Moar below dat cut cuz WURDS MAN

It`s a rather quiet day, the gray stag thinks as he sits atop a hill not far from the pond. And indeed, it is.

The only sound in his immediate vicinity is the scattered chirping of birds. If he cared to crane his head up, he thinks that he might catch a glance of the small, bright creatures whizzing amongst the trees. A bit farther off, the sound of two fawns splashing around in the pond reaches his ears. He smiles softly. He`s always had a soft spot for children.

All in all, it was a peaceful day. No storms come to rumble away the tranquility, no fights to shatter this fragile peace. He was fine with it-he never liked loud noises. They served no purpose but to distract him.

These are the types of days that he both loves and hates.

Oh sure-the stillness of the surrounding forest was something he yearned for. After all, who wouldn`t want to lie in repose, quietly soaking in the serenity and distant echoes of laughter emanating from the not so far off pond?

He wouldn`t.

It takes a long while this time around. For quite some time, he`s able to block out his mind to all but his surrounding environment. The distant whispers and stabs of uncertainly within his mind are replaced with the rustling of the wind and the patters of nearby feet. His sight remains firmly focused on the two younglings playing by the pond. Yet, even as he smiles softly and longs to join in, he cannot help but think.

Indeed, his poor and troubled mind begins to take an unpleasant turn-a path down memory lane. If those around him could see into his mind, would this be a path that they would chose to travel? Probably not, he decides as his defenses give way to worry and anxiety.

The distant memories come first. The memory of a massive, imposing figure-yet, this same figure was also gentle and kind. How many memories had he shared with his good friend? Lying in the sunlight together, talking about their problems and working them out. Or that was how it used to be.
Then, his mind leaps to the image of a pale, feathered doe. It`s ironic, he thinks-she`s beautiful and kind, yet darkness seems to shroud her. How many times had fate let his dear friend down?

….Friend. At one time, she was more than a friend to him-but he didn`t want to go back to that time. Yet he could not help it-the horrible sting of grief that had engulfed him when she had-albeit kindly- turned him down. Strangely, this was one of the lesser pangs of his memory-for they had still remained good friends, after all. What had happened to this doe even after-now that was a different story.

He closed his eyes as the torture began once again-the image of his massive friend, once so gentle and kind, screaming at the little white doe as she cowered, petrified, behind a gray doe-her sister. Him, at first trying to reason with the stag and then having to charge him in order to control his fury. Him, following the two does away as the gray one screeched at the large one to stay far away from them.

And then him, finding out that his close friend had died of his own accord, though a hole in the frozen lake.

Others memories flashed by then. Two little fawns, born not of love. He had watched one of those fawns had grown farther and farther away from her mother, until she disappeared. He had talked with the gray doe, too, and found that he was perhaps, not alone, in his suffering-yet that didn`t help what had happened.

You couldn`t change anything. You couldn`t help. You`re utterly useless. The gray stag squeezes his one good eye shut as these thoughts pound through his head. He prays to whatever is merciful enough to help a pathetic little creature like him to make sure that nothing approaches him right now. He needs to be alone. Just him and his tattered memory.

There was happiness too, though. He, with the help of the gray doe, had managed to convince another friend of his to become mates with the little white doe. He had heard of the birth of their fawns-though he himself were not there to see it.

You`re never there. He dug his hooves into the ground.

He had taken others under his own wing, as well. The proud buck and the little fawn. He looked upon them the way a father would look upon his son and daughter. He had only wanted the best for them. He could only wonder if he had managed to give them that before his mind pulled him down into another round of heart wrenching memories.

The fawns were born weak. The little white doe was weak. One of the fawns had died-or was it two? He didn`t want to remember. Lying, sick and weak, as the gray doe sat next to him. That same gray doe, slipping away from him. The little white doe`s mates, and his dear friend, dead. The white and gray doe`s mother, dead. Everyone he even remotely cared about was slipping away from him.

And you did nothing.

How many more times could he keep blaming himself? Not many, that was for sure. He briefly pondered over his…talent for finding hidden things. A little knack, if you will. Yet, not even those portal to distant realms could save him. They served merely as a distraction, an escape. Was he a coward for fleeing through those portals? Was he a coward for hiding from the bowl of blue?

How many times had he tried to rid of himself? The gray stag exhales quickly, a quiet shudder passing through him. Oh, how he had wanted to. What was there left for him to do, anyway? Almost all of those that he had held dear were gone-and he was of no use to the rest. Perhaps it was his presence that made things all the more worse. Made everything hurt more.

He had tried, so many times-but fate was a strange thing. It kept him here, tied him to the cruel, cold realm of the living and forced him into walking upon it. He was trapped, left only to flee between realms and search for the ones he loved.

…And over time…over time, somehow… it had gotten better. It had actually gotten better. Slightly, anyway. He had made new friends, yes-and he would never forget the old, never stop searching for them. The stag lifted his head, his one good eye blinking feverishly against the suddenly harsh sunlight. He had just had to do it, hadn`t he? He scolded himself. Had to stop and think for a second. And what happens? A second turns into two seconds, and those turn into minutes which turn into hours which turn into days and then weeks months years-

Time without end.

The stag got up, ready to leave. Enough of this nonsense. Obviously, a quiet day just wasn`t going to work out for him. Yet, a single thought did escape from the carefully guarded realm of his mind as he walked away, into the depths of the forest.

That limitless scope of time, all the time that he had lived and all of the time that he was yet to live. Death…wasn`t really the end, was it? This forest realm had proved it again and again-who knows how many of the sick and the weak, and poor and uncared for, the meek and unfortunate that it had taken in? This forest, realm of the forsaken and place where you given one more chance. That chance…he closed his eyes. Eventually, he would realize what his attempts at redemption had lead him. Whether he had taken that chance wisely or not.

And it scared him.