Woodland - a story of the Othertime

A figure stood on the edge of a dark woodland.
A sorry figure, of glowing pain.
Anguish crackled, like lightening, all around him.
He walked heavy, yet with the rashness born of failure.
His eyes burned.
His mind trembled.
The flame flickered.
His aura of desolation trailed behind, and reached out uneasy fingers all around him,
tearing at the peace.
The woodland edge fell behind him,
his careless feet, treading the sacred ground.
The past reached, grasping for the future.
The wind tugged and whispered.
The leaves danced with the moonlight.
The night lived.
Fortune bound the hands of him who came, for it was She.
Fate was defeated,
And admitting this in passing,
delivered him, bound, into the hands, of eternity.
The figure slept, or seemed to sleep.
The woodland melted , fell from his eyes.
The moon receded, fading,
leaving only omnipresent,
black velvet, silence.
The figure dreamed.
The woodland seemed to be, yet seemed not,
the feeling of unreal, unreality.
The figure faltered.
Before him stood the horned ones, ancient, strong.
A voice vast and distant, near and small,
reached with echo fingers, took his hand.
The figure followed.
The forest closed its fist.
Who shall come seeking the ultimate of life bearing only the signs of battle,
and the scars of failure.
These are not unseemly,
but that which festers within,
there is the demon, who's ungainly moves, and hatred bear no hope,
but that of destruction, for such in fulfilment, is his completion,
and such, shall be his measure.
At the edge of the woodland,
a figure stood,
alone,
and wondered.

Darkfire - Circa 1970
Revised - 2000