The Dead Live On -OPEN-

[Swalleena]

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[atrb=background,http://i1218.photobucket.com/albums/dd415/Somatra1/sback-28.jpg] "Speaking" The day dawned cloudy and light drizzle fell upon the lake throughout the day, casting the land in a delicate silver mist as the breeze remained ever so quiet. At ease in her element the whip drifted in smoke form, seamlessly blending into the humidity in the air as she drifted through the thick canopy of endless foliage in the ancient forest. Passing between branches she let the earth softly whisper to her, its leaves caressing her body in greeting as Swalleena danced among the wilderness. She was now in the outskirts of the forest where new life tried to prosper in the cold of winter and although it was cold no snow marred the ground, the strong shelter of trees preventing significant snow fall from accumulating. The usually blanket of moss that gripped tree trunks was thinner here and the pines were younger. Materializing Swalleena continued her dance, weaving in and out as her wings turned to smoke to envelop her pale white body in a glistening mist. Her lithe and fine figure moved with great fluidity, noble movements without any jerking and filled with a soft essence that was characteristic of the savant healer. Her dance was not for mother earth this morning, and her movements were slow and graceful, the sadness and quiet grief clearly visible as she barely whispered an old song native to her species, the dialect incomprehensible but the meaning clear. The haunting tune echoed into the forest, and in turn the forest replied with calls of small animals, the melodic rustle of leaves and the sympathetic groan of great tree trunks. Today was the anniversary of her son’s death and she sang and danced to him, telling him of her love and sending him the warmth she had not been able to give in real life. Her emerald green eyes were sparked with tiny golden flecks, and there were no tears but instead an abundance of love for although her son, Mihkail, was no longer alive she could still feel his soul and in her heart he lived. Mihkail had been born as a result of forced mating , and was not a product of love though Swalleena had known from the moment she had seen his deep blue and silver speckled eyes that although he did not come from love he embodied the purity of unconditional affection. The disease that plagued the pack like a curse from the heavens had taken hold of her son when he was put 6 months, and despite her prayers and pleas to the High Spirit the gods had taken him from her, tearing away the only thing that had made her existence worth while and robbing the pup from the chance to experience life. Sometimes she wondered if the gods had not wanted Mihkail to suffer in the pack and under the reign of his deranged father. His father had taken Swalleena and used her without heart, he was a whisp and could only mate with a whisp to produce heirs and had believe that producing pups would save his plagued pack. Swalleena had been taken on the day that her union was to have occurred in her own pack with the packs chosen mate for herself and dragged deep into the wilderness and inside the very belly of the great mountains. She would never forget the smell that had greeted her nose, the stench of sickness and putrefaction for wolves were too tired to rid the dead from their dwellings and corpses lay decomposing, some gnawed by the weaker wolves that could no longer hunt for themselves. The king had once been a beautiful wolf, but he now was shrunken and shriveled, the dirty grey white fur draping his hungered body in a shaggy mass, his hopeless eyes a testimony of his desperation. The king’s own mate and pups had fallen prey to the sickness and she was forced to accept his body, no terms of release delivered to her pack; she had been captured to stay with the old king and do what was asked. There was no kindness in the pack, no understanding and she had pleaded with them for her deliverance but no one had come to her aid. So it was that she had become pregnant, a reprieve in itself and when she had begun to care for Mikhail her belief that there was good on the earth had been revived and her will to live on and persevered. Mikhail had saved her, but she had not been able to save him. Exhausted from her meticulous dance she collapsed on the soft mossy ground, curling into a ball as the memories assaulted her mind and whimpering at the pain it brought. Each year she forced herself to remember, for it was the only way to keep the memory of Mihkail alive. Her wings bent and covered her body, she was not short but her delicate build gave the impression she was breakable. Shivering she felt the cold of the day as her body cooled down and nuzzled into the soft ground, too tired to move and let the past envelop her once again. S w a l l e e n a's . S o n g