Dark Forest

You are in a dark forest. Trees entangle themselves in every direction, and the canopy is a furious mass of branches and leaves. You dwell in the gloom. 

The forest is vast, and deep; and wears its ages on every knotted trunk, across its treacherous roots. All that you know is it’s dimness, sheathed in fog and in doubt. You wander. 

There are paths. Unseen others have passed this way through the grass, left marks where their passage widened undergrowth or sheered branches. Some of it is only the tool of measly hands, already fading into obscurity when you happen upon it. But others have been industrious: cutting and sheering, great trees older than you can imagine felled like the corpses of giants. Unfamiliar sunshine peers through those malevolent gaps, as if you must gaze upon those mighty works and despair. 

Sometimes in the night there are voices, snatches of words you do not understand. Whispers in the undergrowth agonizingly near punctuated by unseen tread. Sometimes there are shouts. Screams. A cacophony announces one trunk after another falling to merciless earth and it seems like a terrible omen. You taste ash, smoke. Orange flickers here and there amongst the greenery and it sends you reeling back into the shadows. 

Something tells you deep down inside that discovery is foolish. Fatal. You silence your steps until walking is more like gliding and even then, even now, you feel watched by a thousand scrupulous eyes. Measuring. Contemplating. Preparing. Stones and sticks, then spears and slings. Anything to keep a safe illusion draped across your shoulders, and you warm yourself by that daydream when you set the forest ablaze. Hoping it will drive them all away. 

But when the fires slacken, when the smoke clears and your armory of stones becomes too great to burden yourself with— the dark forest remains.