The heat of the forest clung to his skin like a second layer. The scent of bamboo and waxy-leaved plants permeated his sweat. Muggy air fogged on the forest floor in a thick haze. Soft chirps of crickets and water-frogs rose over the hot atmosphere, filling the night with their unbalanced melody. He had gotten used to this ever-night. Scurrying giants with small wisps of tails hunted flightless heart-faced birds; it was an awkward dance of life and death.
A few streams of perspiration escaped the barrier of his thick black brows and found refuge in the duct of his eyes. It hurt, briefly, but his hands were dirty and he refused to irritate his eyes more.
After all, a few men in the camp had scratched at their eyes in a fit, and had caused more damage, enough damage that ensured they would not see again. They claimed that the irises had begun to itch, and the grate of their nails had soothed the ache before reality claimed their conscious. He did not want his eyeballs in his hands due to some minor annoyance.
Others claimed it was the forest: that the forest was acting on the warning that the old men in the villages had proclaimed when the army had began moving. The battle against the invaders was taking place just beyond the other side of the forest, the last barrier before the savages would reach the Great City. Stories floated about the invaders: that they ate the bodies of their ailing and wounded, that children were taught an early age the monstrosities of the basest forms. They were tall, made of stone with eyes of fire, and women took it upon themselves to challenge and lead men if they saw fit. None of these could be confirmed, or course, but neither could they be denied. No one had yet seen the outsiders; there was a distant cry from the reaches of the Empire, speaking of mayhem and destruction, but all help sent by the Generals of the Emperor?s Great Army returned no word of progress or success.
Most of the smaller caravans had taken the more perilous journey of following the trail of the High Mountains, a small valley that was known for its freak avalanches and unpredictable rock falls. More than likely, the disasters had left the caravans with little men and ammunition, and they were quickly overcome after: killed or taken prisoner.
The speculations had encouraged the Generals to send their caravan on a less dangerous route, through the Deep Forest, the natural wonder that had protected the privacy and safety of the Great City for many millennia. The portraits of the forest had not done it justice; large trees seemed to brush against the open expanse of sky, an intimacy that no mortal could question. The forest thrived with History, from the outcropping roots to the tallest branch. The unique growth was one his People took pride in: their monument of the tallest and safest height, sixty feet, could not offer a view above the trees. The thick canopy of entangled branches and curling foliage left little light to reach the surface of the ground, and as such, the floor of the forest was always covered in an eerie mist, like the kind that frequent the grave markers of the necropolis. The forest was in ever-night.
The Emperor had not denied the change in strategy, but no one suspected he would sway one way or another. Unlike his Predecessors, the current Emperor did not bother with politics and any welfare besides his own. When his father was still the Ruler, he was what the People would call ?normal?. After the day when the sun had turned black, when the day was interrupted for hours that lasted forever, he was never the same. A little girl had found him asleep outside the gates of the Great City, near the forest, and when he awoke, it was to scream and touch his head in fear. Now, if he awoke and his skin was pale, he would call all the healers of the empire to him to check his health. Every little ailment or problem was to be dealt with immediately. His consort was allowed any color garment save for white, the one color that had been forbidden since he took on the reigns of the empire.
No one understood why he was so peculiar; no one questioned the Emperor. When a architect for the Grand Mausoleum had discovered a hard box and delivered it as a gift to his majesty, the Emperor had shrieked inhumanly at the contents: the strange muted silver and grainy iron-like objects that were far more advanced than their primitive metal-work. Not even the wizened Scholars knew what the contents were for; they picked up the handles and gazed at the foreign object with the same intensity they devoted to their work. Why did the circles curve inward so, and outward if held on the other side? Why were there three sharp points and not four?
