Inspired and written at school for the introduction into our Romantic era/ transcedental unit. I was sitting on a wet, mossy log with mushrooms by my feet, spiders in my hair and their webs on my shoulders, neck, and face, and dead leaves in my lap, and it was really, really cold. Like 45 degrees Farenheit cold.
THIS IS NOT RELATED TO MY WORLD TRAVELER SERIES.
Dedicated those who love nature and philosophy.
Balthier lay back in a bed of moss, for once not caring that the wet, feathery tendrils left long, rich green smears on the back of his satin vest. Through a narrow hole where he had a clear view of the high, free sky, dark clouds scuttled across the frame of needles the trees created. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with moist, woody air, shivering as the chill penetrated deep inside him. He was cold, by the Gods, how he was cold— not even the golden sunlight reflecting off his bronzed cheek lent him any heat. It was as if the clouds, dissatisfied with simply attempting to obscure the cerulean blue heavens, decided instead to cast their grey pall into the sunshine, rendering even the most glorious beam lifeless and shallow.
The wind, heartless and bitter but welcome company, stirred the tree branches directly over his head, and fiery red leaves cascaded about his body, brushing against his chest and fingertips, but their vibrant colors did not warm him either. The light of the sun that had so briefly filled the leaves with life had been extinguished, snuffed out by the breath of the cruel wind. Now, they scattered, hither and thither, strange, sad little corpses on a foreign battlefield, soon to be trampled underfoot.
One came to rest against a proud, flamboyantly crimson and yellow mushroom, growing from a fallen log. How ironic it was, he mused, that the places of death and decay bore the most nutrients and riches for life. Tiny, late flowers, petals delicate shades of pink, purple, and yellow, nodded their heads at him, showing off their joyous colors.
But not all the log's sorrows had been erased by rebirth. By its roots, a bunch of poisonous berries grew, their red sheen both enticing and warning at the same time. Balthier laughed at nature's twisted sense of humor.
He was interrupted in his mirth by the urgent, aggressive baying of an Imperial Hound close by. In a flash of gold and jade green satin, white silk and brown leather, he was gone, leaving nature to mask the scent of gun smoke, sweat, and metal that he left behind.
Please review, I hope you liked it.