Decland's Last Sunset

Decland stood, watching Annalise and Cella bicker with one another as their spat over the horses escalated. Presently they stood not but a foot apart, heated energies fueling their arguments, each equally adamant and stubborn that their perspective made the most sense. He, however, was the picture of cooolness, leaning against an ancient alderwood trunk, arms folded casually across his chest, emerald eyes lit with mild amusement as they always were when he observed two of the gentler sex battle with snide comments and bitter retorts. A humorous event found in nature: females taking holding opposing stances.

His shoulders dropped slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he let out an inward sigh. With all the fighting already existing, filling the country - if it could still be called a country - with turmoil, with calamity and chaos, it grieved him in a way that they should be fighting amongst themselves. A small band that should stand unified, not casting insults at one another when tensions rose. Decland checked himself, though, watching them, he remembered. The errs of the nation had not spread into them, but each individually still were afflicted by the events that had brought them together to this place. Strife and anguish, suppressed, came unbidden to the surfaces of irrelevant thought and speech, not needing much cause to flow out in an outlet of unconscious despair or anxiety. It was only natural, and Decland understood.

Turning his thoughts from initiation and causes, he dropped his arms and turned his gaze from Cella and Annalise in the direction of the hills and fields, some distance away.

Secluded as they were within the confines of the forest, the thickness of trees obscured any vision of what lay at the edge of their safe haven. But the setting sun was low on the horizon and its fiery orange glow and far reaching beams of light penetrated the line of ancient deciduous trunks and branches, and the clearing they occupied was lit with the comforting glow of late sun; as if hesitant to succumb to the earth's rotation, it clung to this side of the world.

He loved this time of day, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply the musky scent of decaying leaves, living plants and the nostalgic odor of virgin woodland.

Gooseflesh spread over his body and he opened his eyes. The girls had ended their dispute, or at least momentarily, set it aside. They stood at opposite ends of their makeshift camp, occupying themselves with menial tasks. There wasn't silence though; birds chirped to one another in the canopy ceiling above them, an owl hooted from somewhere farther away. Decland relished the moment and decided to walk to the forest's boundary. He deserved to see the sunset once more, if tomorrow's fate was against him.

He worked his way through the trees and vegetation, some springing up from the ground mature bloom, some characterized better as outreached branches, stemming from somewere in the rough, woody brush, clinging to the edges of his hooded sweater. These did not elicit any annoyance or objection from Decland, though, peaceful as he felt meandering through the glowing wood on no specifically designated path. Within minutes he approached the vertical line of forest and field. As the vast expanse came into sight, his emotions welled within him. Those feelings that cannot be defined when the grandeur of nature suddenly consumes through the transfer from sense of sight to an unknown, inward sense that can only be described as movement within the soul.

Overwhelmed, he was still surprised at the simultaneous welling of tears associated with the overflow of any emotion, be it good or bad. Decland breathed deeply, shakily inhaling the fresh air. He closed his eyes once more, this time in an effort to collect himself and suppress the physical aspects of what he felt. Not out of self consciousness, but out of habit; a habit instilled at such a young age.

Standing on the edge just now, he was glad to be alone, able to take it all in without second though or distraction. The sun's light ell over the broad green fields, their color changing in a gradient to an earthy gold as it sunk a little lower on the edge of the gently sloping hills beyond. Facing such beauty, he still could not help but think what events were taking place all those miles away. While he gazed out upon the earth, free, others were already in the dark, looking out in desperate yearning - imprisoned, beaten, oppressed.

He instinctively made a mental gesture of thanks to the powers that be, but not without a sharp twinge of sorrow and its facets of guilt and anger that always accompany his gratitude. Also, though, was the bitter knowledge of having no control, no way to change things, to turn the tide. No way to to save anyone or anything, not even himself. All there was now was hiding and escape. These two things at which he was constantly and progressively improving. Skills honed simply by existing in a place where they were the only two priorities in living outside the camps. The freedom he had felt minutes before slowly diminished, as its make-up of liberty and joy, painted gold in the late spring sun, were shadowed by the darkness of truth he could not deny: that in hiding and running from what was happening to the world there could be no freedom. In this life, it simply did not exist...

Perhaps it was the progression of his thoughts, or the last bit of sun disappearing behind the hills, but Decland now felt a small shiver creep through and crawl up his spine. He furrowed his brow in something like defiance, feeling suddenly uncomfortable as he ruminated that fear, even in its smallest form, could seep between the cracks of his usual solid hope and abounding faith.