A Lute's Lament

The forest whispered with the crackling of frostbitten wood, an odd symphony playing beneath the tranquil shroud of snow, where the signs of life lay hidden beneath a serene white blanket.

Sprawling dark clouds decorated the evening-tinted heavens, mirroring the intricate pattern of twisted branches below. As the moon rose, a silvery glow washed over the woods, unveiling a pair of eyes shining like twin stars.

A lone crow perched on the tallest tree's branches, its piercing black eyes reflecting the image of an aimless figure walking below.

The bird turned its head, observing the individual's laborious advance. With each step, the breath grew louder, a ghostly exhale rippling through the ethereal threshold amid the twisted trees.

Mist spiraled from his lips like ethereal serpents, his breath weaving through the forest gloom, each puff painting his face in the air — transient yet haunting.

Despite his young age, his attire was an ode to old tales, forged from the rugged hide of unknown creatures. Each piece told a story, bearing the weight of time.

His eyes held the essence of the forest's nocturne, verdant pools gleaming with an emerald fire. Set in a face as pale as snow, they were enigmatic wells promising untold depths, a living contradiction against the muted world around him.

His eyes were ethereal portals, windows through which one could glimpse the depths of his soul — a riddle concealed within a labyrinth of perplexity and forsaken recollections.

Flecks of amber danced in his green eyes, a silent defiance burning within, refusing to yield to the wilderness that threatened to suffocate his spirit.

An unwavering fear lay bare, a specter haunting many mothers' hearts, seizing their souls when it came to their cherished offspring. In the depths of hopelessness, individuals found themselves adrift, mere shadows of their former selves, stripped of identity, and wrestling with profound loneliness and overwhelming helplessness.

In his skinny hands, he held an old lute, its worn frame marked with scratches and scars. The first string trembled as his bloodied finger slid over it.

The melody was a lifeline, a singular familiarity in the midst of chaos. His fingers didn't just play the lute; they sought it out, channeling a yearning through each tentative chord.

The cautious notes he plucked made him pause. With the first note, his eyes darted to his feet.

He was hungry. Each movement sent shivers of agony through his frail frame, the cold gnawing at his bones and intensifying the relentless ache.

As the poets of old sang, when the heart's torment eclipsed the body's afflictions, the mind sought refuge in the shadows, a fragile veil between hope and despair.

Bricks upon bricks formed a dome around his thoughts, distancing them from nightmares. The fragile line between protection and the abyss was on the verge of breaking.

On the second note, a salty droplet formed on his cornea, capturing a hint of familiarity but finding itself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Thoughts that were once vivid now appeared empty, like a blank canvas awaiting a skilled artist's touch.

The conflicts tormenting his tired soul were more vast and intricate than his wildest imagination could comprehend.

Three words accompanied the third note that resonated through the stillness. Whispering his name, "Asdras," he felt a shard of his old self flicker within.

The fourth note invoked the word "fire" in his mind. It was as if a dormant fire had been kindled within him, infusing his body with newfound vitality. With each stride, he tore through the snow, leaving a trail of blurred footprints.

The crow observed as he dashed across branches and rocks, mindlessly avoiding each obstacle with dexterity without losing his rhythm.

The fifth note emanated a haunting cry from his lute, resembling a nocturnal raven's call. Hungry tears filled his eyes as he spotted a rabbit running amidst the frozen bushes.

Together, they pursued the animal as the crow aided him, like in old tales of ravens teaching young wolves how to hunt.

With the lute strapped to his back, Asdras' primal instinct guided his hands, tearing into the rabbit with a fury born of survival. He did not glance at the crow as he offered a share of his spoils, an unspoken pact sealed in that moment.

The sixth note carried the tune of windy snowflakes as he rose from the ground. A pair of yellow eyes glowed between the dark trees.

A snow leopard surged forward, its lithe body driven by the howling wind. With the grace of a dancer, it extended its claw, targeting the boy's exposed core. Reflexively, he twisted to escape but froze abruptly, an eerie stillness overtaking him.

