The leaves were a faint and sickly brown, clenched in folds frozen and ugly. Yet they emanated a soft golden light that came as wafting beams, cold sunlight that seemed to stand out, as though a silhouette, on the general dullness of the area. The leaves spun slowly, feebly clinging to the grey–brown branches of the infinite amount of trees that were firm despite their unattractive, fleshy and peeling bark. Bumps and ridges streamed up the immense trunk, an aged brown edged sparsely with a moss-green. The eye was clouded, if one would have looked above, with the branches entangled in cumbersome and sparse randomness without pattern or end.

The sky was a milky white, disrupted by sudden upward fissures of deepening shadows that broke the paragon of that true and defined colour. The unborn blue of the day was veiled entirely apart from mere pockets and roots of the sky’s canvas amongst where the sun, without visible outline, shone through the clouds as a colourless silver and light. Feeble gasps of moisture cold to one’s face breathed upon the air, a slight rain died out quickly and sharply, its icy mark lasting upon one’s cheek.

A sharpened encrusting of a liquid sunlight blinked to and fro amongst the meandering of the water. It flowed in a bobbing demeanour, silhouetting shadows that shrank and swam across the miniature hills of ghostly cerulean that seemed so sharp in their edges of slightly frothing knives of a brilliant white foam, but soft, yet still piercing in its coolness at the touch of one’s fingers sifting through the transparent mirrors and worlds that were the waters. It sloshed and rose feebly, the flowing slight, precise, and constantly repeating in its path. The path a trench dug at nature’s hand, an imperfect line through the earth. A river. It sat, winding almost invisibly through the maze of trees, the forest.

Closest to it was a lone tree, bowing in infinite yet slight worship in its stance beside the river. From the perspective of the birds above it would seem that its empty branches were etched into the waters, or that it was some shadow, some trick of the eye that was somehow burned into the flowing mirror of constantly breaking brightness. It was empty and deceased, a vestigial shell and a body without soul

A lone crow was perched rigid, swaying ever so slightly in its stance, upon a single briar that swung, unbalanced, away from its original root and bush that gathered beneath the roots of that tree, yet did not even touch it, not reacting to its physical existence. The many thorns were a powdery magenta that were extraordinarily soft until the sharpening of the upper curves, a sting that broke one’s skin at a mere prick. The splintered flesh of the branches were a stale, dead brown.

The crow seemed aged, though still handsome. Its feathers were partially and gently ruffled, though there was still an edge and hint of a silver sheen on its greying black feathers. The neck was set and prominent in both its height and stature. The eyes were an olive green tinged with an abstract and dull ghost of grey. Once, the crow blinked, but only once, in a mere flicker. For a shadow had crossed and melted across the watery surface of its eye. The stillness of the moment had been disrupted awkwardly and abruptly. The crow, in a flutter and resounding batter was swept away by its instinct of absolute fear and uneasiness. It now cruised the horizon of an oncoming storm in the distance.

That shadow from before now settled at the foot of the shadowed tree, strangely detached from any visible source. It was a strange and transparent dark grey; its silhouette was almost unnoticeable if not for its sudden and eerie movement. It twisted and contorted the rest of its entirely massless shape to merely move a single muscle. It moved its visible head in this same manner, seeming vaguely and almost humanoid in its shape, childlike and small. The shadow then cocked its head inquisitively, now almost still, as if it were listening, its perspective came across through whatever eyes it seemed to have as a warped strand of light, colours and vague shapes drifted and seeped through it, strangely slowed down. The shadow lifted its hand, hesitating, and then knocked its hand against the jet-black bark of the tree.

The tree stirred, and an intake of breath seemed to gather around the hem of its branches.
They seemed to contract, shake and vibrate incoherently with the words that seeped through the gaps and knots that riddled its body, that were not even as black as the bark itself, black holes into void of blackness, yet still lighter than the shadow that was the faultless skin and veil of the supreme dark tree;

“For it has been written, said, and finally soon to be wished,
That my only son will be high and lifted up, twice finished.”

