Emancipation

A slender figure moved through the forest. Though he walked with the swaying gait and unconcerned steps of one confident of himself, he made no sound, and his gaze never lingered. His steps made near-undetectable tracks as he stepped on moss and leaves alike.

He was clad in grey silk, with boots of black and belt of silver. His pants and tunic clung to his slender, muscular form so you could see the playing of muscles. His narrow eyes were grey, as was his wavy pony-tail mane.

Long fingers on a slender hand held a bow, arrow nocked and ready. He spotted one of his father’s favorite creatures; a falcon. His father would be watching. Indeed, he was always watching. So the young man smiled, took aim, and fired.

It seemed the arrow would strike true, and his smile broadened. Maybe his father had loosened his vigilance. Joy lasted only a second. The smile was wiped from his face as the arrow stopped in mid-air, a mere inch away from its hapless target. It turned around with dazling speed and returned to sender. He tried to dodge, but the arrow caught his left thigh as he landed on his bow.

Tears of anger and pain streaked his cheeks as he stood slowly and inspected his broken weapon.

"Thank you, father," he whispered to the wind through gritted teeth.

He limped on through the forest. He dared not remove the arrow, for the bleeding would surely subdue him swiftly. He limped on through the forest with gritted teeth and nails cutting deeply into his palms.

As the trees thinned while he walked down towards the plains, his steps prodiced their first sounds. Not the sound of breaking twigs or bots on rock. Rather a squishy sound. The sound of water in ones boots; or blood. As blood steadily trickled down his leg, it assembled in his boot. And he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.

There he was; wounded, weakened, unarmed, slowed. Nevertheless, he never worried for a second. If there was any real danger his father would intervene. Just as he had so many times. As long as he was his father’s son, he needn’t fear anything.

A grain of doubt appeared in the back of his mind as the blood filled his boot and ran down onto the ground. His steps were no longer confident. They were strained, pained, and staggering. He left a trail of blood as he struggled though the forest, one hand around his bleeding wound and the other seeking support in tree trunks and branches.

He stars in broad daylight when he finally collapsed leaning against the trunk of a solitary oak. Its trunk was a deep brown, and its leaves emerald green in the summer sun. It stood alone on the huge plain not ten feets outside the forest. There sat the Zephyr, son of the Wind, staring out onto the plain straining to see, or hear, any sign of bloodthirsty beasts. And for the first time in his life he did not feel the ever-watching gaze of his father. He was free at last. And it terrified him. He was abandoned, discarded. He was finally on his own, without protection.

Try as he might, he couldn’t rise. He could barely raise his hands. So he closed his eyes and waited for the carrion eaters while the sun set. The most beautiful sunset passed as he sat there with closed eyes. Then darkness enveloped the world and he slept.