The Scholars claimed that they were left from before; the time that no one recalled because the Ancestors did not write of it. Whispers of red, the good color, and a circle with three fans; many found some clues to the past, but none could explain it. In the Great Museum, the scholars displayed the History proudly. One of the largest Displays was one of a faded lined parchment written upon in blue ink which the Scholars could not understand; the language was lost to them all, yet it was displayed in a gold frame. In his mind he saw the History:
salty sausage k.o. lucy right. the mustache came back later but the top hat squashed divingtiger. can?t trust borderline: walls get built. we have faith in Atom. the relatives are doin? fine, galileo saw a shadow beside diana, more on ares? dark side. but the men in the room said no, but the roaming lens said they were waiting. did ya? see the spinning fan? it came from behind the ocean; landed in diamondland an? lily pond. willow likes it nice enough- before they sent everyone home; dry earth is a myth, rubber suits beget terror. schools keep classes: a doesn?t mix with b- specially since the fight at recess; oil and water mix well until one wants to make it to the top. the shadows don?t recede with the sun. was Atom wrong?
stop.respond.
Had many finds been discovered outside the Great City? No one had left before, so none could answer; yet the threat of invaders had been heard outside the confines of the city, and the people were anxious to react, to solve the problem. The future was a precious luxury they could not afford to ruin.
A few villages were scattered outside the city walls, mostly filled with those of the dying generation, whose speech had turned to pointless babble. They, the old ones, had followed their caravan, speaking threats and warnings.
?This is not our forest,? they shouted, which was utterly ridiculous, because the forest had been there forever; immortalized in their culture and the fragments of their earliest memories of civilization. A few other old ones shouted of specters in the sky, looming, watching with bright eyes of crystal amber and silver bodies. The soldiers had shoved them back, announcing that the sun was only waiting until nightfall to kill them. It was jest, at first, but as the villages began to fade in the background, he had turned to see a crowd of old ones gathered, not moving forward. They shimmered briefly with the heat, remaining upright, eyes watching like avid spectators awaiting the end of the performance.
He, too, had shaken off the stories, but only earlier today, a Scout had returned to the temporary camp after his three day mission, heavily wounded and one of his leg bones bent awkwardly. The scout hobbled past his post (the first line) without a word. When he went to help the wounded man, he had sworn fiercely and lashed out in anger, his eyes large and wild, saliva dripping down his chin: all anger, and not an ounce of weariness or a whimper of pain.
It had taken three men to subdue him, and when the apothecary had come to glance over him, holding an oil lantern up to cut through the gloom, the scout had shrieked in outrage, and scrambled against his broken leg to free himself.
The memory still haunted him in the solitary of his station; the dark, scared eyes reminded him more of a Portrait he had found as a small boy; it was a small portrait, no larger than his hand, the surface a faded brown, but glossy and smooth. The ink didn?t run when wet; the Artist had made the creature: with four legs, a long, pointed mouth with a dark rounded triangle at the end, and a floppy pair of folded skin that were directed backwards against its oddly shaped head, appear pitiful and so scared at the same time. It was wounded, and yet its mouth was pulled, revealing a black underlining of lips and sharp teeth that were surely used to devour and kill, to rip off the meaty flesh of bone and swallow it whole. Why would anyone go near such a beast? He had not met the strange creature, nor anything like it, but he knew that that creature would fight to the death, even if he was hurt, to save himself.
Against his will, he gripped his spear closer and wished for the simple comforts of his home: the soft melon and sweet bread, the tangy aftertaste of the Emperor?s lemon-bean cakes that were always served with the freshest juices of the fruit of the Empire.
A soft noise off to his side had his nostalgia replaced with awareness. His eyes glanced around him, but the mist just swirled in response to his answering gaze. Wiping his hands down on his hide armor, he tightened his grip on his weapon and stood, taking a few cautious steps before retreating to his post.
?It?s the forest,? the old people said, ?It does not belong to us.?
Frowning, he pulled out his oil lantern, lighting it and keeping it on his stool to let the next guard know that was leaving temporarily. After a few moments, another light was visible through the thick murkiness, and he stepped away, in the direction the sound had first come from.