There was a shuddering and whispered sigh as the darkness literally shed itself off the thin air of its physical existence, sliding off it slowly and mechanically, as though the tree was exhaling deeply. There was nothing beneath, and there was a faint breath of wind combined with the many ghosts of malevolent laughter. It span mournfully, in a monotone, into the air and faded from one’s hearing.

There was now an empty circle of thorns, as though the tree had never been. Within it now walked the shadow, it seemed to sit and cross its legs. It was now relaxed, leaning back against where the tree’s trunk had been, as though it was still there. It looked somehow content and satisfied in its body language and its seemingly excited tension.

A rattling and rasping whisper issued from where its mouth should have been, the words distorted to the point of no audibility, it rose and was emphasized;

“Dear Father, for all it would take, for me to be whole,
The future within, its body, but not its soul.”

-

The sun was now a blurred watermark upon a soft blue sky that was scarred with the far off ridges of the clouds, which were few. The light was a creamy white-yellow without warmth, and uncomfortably piercing to the eye.

A little girl strode through the dead leaves, a rattling echo that died quickly after its birth and resounding. The girl stopped and tilted her head on her left shoulder, her right hand, clenched in a fist, swung heavily behind her.

She wore an ebony frock that was interlaced with a dark but brilliant crimson. It was frumpy on her breast and waist, sticking out rather oddly and awkwardly past her thighs. It was very old fashioned, and it looked as though it had certainly aged. Dust still clung to it in small beads within its crevices and creases. There was a strong smell from it that, although not entirely unpleasant, was certainly not preferable.

Her hair was a black that shone weakly in the light with a gloss of dead blue. It had split largely at its ends. It was long and straight, dead skin from her scalp clung as white dust to what greasy roots were visible, for much of her head was hidden by the battered bonnet that greatly matched her dress. It revealed only her uneven fringe and was peppered with holes.

At her side in her left hand was an open umbrella that also matched her outfit. Its frame was rusted and contorted out of recognisable shape so that it would not open or close any further. It was also useless in the fact that it had been ripped and torn, as though on purpose at a pathetic attempt to perhaps stylise it according to the remainder of her attire. The material on it was now hanging and swinging off it in stripped ribbons.
The girl wore large boots that were a greying black pelted with the greying beige mud and dirt. They were almost broken at both heels. They proved to large to fit her, the laces were gone, the soles and tongues missing.

Her skin was a marble and chalky white, her face chiselled unevenly, awkward, muddled and sharp. She was not a pretty sight to behold at all, let alone her attire and bitter expression. A smile would have seemed unfitting, unnatural on her face. Her eyes were large, oval and a deep grey, appearing to be a deep red in the right light. Heavy black makeup was smeared and diced across her face at general random, as though a child had scribbled it.

She stopped at the foot a tree. So dull in its appearance, for the sight was multiplied before her eyes as the surrounding forest, it acted as a fierce and intense contrast to what lay above.

The leaves above seemed like golden stars dipped in sparse slivers of molten rock on an orange web of fire. The branches now seemed an inky jet-black, etched into this display.

She knelt down; her sleeves dragged amongst clenched digits up high, tight and snug. Her eyes were full and gleamed dully and sadly, almost enviously, at the beauty above. Her voice was small and meek, it squeaked at all the wrong areas and times. It broke sometimes, cracking on her pronunciation;

“Oh, how I would have it so, the secret of beauty for me to know.
For me to shed this shell, this skin, to become a star, both out and in.”

She drooped her head, and then sobbed into her hands. The sleeves had now slid down, revealing deep scars that ran along her wrists that seemed to have been sliced open repeatedly, and purposefully, for they seemed to be tattooed onto her skin. Dry blotches of purple and a dull blue edged with a vague brown lined them, smudged with bruises.

