Twilit

AN: I suppose you can call this little ficlet a tale of a girl and her muse. . . . Basically, an idea came to me but it wasn't a story per se, and I had no story to really add it to, so instead I wrote it as an idea coming to a person--but didn't actually explain it as such--and turned it into a one-shot. And if you understand that at all, then congrats are due. ;)

The trees were far larger 'round than she could have imagined. They must have been ancient, to have grown to such an extent. She knew that the forest was an old one, knew it before she had even come across it, but the sudden obvious truth of it startled her. It wasn't just old. Even ancient seemed an underestimate. The forest had been there since the beginning, and if it had any say, it would stand until the day the world came to an end. Perhaps even longer.

High above, the branches of the trees intertwined and wove themselves around one another in an indecipherable tangle. Thick foliage and heavy branches blocked sight of any sky that might exist beyond the boundaries of the forest. Here, the only sky was what grew on innumerable branches, and it was certainly not blue, but a mottled green. The sun, if any truly existed high above the trees, did not cast its rays here unless filtered through leaves a thousand fold. The forest was very choosy about what entered its confines.

Through the trees there was little to be seen but further immense trunks, varying shades of browns and, where moss took hold on many, greens and golds both pale and dark. Sometimes there were vines, dangling from reaching arms, or plants that flowed like curtains from high branches. Sometimes there were fallen trees, their broken trunks sprawled in the dirt, or wedged between their still-living counterparts. Rarely there were flowers, growing in moldering crevices were their roots could take hold, stretching their fragile necks toward the sun that may or may not have existed high above the trees.

Beneath her feet there was a path. Somehow this seemed sacrilegious. The path was evidence of intrusion, and didn't simply belong. She understood this in her bones, and knew it like she knew her own name. But the path was there, and it was there for a reason. It was there to be followed.

She followed the path as it wove its way sinuously around the trees, sometimes doubling back on itself for no reason at all. The path, you see, was in no hurry to get where it was going, and was merely enjoying the journey.

Sometimes a root would twist up through the soil, winding its way about in the air until it found its way once again into the ground. These she avoided with caution, always careful not to trip. Mostly the trees trunks were bare of offshoots for a great distance from the ground, but sometimes she found herself ducking under limbs all the same. On the rare occasion she would hear sounds. It was the wind rustling leaves, mostly, but sometimes there would be the subtle sound of soil being disturbed as if under the foot of some unseen denizen. She never once heard a bird's song travel to her on the wind.

Then the path ended. It didn't slowly degrade to the point where she could no longer follow. It simply stopped.

It didn't matter. She no longer needed the path anyway. Her destination, though she hadn't had one in mind moments ago, was now within sight. It was the only thing she had seen so far, aside from the path, that suggested that the forest was something other than undisturbed by man or creature alike for the entirety of its existence.

The structure was old--ancient, though not nearly as old as the forest itself--and the stone from which it was built was nearly completely covered over with a dark green coating of some spongy looking growth. It wasn't a building, exactly, and its stone slab floor was cracked and chipped, with thick plantlife taking hold where it could, growing in the gaps and creeping in along the edges. The pillars were in a similar state, with mosses and ivies nearly burying the stone beneath them.

There was no roof to the structure, and no walls to speak of, so it was easy for her to see straight through to the far side, where it seemed that the forest dropped away suddenly to finally reveal the featureless sky. The four large pillars, she realized, marked out the four corners of the stone floor. It was the two smaller pillars that she wasn't quite sure about. They stood centered between the two farthest large pillars, appearing like a doorway or frame, but they entered onto nothing but air--the sheer drop of a cliff--and framed nothing but sky.

She stepped forward then, moving off the path and across the broken stone floor, toward the two small pillars that seemed to have no real reason for being where they were. She paused between them and glanced briefly to her toes, where the stone stopped and the open air began. The forest covered the ground below in an uninterrupted green blanket, and stretched as far as she could see. Somehow, she wasn't surprised.

Not quite knowing what else to do, she sat down between the pillars on the edge of the high cliff. And she waited.

"It's a temple," a voice said. "Or at least it used to be."

She didn't turn around, though the voice came from behind her. She had half expected him to make an appearance, and though she hadn't heard his approach she had known that he was there, somewhere, waiting for her to give him the opening that he always craved--the more dramatic the better. He was a storyteller, you see, and he knew the importance of making a good entrance.

"That was a long time ago," he continued, "when the gods still paid visits to this horrid little lump of land, and when people still knew that they existed. The gods had power then, and the people had belief, and combined those two can be a dangerous combination."

