Season of the Falling Leaves
By Canis lupus
The door slowly slipped open, and from the excessively narrow slits of my half-closed eyes, I could see father creeping about my bedroom gingerly, taking care not to stir me with the slightest of noises. I pretended to be asleep and lay in bed, observing his every move. Threads of light escaped from the door left ajar, and under the dim surroundings, father sat beside me on the bedside. His hands gently brushed my hair - callous from years of rigorous military training, but tender upon my head. In silence, he sat there, watching. A solemn gaze replaced his usually assertive glare. For once, he seemed almost helpless. Unknown reluctance kept him sitting, but I could see a laser rifle slung over his broad shoulders, the lights glaring against the polished metallic barrel. Where was he going?
The door to my bedroom was pushed further agape, and at the threshold, I could discern the slender silhouette of a young lupine lady, mother.
"Is the child asleep yet?" mother whispered in a sad, wavering voice.
"Yes, Summers is sound asleep," father answered wearily, hands still gliding over my forehead.
He bent over to kiss me on the cheek, then pulled the blanket over me and patted me softly before rising up and leaving my room as quietly as he came in. At the door, the two gathered in a tearful embrace. I could hear mother sobbing silently, and father whispering soft words into her ears. Her shoulders shook as she tried to contain her emotions. Then, with a passionate kiss, father slowly disengaged from her embrace and strode to the house's front door. Mother did not follow. She slowly slid out of his arms and leaned against the walls.
"I'll be back. I promise," father said in a still voice. Yet, his gaze looked infinitely forlorn, like the waning moon of autumn.
Mother could gather no respond – she simply uttered incoherent words, drowned in her muffled sobs. Then, father did not look back; he bolted out of the door. I did not understand why he left us so. Climbing up from bed, I ran to the window and propped my head against the icy panes. On the streets, the bony branches of barren trees tossed and swayed amidst the roaring winds, which rose and fell like a thousand bickering voices. Fallen leaves danced in colorful swirls of yellow, orange, and red. It was autumn, and already, fringes of frost had crept upon the frames of glass. Within the swirls of leaves and gusts of chilly breeze, father disappeared into the night.
That was the last that I saw of him. I was five back then.
Suddenly, I snapped awake to find myself within the carriage of a train, slowly remembering where I was headed. There were few in the same cart, mostly elderly passengers with heads bobbing drowsily as the rail hummed softly beneath. Outside the window, the vast Corneria moors rolled on to the fringes of the horizon. A few excessive slants of mountains protruded from the beds of heather, like giant, solitary monoliths, and at the base were clusters of trees turned orange by the touch of seasons. All this scenery rolled by as the train proceeded in its hastening schedule. I was at the rural regions of Corneria, aboard an old, dusty carriage. The country did not have the luxury of modern monorails.
I shook my head and looked down. It was this dream again – the dream of father leaving for the Wars of Extradition, when Corneria fought against the first renegade armies of Andross. I received word later that father died in battle as the leader of his platoon. Indeed, he was a colonel in the infantry – a role that may seem insignificant, but could not be overlooked in this case. Father was not a man of influence; nor was he a man of words. He was an agent for the government. A powerful and successful one at that - more like the infantry equivalent of James McCloud. Father led the first successful strike on the Imperial establishments in Venom, but soon he was demised in his missions. Colonel Branwell - a name that brings old wartime patriotism to the hearts of veterans.
I laughed in irony. Colonel Branwell is also my title – or rather, "was." Through the ephemeral glare of the cart windows, I could see myself – a youthful, slender lupine in appearance; a fallen warrior in dignity. During the previous battles, I, too, was a leading colonel – adorned in a simple, sagging blue tunic and a sash, which held my draping pants in place. A long, ancient sword was slung over my back; a symbol of old aristocracies. Indeed, the sword was passed down to me along with my family name, but it does not matter anymore. I have grown up under the crushing weight of those two dangling syllables of expectation. Yet, I have proved myself worthless. No, not in military terms, but to myself – to those closest and dearest to me, and to those who awaited me back home. A dream of the past is a dream of premonition. I should have heeded these signs, these hideous hints at disaster, but it is all too late to salvage me in my current wretched state.
How shall I begin? I suppose I should tell you my name first. I am Summers Branwell. An ironic name, I know, for the current situation resembles nothing like "summer," nor does my personality. I was born in a small, rural township called Crimson Falls– a five-hour drive from the heart of Corneria City it meant. The suburban streets are lined with modest brick and wooden buildings, the remnants of its former glory. I once heard father say that it was a center of research centuries ago. In fact, Andross once conducted secret research in this region. Now all that is left is a particularly grim and undeveloped town. My house was like every other – two stories high, built in timber and painted in white plaster, with my bedroom downstairs and my parents' upstairs. It was here that I grew up. Yes, I remember that one phenomenon had always fascinated me in my childhood – the autumns. The fall of crimson leaves was a sight from which our quiet town's name was derived. All the trees would gradually shed its colorful coat, covering the streets, houses, and everything else in poetic drifts of fallen leaves. And every so often, something would to happen during these times… Yes… autumn is the time when everything happens… Autumn is the time when Laura and I first met.
