bring it back to this tiny kit . . .
It slipped from my paws. Just like I now slip from him, unable to hold on.
Gone.
My scream tore the sky, and light flared from the sun above us when I clenched those pitiful tendrils of soul and mind I had managed to catch, closing my eyes in furious grief.
I made my choice that day.
I would never let go. Never leave that tiny, frail body, never abandon his body, not until I was torn away from him. I would be his lifeforce. I would live in this precious mind and body as his Spirit.
I will be his spirit. I will burn as his soul.
He will live.
I lent him the life to open his eyes, to free him from the darkness. He opened them, and saw the sun above.
From that heartbeat on, we were one. I was his life-force and he . . . began.
Joy filled the sunlight he- we walked under, my spirit in his steps and his heart full of my joy. He was a paralyzed child and I was the power that moved his limbs. We were one.
Through rain, sun and winds that blow. Through laughter, tears and battles. Among birdsong and the taste of fresh-killed mice. Through dew-dappled grasses and muddy pawsteps.
Until I felt claws rip his throat and tear me away from him. Away from us.
Now, there is nothing but silence. Darkness envelops me, as the faint feeling of blood flowing from a gash leaves me as well. No, I am the one that leaves it.
For a moment, only one sound remains.
I feel his heart beat.
One more time.
Then it's gone.
wake up dreaming . . .
And lie here with me . . ."
He was dying.
It happened in seconds, and I could only watch once more.
Watch him die again.
Only, this time, I watched his death from behind his eyes. And I could do nothing to help.
Wet fur and a heavy body- with me along as a passenger- hit the mud with a dull thud and a faint squelch. Helpless, hopeless, I could only hold on to his mind, and desperately try to comfort him, even as my being began to leave his body.
Torn away, spraying into the world like a dance of fireflies.
Mud splattered in his- my- our face. Blood and panic filled me- us, and I thrashed along with him, trying desperately to fight even as his body- and the world- faded from my awareness.
Oh- Not like this- We weren't supposed to end like this . . .
I never imagined such an ending.
Not on that warm day that I first saw him, a newborn kit in a dapple of sunlight.
Not even when I realized the tiny kit before me was dying. Yet, even when I had desperately lunged for his precious, fading life, the thought of an ending didn't pass my mind. All I wanted then, all I desired, was to grant him a beginning.
A beautiful, golden beginning, like the warm day that that perfect kit was born. Like the day I gazed from behind his mother's shoulder, sharing her eagerness and excitement.
It's so easy to forget that, what has a beginning, will have an ending as well.
Such is the cycle of life.
And the ending I now face, drowned in blood and mud and darkness, helplessly watching through his eyes.
Blood. Its rank scent mangles the cold night breeze, mingling with the darkness into a sickening perfume that chokes and smothers. I fight, I desperately pass on my fight to him, trying to grasp but a breath of air. Tears sting his eyes- my eyes- our eyes and I know that the source is my grief.
Endless, terrifying grief.
I still remember horrified grief upon the sight of that motionless, tiny body. Terror in my eyes and hers when we stared at her barely twitching son, his last breaths already fading, before they even tasted the sweet, sweet summer air.
Before those delicately closed eyes saw the wonderful daylight.
My heart wrenches- his heart- and a scream rises in me, and I try so hard to fight, to battle, to hold onto the world of night and blood and mud that's already fading into an eternal fog.
Not ready-! not ready-! we're not ready yet!
So much to do! We have so much left to do-! he has so much yet to do- not yet, cruel fate, please, don't make me leave him alone . . .
Please don't leave him so alone . . .
A shriek had torn my throat when I pounced forward, the mother and warm woods forgotten. For me, they were gone. For me, the day was gone.
All that existed was me and him.
The Spirit of the Woods and the Child Leaving Too Soon.
It had been my first day. My first, beautiful day. The first day I saw a mother joyfully awaiting her kit, the first time I saw birth and the miracle of blood and pain and life.
Terror crashed through me as the day faded.
All that remained was me and him. Both then, and now.
Grief, true and full, washes over me in a great wave, and the emotion comes from him, taking me away from my desperate fight. Grief and frustrated, pained weeping. Weeping for the end.
The blood is gone. The night is gone. All I can still find and feel is the gash in his throat and pumping of his heart.
The faint feeling of tears on fur fades away into darkness, crushed by the grief that carries me out to sea, away from the cliff ledge of his awareness and deep to the depths of loneliness. But I can't make myself fight, lost in the wonder of his grief.
His grief at losing me. His grief for what I'm losing. His grief for me.
Only me, and the remains of life already fading from him.
This already happened once before. The day I watched that newborn kit grow still, and realized he was dying. That newborn miracle had been dying, and terror had crashed through me like an earthquake, making me lunge into the other world for him.
Desperate, without thinking, I reached for those priceless tendrils of a soul's light, the light of unique mind, then tried to reach past them to catch what remained of his dying spirit.
The newborn kit's lifeforce, the newborn kit's spirit, already fleeing him.
My own gift, spirit from Spirit, sliding away from that tiny body and soul.
My claws stretched out, my being strained, reaching between body and worlds, trying to catch what was infinitely precious, desperate to bring it back to this tiny kit . . .
It slipped from my paws. Just like I now slip from him, unable to hold on.
Gone.
My scream tore the sky, and light flared from the sun above us when I clenched those pitiful tendrils of soul and mind I had managed to catch, closing my eyes in furious grief.
I made my choice that day.
I would never let go. Never leave that tiny, frail body, never abandon his body, not until I was torn away from him. I would be his lifeforce. I would live in this precious mind and body as his Spirit.
I will be his spirit. I will burn as his soul.
He will live.
I lent him the life to open his eyes, to free him from the darkness. He opened them, and saw the sun above.
From that heartbeat on, we were one. I was his life-force and he . . . began.
Joy filled the sunlight he- we walked under, my spirit in his steps and his heart full of my joy. He was a paralyzed child and I was the power that moved his limbs. We were one.
Through rain, sun and winds that blow. Through laughter, tears and battles. Among birdsong and the taste of fresh-killed mice. Through dew-dappled grasses and muddy pawsteps.
Until I felt claws rip his throat and tear me away from him. Away from us.
Now, there is nothing but silence. Darkness envelops me, as the faint feeling of blood flowing from a gash leaves me as well. No, I am the one that leaves it.
For a moment, only one sound remains.
I feel his heart beat.
One more time.
Then it's gone.
"Why can't this just last forever?
"Why? Why?
Why!?"