The silvery claws left their marks on his lute. The taut strings' melodic progression turned into a discordant cacophony.

A ghostly echo lingered from the creature's restrained breath. He turned, redirecting his gaze. Two figures, one a mere child and the other a wild creature, stood poised before each other.

Their eyes, brimming with feral intensity, locked in a wordless exchange, conveying the untamed power coursing through their veins — to survive.

The crow swooped down, attacking the leopard's head with its sharp beak. The lute, bearing a deep scar from the encounter, hit the ground, facing the sky.

The eighth note resonated through the icy air, a harbinger of the flames that now danced from Asdras' hands. He moved with desperation, his fingers finding the beast's throat even as its jaws clamped down on his arm.

The beast's teeth were buried in his burned flesh. His hands reached for the beast's head as the crow dug out the leopard's eyes.

An icy gale forced the ninth broken note as Asdras' animalistic anger consumed his last bit of strength.

His body embraced the snow. Blood splattered like red wine around him. The dead beast lay lifeless across Asdras' torso.

The crow landed on the lute, its glossy black feathers shimmering in the moon's glow. It perched as a vigilant sentinel, observing the trials and transformations beneath the shroud of dusk.

In that brief instant, the otherworldly resonance of the final note scattered into the tapestry of their interconnected fates.

Asdras' last breath danced in the air, his vision filled with blurry images as a dark feather brushed his face.

In the distance, the crow's sharp cry pierced the air, its ominous call carrying across the landscape.

Echoing footsteps grew steadily louder. A faint gibberish voice neared the boy as a dark curtain veiled his senses.

He felt a sensation of movement, a gentle rocking that cradled the harshness of reality away, if only for a moment.

Asdras found himself in a wagon that was moving unevenly as his consciousness gradually returned.

His eyelids, heavy with the burdens of a nightmarish dream, strained against the desire to remain closed as pain throbbed behind them.

With weary determination, he forced his eyes to part, their trembling struggle evident in the slow blink of lashes as they fluttered open.

The interior of the wagon greeted his efforts — a rustic, weathered chamber of old, pallid wood. Coarse blankets draped haphazardly, their corners curling over makeshift covers and bedding.

A sharp yell from outside shattered the eerie quiet, cutting through the earthy scents of peltry and corn. The soft murmur of wheels against the road almost put him in a trance.

The wagon shuddered to a halt, its wooden frame creaking in protest. Asdras angled himself to look at the entrance.

An old man with a visage that spoke of a life well lived appeared in the frame. Dressed in pale gray vestments, he carried an aura of reverence and wisdom.

Beside him stood a boy, around eleven years old, with tousled dark hair and a mischievous gleam in his eyes. His brown skin blended with his leather vest adorned with cloth patches, and a wide grin stretched across his face as he regarded Asdras with curiosity.

"Hello," the old man smiled as he neared him. "Feeling better?"

Asdras looked confused, unsure whether to nod, speak, or look around.

"You have a good fate, y'see. If a crow had not played my good assistance to his anger, we wouldn't find your body lying down."

"Yup, that's right," the boy drawled, spreading his arms wide. "We were gathering herbs when that crow stirred up a ruckus right above my head. I gave chase, and behold, there you were, sprawled out with a big ol' leopard over you. Did you kill it?"

Asdras tried to sit up, but the stress and weakness in his burned arms caused him to fall back. His eyes darted slowly as his senses faded again.

"Hurry up, Brian, bring me that bag in the corner," the man said softly while checking Asdras. "Not the right corner, you idiot, the left."

"Gosh darn it, old priest," he said, sidestepping to get behind the old man and opening the bag. "He's gonna be alright, ain't he?"

"Place your trust in Saint Rose, and all shall be well," the priest intoned reverently as he examined the scorched flesh.

"Hey, ain't that more like a crow tattoo on his hands?" Brian pointed over Asdras' palms, his eyes squinting in curiosity.

"By the grace of Saint Rose, this unfortunate child is cursed..."