Moss crunched beneath his feet like peanut shells, the outstretched arms of smaller trees brushed him with their fingers, teasing playfully, catching the edges of his armor until he tugged firmly to free himself.
The sound came again, this time, familiar. It was a ?plink?, like a pebble falling into water without protest. The buzz of insects hummed into his ear, and he pushed the air against his head impatiently, alert, ready. If the invaders had made it into the forest, he would be the first to know, and he had to warn the entire camp. A quick flash of his lantern would set the entire caravan into a mode of awareness. Within minutes, they would know and be ready, armed and patient.
The mist became denser as he walked, he could no longer see in front of him, and was reminded of the stories he heard once as a boy of those who disappeared in the depths of the forest, lost forever.
Carefully, he felt in front of him with his feet, feeling the floor give way and sink. Pausing, he knelt down at a painful angle, a foot behind him for quick backtracking. His hand touched the floor and felt the moist dirt before dipping into the wet pool he nearly entered.
The water was cool and clean; splaying his fingers, he immersed his hands without hesitation, splashing handfuls onto his face before he stood again, feeling around the edge of the pool with his feet. His lungs let out a breathy sigh, the air seemed cooler now.
Out of the corner of his eye, he captured a green light; fireflies, he thought, although they were particularly bright, but that was probably because of the darkness around him.
The fireflies fluttered around, following each other, much like birds did in a pattern, moving with the wind.
Flashes of green littered and pierced the gloom, easily, more efficiently than the oil lanterns that the caravan relied on.
The insects danced around, and he found a smile forming on his face, a shiver of youth sliding down his spine, days of catching the fireflies between the rose bushes of the city gardens. There was a saying that the fireflies led you between the bushes, a distraction so that you didn?t notice the danger until you were already pricked by the sharp barbs of the pointed thorns. A power game, the old folks would say. You think you?re in control when you?re really not. As a child, he didn?t believe in it; all the bushes of the garden were free of danger, free of any thorns. They were filled, instead, with roses: blooming in a multitude of color, every color except white, unfurling towards the sun, beckoning to the coming morning.
His spear felt light to him, and heavy. With a long exhale, he started back for his post. Wondering too far was not wise considering the events of the past days.
He turned his head as a feminine voice tinkered out of the flood of fireflies, light and airy. A glowing maiden, soft and ethereal, danced between the fog; soft ripples sent waves beneath her feet- he didn?t know how he knew, but the realization struck him swift and sure.
Her long hair was pulled into a braid, her robes plain and every feature was awash in green light. A brief flicker shifted the shadows around them.
Her hand reached out towards him, beckoning. His curiosity overwhelmed reasoning.
Was she a vision, a Sprite of the forest? The Scholars spoke of neatly stenciled drawings of women with wings and long-tipped ears, an aura against the backdrop of the world. They were nearly always with trees, flowers and green, always with a flute or harp, and he knew her to be one of these, a Sprite of the Deep Forest, weaving her song in his presence, even with no instrument in sight.
Her form floated from his reach, and he moved quickly to follow her, mirroring her playful footsteps against the moss and bamboo.
The little game he played with a smile, her inviting presence to poignant to ignore. Something drew him to her, something he could not identify. He allowed her to lead him through her lingering laughter. The thoughts of duty left his mind, he didn?t think about the chaos it was going to cause back at the camp. Soon, the shouts of his absence would bring more trouble than he? cared to? wonder upon.
He continued to follow until they reached a clearing, the never-ending fog dissipating as the Sprite leaned over a gray, uprooted stone, heavily grasped by creeping vines. The foliage was testimony to how long the piece had remained. Wouldn?t the Scholars shake in their silk slippers over such a discovery?