There was suddenly a rustle and a distant breath of air and disembodied whispers that carried the leaves before her. Yet there was no wind.

The girl had lifted her head; she was alert now and very afraid. Her eyes darted to and fro; the trees surrounded her, an encasing wall and siege of endless forest, now claustrophobic. The star fire above was now a hellish flame. Her heart hammered at her chest, and yet it seemed impossibly as though it had ripped itself from her vitals, and clawed its way up her throat. Her eyes fell upon where the sound had been born; a ring of bushes of briars. It seemed as though it were a crown of thorns.

Then a voice rose from seemingly nowhere, everywhere, and yet only that circle of sharpness. A voice suddenly so lovely to her, as though it were birdsong, though she did not hear the truth of its tone. The intent was hidden, disguised as though a song from the heart, a comforting lullaby;

“Little child, do not cower as would a mouse,
For all I ask for is something from your house.”

A shadow had then sat down beside her; its visible arm shrouded and clouded her shoulders, comforting her, which was unfamiliar to her. Yet for some reason she immediately relaxed, a strange and complete trust in the shadow had now clouded and shrouded her judgement. She said simply;

“Why of course, little shadow who is surely fair,
What is it you seek that lies surely in my lair?”

The shadow, in whatever way it had moved its head, seemed to smile. It pulled even closer to the girl and peered over her, almost endearingly, surveying her intently. And all the more trustworthy it seemed to the girl, who now gazed up into the shadow’s face with silent yet obvious admiration. The shadow seemed to think for a moment then said carefully, slowly and precisely;

“For what I need, you must make your house your family’s tomb,
For all I truly desire lies within your mother’s womb.”

The girl began to nod, but then doubt somehow sifted through her near-blind conscience as her nodding slowed. She asked inquisitively, inquiringly, confused;

“At such a price to pay, is it this that you are worth?
For friend though you may seem, you hardly inspire mirth.”

The shadow then looked away from her for a little while, and then whispered slowly, as though almost unsure of the promise he was about to make;

“If you do this, I will promise one wish that I can surely grant you,
Only one that’s power is within my father, and first this you must do."

The little girl pondered for a short, brief time. Deep in her thought, she saw a dying poppy between her feet, its brilliant scarlet petals crumbling to dust in the wind. But it would come back, she knew, it would regain its life. At nature’s wish of course. A wish, she thought, could her family be brought back at this one wish promised for her? Could she renew their love and give their relationship another chance? It had been the very thing in her mother’s womb that had torn them apart. It would be no loss. This shadow some aid, help that came as this one kindness that would benefit all, surely. A knowing smile crossed her lips as she realised the meaning of the shadow’s requirement of slaughtering her family at first, for she knew that her parents would never give up the child.

-

That same, little girl was kneeling down, her dress now sagging, dripping wet with droplets of a liquid ruby that gleamed vaguely violet at the gloomy light shining upon its edges. She traced her finger in the thick layer of blood that had begun to recede, drying and disappearing into the peeling floor.

Before her lay her parents, unmoving.

Her father’s blank stare that hinted at a touch of a sudden and most horrible realisation and fear was etched into his face, and the girl’s mind, forever. From his neck down was strewn his clothing, there was no longer a full body. His torso and abdomen were split apart hither and thither like scrap paper. The carnage had been cast away from his face, which was surprisingly spotless of the destruction.

There had been no weapon, she remembered. Nor for her mother.

Opposite from her father was the front door, flung open and snapped off its lower hinges. Her mother was lying just over the brink of the threshold inside the doorway. She looked relatively unharmed, though her expression more that of one under extreme and intense torture, as though pain had acted as a holocaust to all her senses, save for her sense of touch.
Her stomach and what was now only partially between her thighs, were rendered and sundered to the point of her losing her very gender. She had been ripped wide and gapingly open, torn asunder in mountainous red stumps, folds of a pearlescent white velvet that seemed to once be her skin, blemished over a sea of a constantly flowing stale red.

