By William Brown
The scent of loss, grief and duty were all markers that suffused his trail in recent days. Their fragrance was felt twofold. Sadness from the Horned God for that great hunter bound within place, as like to bring bounty and fertility there yet further from their sight.
The more subtle and hidden scent was that of love, of sacrifice, of duty. Of the bittersweet nature of parting to one day be reunited.
These became more complex and clear the longer he followed them on this trail awakening in him that which he was before the clarion call of the wild.
He had slept fitfully, recalling the memories of his previous life. Much of this had been forgotten and suppressed and this fresh loss brought a sharpness back to those things hidden deep within like a tall tree falling with a sharp crash in the still woods.
The mornings after dreams of memories and who he was before were always the greyest. Just like in mortal life he tried vainly to snatch at those tantalising memories before his nose yet to lose them the more he tried to grasp for them. The smell of him, the feeling of warmth curled into their body, the rough text of lips and calloused fingers were all there but also the joy of a hunt shared, of life nourished and grown. They had loved and then there had been sacrifice. The darkness of those feelings hung over the mornings like thick mist, and he could not always find the trail. His gratitude persisted at the release this duty had given and swarming behind it thick guilt at such.
Those clouds hung over him in a way they had not done for years.
He was in part who he had been in life and who he was now.
There was no going back, only forwards on the trail and within the journey every day he found the duty settle over him like a comfortable hood. The days he could manage in pursuit of this quarry. It was elusive and running with new purpose yet he would catch them or die in the wild.
As it should be.
