time forgotten, brian crain

TAIGA,
RUSSIA.

time has changed. people care not for what they once had. morals have been comprised, ideologies discarded in the winds of autumn, of summer and winter and spring. bows whizz, arrows fly. a bear howls, caught on camera by mans hands. she sees it: the pain in the creatures eye, the confusion and bewilderment. she runs to it, hands in the air, eyes pleading—

—she can not calm its nerves.

she falls. she is struck down by that of which she loves most. nature is her enemy in this world, no longer a friend. bears no longer soften at her presence, deer's scatter in the wind at her step. the leaves betray her silence: they scuttle and shift and wither. the animal perks it's ears, eyes beady as they are wide. they notice her: the lover of animals, the lover of nature. yet she looks like the hunters, the mortals who wear bow and arrow, who bathe in guns and pikes.

they run from her—fast and quick, taking flight in the wind. her heart falls, her chest caves. the green of the grass dims, yellow with lack of nourishment, paves at the lack of love. it rots, as does the bark of trees at such a sight: a forgotten goddess, abandoned by those she sought to protect. the sky dims, hushing its joy, letting sadness take over. poppies in the ground wither, the flowers of yellow and purple, of blue and pink and white all shrink back at her step. even nature fears her touch: fears her mortal-like hands upon its land.

she is no longer a goddess, but a fearful creature.

to the land that she loves, she is a monster. she is a traitor, a deceitful witch sent to reap the lands of love, of compassion and softness, of sun and grass, of bark and shadows, of green and brown and red and pink and yellow and white. she is a destroyer: a fiend. she only lives to wreak havoc upon such beauty—she is intent on letting it wither and die, feasting on the bones of animals shy and brave.

the idea of this breaks her.

it shatters her, casts her heart into the flames in which it melts, as did her immortal soul as she fell to the earth. she watches it burn in the night, as smoke dances in the sky, as stars shudder at her presence. eerie eyes watch her intently: a bear, a deer, a hedgehog, some birds. the magpie is accompanied by a friend, the crows caw solemnly. her heart is vibrant, immortal still, bathed in the gold of ichor—the scent of ambrosia and nectar.

it infiltrates her nose.

it dances upon her lips.

it taunts her mind.

and it leaves just as quickly as it came.

but its mark is permanent: it leaves images in her mind, leaves the remembrance of autumn upon her skin, waters from streams lengthy and wide in which she bathed in—birds singing, deers swaying. the scuttling of a grasshopper, the buzz of the bee. it sings to her of her melancholy heart, which rots away in the flames before her: they light her eyes, which are stripped of their iridescent glow. they are bleak now—bleak and dull and lifeless.

she has no purpose, for the very thing she loves despises her.

the bears are watching still, as the magpies, the crows, the hedgehog and the deer. they watch with sadness—with some bitter throbbing of their throat. such empathy they recognise, such love and compassion, softness and protection. and yet the face they see does not match the immortal soul they think of. it does not match their artemis. it does not match their goddess.

she leaves now, the embers of her heart upon logs burnt. her head is low, brown hair—decorated with autumn leaves and daffodils—tangled around her face. it is gaunt: she feeds only on the wild berries and leaves. she drinks only the water from streams.

a sigh escapes her lips. she looks behind once more. a shadow behind her: a white coat—although it is brief. it comes as quickly as it goes. her eyes cast down.

the embers are gone.

the last shred of immorality is gone.