In the girl’s right hand was now a foetal being. A muscle, it seemed more like. Yet it bore a vague resemblance to the basic anatomy of a child, but only a baby. Evidently male. It drew what seemed to be a strange last breath as it shuddered and the skin close to its navel quivered. For from the centre of its stomach protruded a length of flesh and vein that now hung from the girl’s hand, dangling the child now, and purposefully as far away as possible from her. A look of revulsion clouded her face’s features. But there was also a hint of a deep longing, a hunger, and expectation.

-

The sky now was a canvas of collectively dusty colours. Shades of greying blue, rich though aged purple effortlessly blended with waves of a shade of pink that was that of one’s rosy cheek. Yellow and orange toppled over the horizon and split the top half of the sun, its bottom half gloriously dying in a fiery shade of sulphur. The leaves too were now silhouettes of absolute darkness, the multitude of trees now that of the shadowed tree from before, as though its memory took a lasting hold on that place.

Under the tree again the girl waited, a sack of stale and beaten beige tinged in blood clutched in her fist. There was something light weighing it down within. The girl began to doubt, but for only a fleeting moment, for the shadow had then stood tall over her.

Gone now from her hand was the sack, which now was cradled in the shadow’s arms. It seemed to smile again, though not with the usual air of benevolence. It said slowly, suggestively, eyeing only the sack, but towards the girl absent-mindedly;

“Little child, faithful to this point have you been,
But what you shall wish for, this remains to be seen.”

The girl’s eyes gleamed, her mouth shook with potential happiness and she appeared to begin to say something. However, she frowned, and changed her words quickly, whispering;

“My dear childlike shadow, if I may be so bold,
Why choose my brother? This remains to be told.”

The shadow continued to move the muscle structure of its cheek and jaw bones. It did this in such a way that suggested a now clearly malevolent and evil smile. It now looked squarely and directly into the little girl’s eyes and told her;

“Child, what folly! My lies in you I’ve sewn.
Your brother, now my body, better you should have known.'

You’ve been told of my father before,
His name an icon in mankind’s lore.'

A thousand shapes and faces he has worn,
But never into this world has his son been born.”

The girl’s eyes widened in fear, another frown lined and plagued her features, and finally a grim realisation as she slowly exclaimed;

“You speak of your father, the paper tiger not known to be small,
What wish can you or he grant me but destruction is all?”

The shadow smiled again, seemingly beaming now and spoke;

“Wise void spun far too late within your heart,
Surely what wish can we grant to surely do you part?”

But then the girl’s eyes widened yet again. A knowing smile played at her lips. The riddle had already been solved, and the shadow stiffened at her saying this;

“Then wish for your imminent destruction I do,
Maybe not now, but death shall surely find you.”

The shadow began to sink into the sack as though sand peeking through a clenched hand. The smile still hung upon its face, but in a clearly sad fashion due to the drooping of its head. It turned to look mutinously at the circle of thorns, darting its head to and fro around that area, as though expecting to see the object of its renewed hatred. Its voice shook as it whispered through seemingly grinding teeth;

“Then at the time of mankind’s end that draws surely nigh,
My judgement shall be secured, my destiny to die.”

The shadow had now faded from view, and the sack stirred and squirmed. Issuing now forth from it was the familiar sound of the wail of a child. The girl noticed the now tangerine lines of the sun fading from view over the line of the seemingly never-ending earth. The top half now prominent behind tufts of different shades of peach and the night sky birthing its magnification overhead, the first star blazed weakly. She said to herself, now looking at the moving sack;

“The day started the same as any other, nobody could have known by that evening,
An early birthing for the brother, a destiny written long before the conceiving.”

The girl then took from the sack that which was no longer her brother. It immediately ceased in its weeping and understood every word she said to it;

“From the seas of man’s reason, you exist on either shore,
Parting brothers then once one, until man exists no more.”

No more.