Twine

[Son of the King]

There was barely a path, in the beginning. Just a hint of flattened undergrowth, twisting, winding, deeper into the woods.

Upturned stumps and fallen trunks the landmarks, the way opening into the endless green. Green and brown, stems and needles, towering and creaking. A clearing. The pines encircled it as if placed with purpose, enclosing the mossy floor in a protective wall. A sanctuary. We placed a stick.

Then more fallen giants, calling us onwards. An interesting birch; one, two, a whole glade. A great fir, it's lower boughs an island in the sea of green. We placed a stick.

Through the boughs, a hint of stone. The cliff rose high, mossy ground surrounding the base where the trees couldn't find purchase. More trees atop the cliff, the forest going on forever. We scrambled and clambered up, looking back along the path. There was barely a path.

The land fell away on all sides, as did time.

Back for tea. Until the next time.

And again, there was barely a path. Just a hint of flattened undergrowth, bringing us back to the first stick. Retracing the route to the second, and to the cliff. The wall. The tower. Into the birch glade. The palace. The armoury. The sacred woods. The Treeeater.

From the clifftop we could see a rise, a smallish mound with its own stand of birch. The undergrowth was thick that way, there was no path at all. Atop the mound, a flat spot amongst the trunks. Deadwood lay around, and we took twine and tied it up, laying more fallen branches on the sides, building a quiet den. A spot only we knew.

Back again, and again. Retracing our steps, the quests legendary. Cricket by the cliff, and sword-making, spear throwing.

There was more of a path by now, up to the first stick. The route clear for more than just ourselves and deer. A tree from atop the cliff had fallen, it's tallest branches amongst the moss with its roots up to the sky. The den on its small rise cracked and fallen. The adventures continued, the forest moving about us. New fallen trees, new overgrown thickets, new deer paths in the undergrowth.

Time.

There was barely a path, in the beginning. Now the dried needles mark the route as clearly as the trail. The stumps and mossy mounds, the fallen trunks sunken and brittle, returning to the soil. The glade remains, but the stick is gone. The path continues through the wrong way, unheeding, unknowing, ignorant of the tales and histories. Away from the path, across the remnants of the giants, the fir cut adrift amongst the green waves.

Adventures and quests, stories and legends are just shadows. Ghosts in the woods. I look to the cliff, hard and grey, standing tall and unchanged amongst the ruins. To the rise, with no sign of a den. There's still no path here, the undergrowth as thick as ever, crossing the deeps to the birch island, the trees still standing strong.

And on the trunks, holding fast or being held?

Twine.