The forest continues, unabated, for as long as the eye can see. The trees stretch skyward, leafless and gray on this overcast fall day, and the farther trunks obscure sightlines. The man walks on, accompanied by the ravens, who periodically take flight to perch on lone branches, far ahead. He turns and twists the dull black knife in his hand, and distance becomes meaningless as his mind moves inward.
Memory: It is raining, a cold rain that soaks quickly into the skin, hard drops coming in multitudes from low thunderclouds. They step outside, and she presses against him, her mouth finding his in a kiss filled with passion, and he embraces her, bodies tight together. Tongues meet, and she runs her hands through his hair as he caresses the back of her neck, one arm wrapped around her waist. She whispers "Pin me" in a low whisper, filled with urgency, and he complies, one hand sliding over her thigh, her leg wrapped around his, the kiss breaking only to draw breath.
Later he recalls further kisses, embraces.. conversation held hand-in-hand. As he dreams that waking dream, he sees that the raven called Memory has become sharper, more detailed, more substantial. The real world paled in comparison, shadowed and dark against that black-feathered avian, and he in turn looked into the man and quorked, in a voice of thunder and ice-furied blizzards, power of centuries behind the words "This is the power of Memory..."
Revisiting the Red Howlers
1 year ago