06-23-2020, 01:23 AM
The Majik was dying.
Mistra sighed and stood up in the crook of her favorite tree to survey her once beautiful forest.
Her grand Cedar was aging as well, the bark fraying, the once shiny needles covered in grey.
Not but a few hundred years ago she was the protector of all she could see here… from the tiny sprites to the ogre that lived in the pond.
When the People first intruded on her lands she had tried to communicate, tried to fold them into the harmony that she had made.
It was a disaster.
They were not a part of Nature and had no Majik.
They were cruel.
War was not an option to those who lived and breathed and loved and learned from each other in the forest. It was a foreign concept.
So they faded back into the places that were still safe and waited, hoping that this intrusion was some sort of anomaly that would solve itself and just go away.
It did not.
Trees were cut, lands cleared, habitats destroyed as the People built homes from the dead pieces of the forest.
The People were frail and weak. They could not withstand the elements and had to cover themselves with the dead skin of the forest’s denizens. They could not feed themselves and had to eat the flesh of the forest’s rightful owners.
But they bred like flies and there was no stopping their slaughter.
It was not long until the smaller Majikal creatures slipped away.
Then the larger ones left as well, moving farther towards where the sun landed at the end of the day.
Until Mistra was alone but she could not leave.
This was her forest, after all.
A noise!
The snap of a limb trod on, the harsh breath of the People on the wind.
They were finally coming for her.
She had listened to them enough to learn some of their language, as guttural as it was.
They feared her.
They blamed her on children dying in their cradles, blamed her on the failure of a crop, a horse that went lame, the spoiling of the milk.
They blamed her on everything that she wasn’t and were going to kill her.
Mistra sighed again and tested her wings.
Like gossamer they once were and carried her everywhere.
Now they were tattered and torn… they would take her nowhere but down.
“So this is my end” she thought.
But it won’t be the end of Majik.
She would give a Gift to the People’s children, that they would see a little bit of Majik and make them wonder, make them smile, make them think about something new and good.
Even a little bit of Majik in the world was better than none.
She dug her claws into Cedar and pulled PULLED with everything she had in her, drawing through the tree to the ground below.
Collecting all the Majik she could find… all the Majik she could hold.
Then even more… until she was too much Majik and not enough pixie to ever be right again.
There was a noise… she realized she was screaming.
No matter.
Mistra focused and said the Word.
Her last memory was the sight of her spell scattering to the four winds.
Of her scattering to the four winds as well.
Thousands of butterflies erupted from the branch of the dying cedar, little pieces of color and sunshine and beauty.
A thousand pieces of what Mistra was.
They took wing and scattered to every nook and cranny of the forest.
So that children could find them and wonder.
The End.
(From ATS writing contest. Topic "You as Another Lifeform")
Mistra sighed and stood up in the crook of her favorite tree to survey her once beautiful forest.
Her grand Cedar was aging as well, the bark fraying, the once shiny needles covered in grey.
Not but a few hundred years ago she was the protector of all she could see here… from the tiny sprites to the ogre that lived in the pond.
When the People first intruded on her lands she had tried to communicate, tried to fold them into the harmony that she had made.
It was a disaster.
They were not a part of Nature and had no Majik.
They were cruel.
War was not an option to those who lived and breathed and loved and learned from each other in the forest. It was a foreign concept.
So they faded back into the places that were still safe and waited, hoping that this intrusion was some sort of anomaly that would solve itself and just go away.
It did not.
Trees were cut, lands cleared, habitats destroyed as the People built homes from the dead pieces of the forest.
The People were frail and weak. They could not withstand the elements and had to cover themselves with the dead skin of the forest’s denizens. They could not feed themselves and had to eat the flesh of the forest’s rightful owners.
But they bred like flies and there was no stopping their slaughter.
It was not long until the smaller Majikal creatures slipped away.
Then the larger ones left as well, moving farther towards where the sun landed at the end of the day.
Until Mistra was alone but she could not leave.
This was her forest, after all.
A noise!
The snap of a limb trod on, the harsh breath of the People on the wind.
They were finally coming for her.
She had listened to them enough to learn some of their language, as guttural as it was.
They feared her.
They blamed her on children dying in their cradles, blamed her on the failure of a crop, a horse that went lame, the spoiling of the milk.
They blamed her on everything that she wasn’t and were going to kill her.
Mistra sighed again and tested her wings.
Like gossamer they once were and carried her everywhere.
Now they were tattered and torn… they would take her nowhere but down.
“So this is my end” she thought.
But it won’t be the end of Majik.
She would give a Gift to the People’s children, that they would see a little bit of Majik and make them wonder, make them smile, make them think about something new and good.
Even a little bit of Majik in the world was better than none.
She dug her claws into Cedar and pulled PULLED with everything she had in her, drawing through the tree to the ground below.
Collecting all the Majik she could find… all the Majik she could hold.
Then even more… until she was too much Majik and not enough pixie to ever be right again.
There was a noise… she realized she was screaming.
No matter.
Mistra focused and said the Word.
Her last memory was the sight of her spell scattering to the four winds.
Of her scattering to the four winds as well.
Thousands of butterflies erupted from the branch of the dying cedar, little pieces of color and sunshine and beauty.
A thousand pieces of what Mistra was.
They took wing and scattered to every nook and cranny of the forest.
So that children could find them and wonder.
The End.
(From ATS writing contest. Topic "You as Another Lifeform")