Her fingers pointed down at the stone; he knelt down to examine the excerpt of History, brushing aside the tangling vines because the Sprite of the Deep Forest wouldn?t abase herself with such work. The pads of his fingertips ran over the engraved surface of the Historical Artifact; he squinted, aided slightly by the glow of the Sprite. Different inscriptions, looping shapes and symbols decorated the box-like stone. It was smooth on five of its six sides, the foremost surface was the only one the Ancestors cared to bother with, he reasoned. Again, there was a circle with three fans, much like the one displayed in the Great Museum. He couldn?t understand most of the symbols, except one that was off to the corner. Twenty-one lines, messier than the usual work of the meticulous Empirial Scribes, formed a familiar word that he knew, and behind it, was a circle, more deeply engrained than the other inscriptions.
The Sprite of the Deep Forest tilted her head at him, as though inquiring of the answer from him. Softly, quietly, he explained to her; the large ears surely did not require much sound. His arms expressed his words freely, gesturing for her to understand the magnitude of their find.
The Sprite leaned towards him, the sparkling robes remaining stationary even as her body moved, as though it had a mind of its own. What else, he wondered, was different in the world of the Deep Forest? Even now the crickets and fireflies had faded away with the alertness that had been bred into him as a watchman. Her breath was like a lover?s caress, and he turned his face toward it, to capture it much like he had the bright insects in his childhood.
A single shout pierced the veil of her influence, and cold, slithering, reality gripped his mind. The hand of the Sprite snapped out to his throat; the touch was icy and hard. White sprang before his vision, four walls and blaring light. He couldn?t hear anything beyond the thoughts that escaped his mental bonds, an invader yelled at him, and he could not respond past the blockage in his throat; the Sprite stood before him, thanking him softly with a kiss. When the smell of the wet Deep Forest returned, he collapsed.
Bright eyes-burning fire.
Another shout followed: his name, a worried question in the tone of voice. His hand touched his neck, where the tip of his spear had pressed and left a tiny incision. He could not remember picking up the spear, but it clattered from his fingers. How much time had passed: hours? Days? Sweat dribbled down his neck and onto his armor. There were shadows in the dark, looming before him, with pupil-less gazes, and the last memory he had of the Sprite was the twisted look of stunned disbelief that darkened her tranquil features.
He was not mad. Taking his spear, he called back to the darkness, and his voice trembled even to his own ears. Fireflies fluttered around him, a few landing behind him on the stone that remained unchanged. Even as his world tipped and slanted, the one word he knew reigned above the others. The single word that plague the Empire, the word that told a History no one could remember, not even the old ones. Domination.
?The forest is not ours,? the old ones would say. Later, they pointed to the circle with three fans glance down at the fertile soil, before the History would escape them and they would talk about thin, gleaming objects winkling in the sky, shimmering and looming and unnatural, silhouettes against the moon.
Stumbling, cradling his head, he went back the way he had come looking for the light of his oil lantern. The world tilted, and he fell with it before hands reached out to pick him up, hoisting him upon warm, hide-clad shoulders, leading him over the roots and growth; their bodies become enveloped by the mists of the Deep Forest as they returned to the Last Caravan.
The trees shifted, groaned with the effort put upon them. The forest had gone a long time being untouched, and yet it could not protest. How could the weak protest the strong? The cries from beyond the forests, far beyond the realm of the Great City, beyond the limits of oceans and mountains and rivers and lakes, the blending forms of race and survival, the last from long-defenders of humanity, had been silenced quickly. After a long battle against each other, even insects knew that strength was not in isolation; but it had been too easy.
Dark, skulking figures reached out to follow the soldiers? footsteps, lithe, crooked forms blending and disappearing into the shadows, breathing in the mists shallowly.
_____________________________
So... is anyone confused? I can explain, unless you like ambiguity.
Anyways, this little project I wrote in a day, and it is classified by me as Sci-Fi. Hopefully the history buffs and the chemists will recognize some of the allusions i placed in here, and connect the peices, but i'd love to see the conclusions you come up with. 
