A/N: This was written for Round 9 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I, as beater 2 of the Caerphilly Catapults, was assigned to write a story based on the Disney movie Bambi. For judging purposes, the final word count of this story is 1,022. My optional prompts were:
3. (word) effervescent
8. (word) gamble
12. (word) kaleidoscope
Man's Presence
It was immediate. What was once a vast stretch of forest riddled with both creatures and vegetation alike became a lesser Wood fraying at the edges. The wind, once a powerful force ripping through the leaves and whistling the hours as it weaved among the branches, slowed to a stutter. The trees stilled, and the birds and the unicorns and the centaurs ventured out to the edges of the Wood to see what had changed. At the border, they saw their home, receded.
Mile after mile of trails had become plains. Nests and burrows had been swatted down and trampled beneath wand waves and muttered charms. The sun, which had once reflected through prism dew drops in a kaleidoscoped ray, shone dully on the fields, the hills, the lakeside. A heatless flame had torn through the Wood in a fury of colonization, not even leaving ashes in its wake.
A group of four had directed the flame.
One, the Kind Woman, served as a salve for the barren expanse of land. She embedded her home in the soil and enriched it with her efforts. She begged the Wood's blessing and received it gratefully.
Another, the Man of Cunning, carved out his home and lined it with cold, breathless stone. Earth was isolated from earth, nutrients encased in unforgiving barricades. Little would grow in that crypt of space, but over the years, he would find methods of cultivation that forewent the bonds of nature.
A third, the Shrewd Woman, used the land as a foundation; she towered over it with stonework and built an abode above the soil's reach. She observed it from the top, watched as the Wood's chaos gradually lessened. When things calmed, she fell more trees, waved her wand until they were sliced to flimsy sheets and bound. She stacked them on the carved, stained marrow of their brethren. As the rest of the Four thirsted for the lake water, she thirsted for the dried ink on each patch of tree flesh.
The final, the Man of Courage, walked the land in search of the greatest vantage point. Upon finding none so close to his companions, he followed the example of the Shrewd and built upward. He spent days on the rooftop, overlooking what was yet left untouched. He gambled himself on the edge, leaning as if wanting to feel the muted breeze.
The breeze that had fled.
The breeze he had vanquished.
The creatures in the Wood adapted over time. Territories changed. Migration patterns adjusted. Bird and faun coincided out of necessity as the tree line continued to recede. As stone was stacked in the East, both dividing and solidifying the Four, paths were forged within the Wood to unite those inside its borders.
One, a small Thestral, its legs still knobbed from the womb, its lips still wet with its mother's milk, wandered these paths. He took in the trees in their unmoving posts. He raced alongside unicorns and felt the air of their manes cool his pelt. He nuzzled with rabbits and stumbled after birds. He memorized each turn and root within the Wood, and despite the muttered groaning of his neighbors, he decided it was good.
He grew slowly and watched as the Four aged. Stone became chipped; skin became loose. A creature's muted call echoed through the dirt from the stone castle, but never approached. When one of the Four left, another greyed overnight. Visitors became more frequent. The grounds accumulated paths and domesticated vegetation and imprints of feet as they wandered closer to the Wood, and when Four grew to Twenty and Twenty to Fifty and Fifty to One Hundred, feet began to venture into the Wood.
The Thestral was frail and fading before the trespassers became an issue, but even then he urged his herd to live in peace. His final act was to offer his service to the One Hundred in providing safe passage to the castle for its young, a service that would carry on long after he had rejoined the earth.
His own young grew in harmony with the castle in the upcoming years. They had nearly forgotten the tales of days past when the Wood stretched beyond the hills. They couldn't recall the Four or even the Twenty or Fifty. All they knew was their quiet coexistence with the castle and its effervescent flock of youth. Each was the same—small, loud, unseeing—until the One.
She had quietly approached each member of the herd on her first visit. She had nodded in greeting, had thanked them for their help in getting to the castle, had warned them against creatures that they had neither encountered nor heard.
The next day, she had returned with tokens and treats, finding them at the border of the forest. Her delicate form never buckled beneath the presence of the larger creatures. She simply offered her tidings and left. She would return the next week and the week after that. Her presence was never felt as an adversity. She was one with the Wood, and the herd took to her.
When she begged for their service years later, they were pleased to help. If only they had known what would follow.
Dozens of moons were spent in tense silence and fragile concord. The Thestrals followed the lead of their forefather and lived in peace until the armies came. They fought to protect their land, a task that grew more and more difficult as the war raged on and they became more visible to the outside world. As part of the herd fled toward a far corner of the Wood in escape, a direct descendant of the forefather arched through the sky to assess the battle. Youth and leaders alike were assembled on the open grounds, firing light from their wands and shouting in anguish and anger. Upon seeing the One in the midst, he angled down to save her.
He didn't see the curse streaking his way, but as its impact thrust him backward and he barreled toward the ground, he wandered if the feeling of falling was similar to the original summer breeze.