---To be continued---
Illustration of Laura and Summers:
http://www.justicecadets.com/art/canis/seasonscolor.jpg
By Canis lupus
The door slowly slipped open, and from the excessively narrow slits of my half-closed eyes, I could see father creeping about my bedroom gingerly, taking care not to stir me with the slightest of noises. I pretended to be asleep and lay in bed, observing his every move. Threads of light escaped from the door left ajar, and under the dim surroundings, father sat beside me on the bedside. His hands gently brushed my hair - callous from years of rigorous military training, but tender upon my head. In silence, he sat there, watching. A solemn gaze replaced his usually assertive glare. For once, he seemed almost helpless. Unknown reluctance kept him sitting, but I could see a laser rifle slung over his broad shoulders, the lights glaring against the polished metallic barrel. Where was he going?
The door to my bedroom was pushed further agape, and at the threshold, I could discern the slender silhouette of a young lupine lady, mother.
"Is the child asleep yet?" mother whispered in a sad, wavering voice.
"Yes, Summers is sound asleep," father answered wearily, hands still gliding over my forehead.
He bent over to kiss me on the cheek, then pulled the blanket over me and patted me softly before rising up and leaving my room as quietly as he came in. At the door, the two gathered in a tearful embrace. I could hear mother sobbing silently, and father whispering soft words into her ears. Her shoulders shook as she tried to contain her emotions. Then, with a passionate kiss, father slowly disengaged from her embrace and strode to the house's front door. Mother did not follow. She slowly slid out of his arms and leaned against the walls.
"I'll be back. I promise," father said in a still voice. Yet, his gaze looked infinitely forlorn, like the waning moon of autumn.
Mother could gather no respond – she simply uttered incoherent words, drowned in her muffled sobs. Then, father did not look back; he bolted out of the door. I did not understand why he left us so. Climbing up from bed, I ran to the window and propped my head against the icy panes. On the streets, the bony branches of barren trees tossed and swayed amidst the roaring winds, which rose and fell like a thousand bickering voices. Fallen leaves danced in colorful swirls of yellow, orange, and red. It was autumn, and already, fringes of frost had crept upon the frames of glass. Within the swirls of leaves and gusts of chilly breeze, father disappeared into the night.
That was the last that I saw of him. I was five back then.
Suddenly, I snapped awake to find myself within the carriage of a train, slowly remembering where I was headed. There were few in the same cart, mostly elderly passengers with heads bobbing drowsily as the rail hummed softly beneath. Outside the window, the vast Corneria moors rolled on to the fringes of the horizon. A few excessive slants of mountains protruded from the beds of heather, like giant, solitary monoliths, and at the base were clusters of trees turned orange by the touch of seasons. All this scenery rolled by as the train proceeded in its hastening schedule. I was at the rural regions of Corneria, aboard an old, dusty carriage. The country did not have the luxury of modern monorails.
I shook my head and looked down. It was this dream again – the dream of father leaving for the Wars of Extradition, when Corneria fought against the first renegade armies of Andross. I received word later that father died in battle as the leader of his platoon. Indeed, he was a colonel in the infantry – a role that may seem insignificant, but could not be overlooked in this case. Father was not a man of influence; nor was he a man of words. He was an agent for the government. A powerful and successful one at that - more like the infantry equivalent of James McCloud. Father led the first successful strike on the Imperial establishments in Venom, but soon he was demised in his missions. Colonel Branwell - a name that brings old wartime patriotism to the hearts of veterans.
I laughed in irony. Colonel Branwell is also my title – or rather, "was." Through the ephemeral glare of the cart windows, I could see myself – a youthful, slender lupine in appearance; a fallen warrior in dignity. During the previous battles, I, too, was a leading colonel – adorned in a simple, sagging blue tunic and a sash, which held my draping pants in place. A long, ancient sword was slung over my back; a symbol of old aristocracies. Indeed, the sword was passed down to me along with my family name, but it does not matter anymore. I have grown up under the crushing weight of those two dangling syllables of expectation. Yet, I have proved myself worthless. No, not in military terms, but to myself – to those closest and dearest to me, and to those who awaited me back home. A dream of the past is a dream of premonition. I should have heeded these signs, these hideous hints at disaster, but it is all too late to salvage me in my current wretched state.
How shall I begin? I suppose I should tell you my name first. I am Summers Branwell. An ironic name, I know, for the current situation resembles nothing like "summer," nor does my personality. I was born in a small, rural township called Crimson Falls– a five-hour drive from the heart of Corneria City it meant. The suburban streets are lined with modest brick and wooden buildings, the remnants of its former glory. I once heard father say that it was a center of research centuries ago. In fact, Andross once conducted secret research in this region. Now all that is left is a particularly grim and undeveloped town. My house was like every other – two stories high, built in timber and painted in white plaster, with my bedroom downstairs and my parents' upstairs. It was here that I grew up. Yes, I remember that one phenomenon had always fascinated me in my childhood – the autumns. The fall of crimson leaves was a sight from which our quiet town's name was derived. All the trees would gradually shed its colorful coat, covering the streets, houses, and everything else in poetic drifts of fallen leaves. And every so often, something would to happen during these times… Yes… autumn is the time when everything happens… Autumn is the time when Laura and I first met.
---To be continued---
Illustration of Laura and Summers:
http://www.justicecadets.com/art/canis/seasonscolor.jpg