Today the forest is beautiful, 

The trees have already started to shed leaves of orange and crimson. The sun lights it’s rays through the branches swaying in the wind, Down in the forest floor, patches of green mix with fallen leaves and the damp soil. The air carries with it a chill signaling the march of winter, ever approaching and giving breath form to be seen.

 The birds sing to each other in their own unique tongues, chatting, arguing and trying to convince a mate. The squirrels follow suit although more arguing than anything else, crunching of leaves echoes as they search for the food sporadically hidden from nosy neighbors.

At the small creek a deer lowers its head to drink, the antlers having grown large enough to dip in the mist of the water ahead of his snout. He is old and proud, having earned his antler’s size. Many years and seasons spent well. But now he grows older and has lost the energy of his youth. He raises his head from the water and looks towards the horizon. The sun raising over the mountains, a portrait only the natural forces could paint.

A sound is heard, the wind given form. Followed by a strange pain in his chest. Before he realizes it his antlers that had been his pride lays on the ground propping up his head slightly. He lays their trying to breath, but the air won’t come. He tries to move but his body won’t listen. And then he sees it. The darkness stepping out of the shadow. The void only visible to him and him alone. It stands tall, taller than any of his rivals could of ever been. A mass of darkness with the skull of one of his brethren. He is terrified wanting to scream but yet again his lungs disobey him.

“Be calm my child.” The spirit’s voice is not heard, yet it still resonates with him. “I have watched over your life. You have been strong, and worthy. But now it is time for you to rest.”

A hunter emerges from the brush holding his bow as he slowly walks towards them.

The spirit turns toward the hunter, “This winter would of seen your death. The cold would of taken you in the dead of the night, torturing you with the winds and the snow. So I chose to steal your death from the winter. To grant you one without knowing pain... Unfortunately I cannot stop the fear.” The Spirit turns back to him. Even with no eyes, he can sense the spirit’s sorrow. “I wish I could help you more, but this is the best way. I chose a hunter of good morale and pride. He will end you mercifully and not waste what you leave in this world.”

The hunter finally reaches the once proud deer, kneeling beside it. He brandishes a knife holding it firmly at his chest in both hands. The hunter begins to thank the spirits, then the deer, promising all that he had just heard.

“Come child,” The spirit resonates his voice once more, “Let us join your ancestors.”

The deer without realization stands, no longer does he need to demand of his body. No longer must he force so little breath. His steps no longer make sound as he follows the figure he once feared. Now all he feels is the warmth as the air turns to a fresh spring. And he sees friends of past, dancing in a meadow of tall grasses and grains. The figure is gone, and while he would like to question where, he is over come with a feeling of joy in belonging to the meadow.

But had he questioned; he would have seen the figure in the shadow watching over the meadow. And known even without an expression from the spirit, that it was experiencing the same joy of watching another of his children rejoin him.