The familiar figure of the liger-sized male padded through the dusty shadows of the pride's heartland. Dens lay scattered about like the petrified bones of a long-scavenged carcass, shrouded in deep shadows as if the sorrow they lived with daily became a tangible weight in the darkness, grief given form. Tufts of dead grass stood here and there, white ghosts in the bleak landscape. Any splash of colour the pride boasted during the daylight hours was leeched away into the indistinct grey of night. It truly was a twilight land. A place for those caught in between world. The dead who were still living, and the living who might as well be dead…
Passing below the dead boughs of an ancient tree Sliabh paused, lifting his muzzle to the gibbous moon resting high above. His melancholy pressed down heavily upon broad shoulders, as if the burden he carried was a physical weight as well as a mental one. Letting a heavy gust of breath escape in a soul-wrenching sigh he lowered his gaze once more, looking out across his homeland. The land of the dead.
While physically still a lion in his prime, Sliabh had lived through more lifetimes than most. He stood at the head of a great bloodline, the eldest living relative to many within and without the pride. But he had also buried many more, both his own blood and those who were not, but that he nevertheless had known just as closely. Family, friends, confidants and acquaintances, all of them littered this landscape. Returned to the land that birthed them, their lives often cut far too short and full of more pain than any should have to suffer.
Lowering his head he shut his eyes tight against the raising tide of blackness within that threatened to consume him, a sorrow so deep and so stark it chilled his soul. He did not regret his many actions. He had done all he could for his family, had done everything asked of him for his pride. He would not regret any of it, for his family had brought him more joy and fulfilment than he could ever have dreamed. Yet for as long as his life had been and for as blessed as he was, he would give it all away for one less death, one less moment of suffering for his family.
If he could have taken their sickness onto himself he would have. If he could have carried their burdens, he wouldn’t have hesitated. And yet he was powerless in the face of the one adversary they truly needed protection from. They said a long life was a blessing, but for those born immune in the Kitwana, it was truly the worst curse of all.
If any of his family could had seen the big male this night, they would have been shocked at the direction of his thoughts. For Sliabh was known throughout the pride as a steadfast, calm and loving male. Father to all those within the pride, bonded by blood or not. He was a solid and dependable presence. Yet even he had dark times, moments when joy and light were all but gone from the world. An internal struggle for acceptance in a world almost too harsh to bear. Once infrequent, the dark episodes that slowly chilled his soul had been growing ever more common. Yet Sliabh, a pillar of his pride, could not bring himself to lay his burden on another. His struggle paled in comparison to the daily fight many of the pride undertook just to survive. He had no right to infringe on that.
A whispery breath escaped him, full of the immense sorrow he held within, hidden away. What would happen if he simply left? Walked out to Beo’s Bench and simply stepped off the edge? Or vanished into the roguelands? The release such an option promised called to him like a siren, the end of suffering, the laying down of his burden of life. Never again would he have to bury a son or a daughter… Never again would he be forced to watch the life rattle from a friend’s throat for the last time.
Never again would he carry the last memories of another, the hopes and dreams of a life never to be lived.
Never again would he be the one left behind.
Guilt seized him, freezing his breath in his chest, his heart hammering a painful stucco beat against his ribs. No. He could not do it. He did not deserve such relief. His pride needed him. His family needed him. How could he even entertain such a selfish notion when he was blessed with so much? His health, a large family, friends near and far. He had seen so much, visited so many places. Who else could claim that?
Trembling with the magnitude of his betrayal he hung his head, the familiar body so well known to so many, sank to the dead and dusty ground at the base of the ancient, gnarled old tree. Curling up, misery and terror an inexplicable mess of tangles within his chest, the soul-weary lion finally let himself break under a life-times’ pressure. Tears spilled free, tears for his son, Ruko, a youth taken from his side far too soon, leaving orphaned cubs too young to understand. Tears for Saoirse, the most gentle, loving daughter a father could ask for, so brave for so long. For Beo, his love forever domed. For Eva, his mate, so dedicated to her pride. For Nawiri, who carried the biggest burden of all. For so many, alive and dead, for all the suffering witnessed, the pain endured, the loss grieved.
Finally, exhausted mentally and emotionally, a weariness settled into his bones so heavy he could barely lift his head. Giving up he let his body slump, trusted in the old tree behind him to remain standing as he felt himself slip away, fading into the starless night on a tide of weary acceptance.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
(Word count = 1,007)