- The dreams began suddenly in the night following the masquerade ball.
He passed them the first two nights as simply having drank too much wine. The third night the pull was stronger, but Thorne resisted. As if the spirits were punishing him for attending the masquerade, his father had taken a sudden turn for the worse in the previous days. The fever spiked again with little relief, followed by a heavy, wet coughing that occasionally yielded a crimson stain in the palm of his hand. Nothing seemed to quell the sudden onset of sickness. On top of the events of the ball, he wasn't sure if the situation could possibly get any worse.
The hunter felt fear in the pit of his chest on the fifth day. He had fallen asleep during the night, and when he awoke his father was feebly tapping his forearm for his attention. "Thorne," he croaked, voice hoarse, "You are a good son. Your mother... would have been very proud of you." He coughed hard, followed by a strangled wheeze. Thorne clutched his hand tightly, daring not to pull away. His father closed his eyes and breathed quietly for a few more minutes, the lines in his face relaxing. Slowly the breathing quieted, and before long had tapered off into nothing.
Thorne sat in a stunned silence for a long while. In a matter of moments his entire life had just shattered down around him. Gently folding his father's hand across his chest he stood, legs shaking, and stumbled towards the yard. He worked in a strange daze. It took him most of the day to dig a spot below the large oak his mother lay beneath, but finally he was able to lay him to rest. His heart ached, and he desperately wished for some sort of company. Deep down he realized he was suddenly quite alone.
When all was said and done he sat between the two graves for some time. Shadows began to lengthen and a rosy red color crept across the forest. Just as Thorne was ready to head back inside, the pull came again. It tugged at him the hardest yet, and the hunter's attention snapped towards the forest. Without anything left at home to care for, he let the feeling lead him into the Wardwood.
He moved well past his normal hunting range, legs carrying him with little difficulty for what must have been a handful of hours by the time he happened across the great tree. It was dark now, but a strange, gentle glow seemed to come from the clearing. As he drew close hundreds of small figures decorated the branches, each with a slight pulsing glow in a myriad of colors. His breath caught in his throat. They were... deer? He blinked, surprised. Could this actually be happening?
His eyes roved the tree again, waiting for that pull. He stepped forward to look more closely, and a branch almost seemed to bend towards him (surely his imagination), a single gray totem delicately hanging from it. How fitting. His gloved hands carefully retrieved it, and a warm feeling grew in his chest. Thorne clutched the totem close. The others on the tree felt very uninteresting to him suddenly, so he headed back into the forest the way he had come from.
When he arrived back home he set the trinket on his bedside table. As Thorne laid down for the first time in what seemed like forever, he finally allowed his grief to overtake him. The only thing to calm him was the soft blue glow of the totem, ever-watching...
