my dreams are all the company I keep [ short story ]

The evening is cool. Fireflies flicker here and there, miniscule specks of light in a forest that is gradually turning dark. The familiar sun-gold spotlights, frozen eternally in place, have begun to fade to the pale white of moonbeams. Dark clouds form above, near the heavens, as if a secret gathering has commenced. They churn, and the first signs of the storm have begun. A drumroll of thunder breaks the silence that has set itself in the forest, startling the creatures that wait with bated breath.

Most take shelter wherever they can; the aging oak tree quickly becomes crowded with creatures of many kinds. When the tree is almost overflowing with fur and skin and flesh, the remaining animals seek out other places. A few curl against the weeping idol that still stands so bravely at the river's beginning, pouring itself into the deep groove that runs down to the pond. More creep into the dank, musty dark of the ruins, amongst the stone and brick and dirt. In the birch forest, a quiet sense of safety is brought to the deer that have placed themselves in the longer grasses, or underneath the peculiar slanted rock that brings shelter and often a feeling of solitude. The forest turns very quiet as the thunder fades, a foreboding aura crawling over the trees and slithering between every particle of the air. Just as a fawn raises its head and starts to move away from the warmth of the deer that accompany it in the great oak tree, streaks of yellow break the sky in two, and a crack that sounds like the great zombie deer's neck snapping, startles all. The clouds darken and seem to swell, moving with great speed until the forest is drenched in black. It is only then that they unleash their pent-up fury, and to the wide-eyed animals below it seems like rivers are being thrown down at them. In what feels like seconds the grass is crushed by water, the sky is being torn apart by lightning, eardrums are being shattered due to the ongoing rumbles of thunder and hearts tighten in fear as deer look around and pray that the nightmare will end soon. There are some who are brave enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to go out and withstand the storm. They cannot do so on flat ground, and certainly nowhere near the pond, for its banks have been burst and water now spills everywhere. Instead the curious and enthralled ones stand atop hills or rocks or even trees, gazing out at the chaotic beauty that surrounds them. Though thoroughly soaked to the bone, they remain there, refusing to budge in spite of the horror the gods have unleashed.

I am neither of these types. I cannot find shelter and so I cannot hide from the pelting rain, the blinding yellow electricity, or the screaming wind and bellowing thunder. I do not wish for company, and even in this madness I will not relent and accompany someone. There is nowhere I can be safe, and so I sit alone amongst crushed purple flowers, their perfume masked by the scent of mud and rain and fear. My head is forced to the ground by the rain and I let myself lie there, feeling as if the gods are kicking their hooves into every inch of my body and yet strangely, it doesn't hurt. I lost my mask when the rain started and there's no use recovering it now. I will not try. I am not brave enough to do so. Even I can get lost in the forest when all is dark and I feel nothing but confusion and fear. My ears are deaf to the sounds of crying fawns, but I know that many of them are afraid and weeping. There are so many orphans in this forest that I know they must be calling not for their mothers, but someone, anyone to comfort them in this terrifying time. And terrifying it is, certainly, though I have seen and endured worse storms. They are not a common occurance; the gods are not so cruel. Even this is not cruel, and there will be no lives lost tonight. It is an experience, something a deer or bird or any creature will have to endure and survive. But still I do not like storms, particularly when I am alone, and alone I am on this night. I can feel tears in my eyes, though they are tightly shut so that I am not blinded by the pounding droplets of water that are throwing themselves mercilessly from the above. There are deer I know, or once knew, that I would like to be accompanied by at this moment. My brothers, for instance, spring to mind, and though I know Rutilus will be allright, I also know that Jared will be terrified. I pray that my adoptive sibling will have the strength to stay calm, and that he has found shelter with Rutilus underneath the slanted rock in the birch forest. Lorak and Cirrus, too, come to mind. They will no doubt be in the Ruins, with the cursed stag curled around his mate to offer some comfort. I imagine Quad is somewhere out there, in his darkened state after the loss of his father. I can no longer say I know the stag. I loved him for what he once was, but he is like a stranger to me now. The things he has done are unforgivable. Scape and the rest of the dragonfly deer will perhaps be at the pond, and I worry briefly about the insects there. They will surely be allright, however, so my worries on this subject fade quickly. I wonder if the poet Seed is awake today, and if the rain and noise brings inspiration for him. For a little while, my thoughts are clouded with hope. I do enjoy Seed's creations.

My solitude is disturbed. I am not pleased with this, even if it is usually in my nature to accept all company. My nature has been twisted greatly as of late, twitching and warping every now and then in different places, but I am confident that eventually I will be myself once more. But who am I? A rose? I feel like a wilting one, if that is the case, with petals dropping from me every time I check. Rutilus, too, is a rose, but he is blooming despite his bad moods and I am happy to watch him do so. Jared is different; it seems that he is still, after all this time, developing into a rose, as if the bud is just parting and we can catch a glimpse inside. If I am a red rose and my golden brother is a yellow one, what will Jared be? He cannot be brown, surely, and so I cannot predict it. Symbolism is a wonderful thing. But I turn my attention back to the presence that has faded in, and with difficulty I raise my head. It's difficult to see; I can make out only a blurry shape which I assume to be the body of the deer who has just sat down beside me. They do not appear to have antlers, which makes me guess that they are a doe, but I have met many stags that do not feel the need to have weapons attatched to their skulls and so disown the horns and tines. I lower my head again, not having the courage to speak, which means little since the thudding of raindrops drowns out all other sound. The stranger lowers its head too, and there is neither movement nor voice from them. For what seems like millenia we lie there, and I eventually relax against my will. There is something calming about this antlerless deer, and I do not feel that they will irritate me. They are the first company outside my family I have had in a long while.

It is only when the rain lessens considerably and the thunder and lightning stops that we communicate. There are no deer venturing out around us, which I am thankful for. After I shake my eyes free of rain, and the stranger copies, I look at them. A pair of bright, sienna eyes look back into my own green soul-windows. There are endless secrets hidden in their depths. I daren't speak, but it turns out that I don't have to; they do the hard part for me.
"Are you allright, dear?" I'm shocked by the concern in their voice, the lack of complaining and the fact that they are not trying to make a joke out of the situation. This deer, black and white in colour, lightly tanned face framed by soaking wet inky-black hair, has just sat with me for hours through my terror. I feel that I owe them a great amount. It occurs to me that I did not try and determine the gender, and now I realise they are male. It's quite obvious really, provided one looks at the stag's face and not his hair or lack of antlers.
"I'll be fine," I eventually manage to respond, blinking and studying his every feature. Something I notice is that his front teeth protrude a great deal. I wonder if he's self-conscious about it, and then decide that I shouldn't stare. "Are you?"
"I'll be fine," he quips gently, offering a small smile and then resting his chin on the muddy ground. "I've never seen a storm like that."
"Are you new?" I want to thank him for sitting with me, for offering comfort though perhaps he did not know it, but the words won't leave my lips.
"Very. At least it seems to be over now, hm?" His head raises again. Why won't he sit still? I smile shakily and nod, and silence falls upon us for a long while. There is nothing but an occassional glance and a few quiet chuckles. Eventually, I gather my courage.
"Thankyou." It's the only word I can manage, and my eyes dart away from the stag nervously. His eyes light, lips curving into a smile.
"You're welcome. I'm Freddie."
"Taliene."
"Beautiful."

We spoke no more after that, and I drifted into a hazy dream, shivering but content alongside him.