A/N: Inspired by the famous elk hunting scene from beginning. Couldn't resist, mate. ;)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
The forest has not been disturbed in these parts for a long time. Months have passed and only padded paws and edged hoofs have disturbed its leaves. Only the cougar has brushed past its ferns. Only the antlers of the elk have torn its bark. The hoofs of the elk have pounded their rhythm in the earth at the shores of its streams; the bugle of the bull as he calls for a mate has been the greatest disturbance of the forest's quiet.
The forest has not felt this kind of presence for many seasons. Heavy panting, the footfalls of a long stride, mists parted by pumping arms and a long rifle. He runs wild, a center of gravity for a range of riddles, no more bound by laws than his zeal by his body. The forest's valleys and wayward streams are no hindrance. He jumps its gulfs with moccasin-muffled grace and pursues, hindered in his speed only by a cotton shirt.
A second tattoo is felt by the forest, this one easier to recognize, like a heartbeat. Lighter, faster footfalls, only the sweep of hair and he is gone, flying through the branches with his arms spread for balance. He is tall, not crouched, and each disturbed leaf whispers apologies as he passes for not moving with the wind that moves him.
The third beat is lower, weighty with age. The forest feels its closeness, as though each step presses into the soil with greater familiarity than the others'. It will not be long before he runs no more and his feet are always near the earth, until he is laid in it. Yet still he runs, slower, crafting through hidden pathways the forest thought had been forgotten.
The two beats have joined, the cotton shirt is gone, the rifle flies of its own accord before it is snatched from the air between the two. Another stream, another ridge, and then the frantic beat of the elk tears across the sudden silence—all three have stopped, breathless.
And then three breathe and the elk does not.