eternal
Unto the Beginning: Prologue
Kyrastri
A/N: I'm back, I'm back... Though I doubt anyone's remembered me. /ouch
Either way, here's a small work I wrote up. It's supposed to be ambiguous, and hopefully I'll be able to flesh out this little tale in my spare time of my spare time. If that makes sense.
I'm working on a very big project already, known as 44. A small segment, Death by Midnight, was uploaded here a year ago, which you can still check out. Except it's spiralled well beyond that initial segment, and is currently 147k in word length. If I ever create a beginning, I'll post it here.
-K
time-
In the depths of a forest, at the end of a path, a cottage lays, waiting. Overgrown, rotting, and falling into disrepair, it defiantly stands, braving the elements.
It had not seen a visitor in some time- the door creaks in protest as it opens- yet the contents of the cottage lay in disarray, as if time had destroyed the tranquility of the place.
-summer-
In the depths of a timeless forest, at the end of a stone path, a hidden cottage lays, waiting. It had housed a young family of four, the joy and warmth of that time still in the peeling walls.
In the sitting room, a dusty bow lay above the mantelpiece, brittle from no use. The father, a Bowmaster in his prime, treasured the bow as if it were a member of the family.
During the summers, he would return victorious from his day's work. His wife would welcome him home with a kiss and a towel in the face. The night would fill with raucous laughter, the delightful sound of of music seeping into the warm air.
-autumn-
In the depths of a fading forest, at the end of a disappearing path, an abandoned cottage lays, waiting. Leaves rustle, filling the silence absent from childish laughter and music that filled it in earlier days.
In the dining room, a grand piano sits, with the lid up. Yellowed sheets of paper sit upon the stand, and many of the strings have snapped. The mother, a well-known Bishop from town, loved playing the piano in her spare time. She was at heart, a musician.
In the autumn afternoons, after the wind had gently scattered the leaves raked that morning, music could be heard from that room. Her children would enjoy it in silence, lulled to sleep by the peaceful melodies.
It filled their long days, where days often too hot for a coat and scarf yet too cold for a shirt meant that lengthy hours were spent inside, gazing outside at the falling leaves.
-winter-
In the depths of a dark forest, at the end of a winding path, a lifeless cottage lays, waiting. Slathered with ice and covered in snow, it slowly rots in agonised silence.
In a little room with vibrant walls, a paint can lays on its side, the spilled paint long dry. The daughter longed for arts long gone, badgering her parents for paint and other utensils. She would never paint the forest, for she claimed that the forest followed her wherever she went.
The forest was never ending, timeless. Relentless. Unforgiving.
Instead, she was often seen painting the landscapes she had never known; the sea, the sky, the fields. Never the forest, for it was unyielding. It would always welcome her home, ever the same.
The last unfinished portrait still hanging on the wall, untouched, is of a rotting cottage in the woods. Having never finished painting over the sketchy lines of the forest, she remained true to herself even in her last days.
-spring-
In the depths of an old forest, at the end of a cracked path, a dying cottage lays, drawing its last breath. It had lived a timely age, and was overgrown by the plants that have since claimed the land as its territory.
The crumbling cottage, once of life, tells a sombre story. A Bowmaster lived with a respected Bishop that had retired due to illness, instead passing her days in a small cottage in the middle of a forest outside of town.
Their peaceful days, punctuated only by laughter and music, were shattered when their youngest child, a young boy, went missing. Silence built up in the still air, cold and relentless. The bishop's illness grew worse.
Nobody in town heard from the family after that. Time moved on, and man forgot the small family of the cottage. Even so, a traveller will occasionally wander into the forest, never to be seen again.
-end-
In the depths of a forest, at the end of a path, a cottage lays. Drawn to dust by the living forest, the same, welcoming embrace draws you closer.
"Welcome home."