He paused then, but she didn't respond. She knew better than to interrupt his stories, by now. Doing so would get her nowhere. Instead she simply stared ahead, watching as the sun sank low in the sky ahead of her.

"Times were unsettled, back when this altar was in its prime. But it wasn't the mortals who were restless. It was the gods. There was a lot of fighting amongst them, a great deal of very strong talk, and an awful lot of harsh words being said. Dangerous words. And words, when gods speak them, have a way of making themselves become truth, whether they were meant to be or not."

He had moved closer--she could hear that his voice had neared--but she still didn't turn around. She had no desire to do so, nor would it have accomplished much of anything, except perhaps to ruin the mood . . . and that would ruin the whole story, as far as he was concerned. He was very particular about his stories.

"It stopped short of an all-out war, but it was far from a peaceful resolution. I could tell you any number of things about the fights, the arguments, the final agreements that were finally come to, but there's too much to tell and only so much time. It's important to note, however, that this temple's god was in the very midst of it all, and did not come out on top. I suppose, if you knew more surrounding the events, you might come to the conclusion that some of the other gods joined forces with no more purpose than to work against this god, for no reason that can be suitably explained in the time we have. However, the gods would rather have you know that this temple's god was nothing short of evil. It's up to you to decide which is more likely the case. Perhaps it's both."

The sun was sinking below the horizon now, even as he continued to speak. Above, the sky was growing dark and stars were beginning to show up dimly in the waning light. The sunset brought with it colors that she had hardly imagined, and as the light faded, for one flickering moment the sky turned a shade of blue that she had hardly thought possible, and would have found herself unable to describe were she to try. It was that magical moment between day and night that lasted for hardly a heartbeat, and in that moment she understood.

"Twilight," he said, his tone holding the slightest hint of pride. "His worshippers built this temple for him, in the middle of this more-than-ancient forest, miles from anywhere and with nothing to guide them but their hearts. The journey here was one of faith, made only by those who truly believed. And his were strong believers. Too strong, perhaps. The other gods, I imagine, didn't like his rising power. But perhaps I'm misjudging them. Who really knows, now? It's been so long, I doubt that even the gods would remember. Except perhaps Twilight himself, though his view of things might be slightly skewed. There is such a thing as being too close to the truth to actually see it.

"No one really knows what happened, or what became of Twilight. All that's really known is that he vanished, and his followers. . . . Well, we'll get to the followers shortly.

"It's said that Twilight himself was killed by the other gods, but that's just foolishness. Everyone knows that you can't really kill a god. And after all, there is still his time, even if it now lasts only a moment; it's proof that he lives still. He did disappear, though, and if he has come back over the intervening years then no one has known of it, or told of it, even in legend or myth. If you ask them, the only thing they will say is that it's taboo. In an odd way, I think that Twilight might be proud of that, if he were around to hear it. He was just that kind of god."

She could almost picture him, the god that had once ruled in the place where she now sat. He would be slightly tattered, worn ragged around the edges from so many years of abandon, but underneath it all there would be something undeniably alive--an impossible attraction that would be hard to describe in words. He would be dark and ageless and tall, and his eyes would be the color of his time--the blue of the sky in the instant between night and day. He would be roguish, vain, and righteously angry. . . .

"It was Twilight's followers that got the worst of the gods' punishment, as far as can be discerned. Nowadays, people don't seem to understand this. Certainly they know of the creatures that Twilight's followers were cursed to become--everyone knows them--but few truly know the truth of them. Most, if asked, would actually say that the creatures worship the Moon." He laughed then, a sound of ridicule. "But it's the Moon that punishes them. They have no love for him.

"Perhaps it was by the grace of Twilight, or perhaps the Moon simply lacked the strength to utterly condemn them, but it's only on the night of the full moon that their curse is forced upon them. On those nights, when the Moon is at his strongest, they become something to be feared and hated. On those nights they hunt, knowing nothing but the need to kill or, rarely, when their numbers begin to fall and their animal instincts scream for the continuation of the line, to create more like themselves. Needless to say, none of the creatures alive today are truly followers of Twilight, nor do most of them even know the origins of their curse. Perhaps it's best that way; Twilight, wherever he has gone to, seems to have very little care for them, after all."

He paused then, and a sound far less pleasant than that of his voice carried to her on the gentle breeze. A scream cut through the air, almost human but somehow not. It ended, eerily, in a wolfish howl that chilled her to the very bones.

"It is," he said with the slightest hint of amusement, "the night of the full moon. They howl and wail for Twilight to save them, but they never get a response. Maybe some day they'll get an answer, but it won't be tonight. Tonight they'll hunt and cry as they do every full moon, and come morning they'll go on living their lives as though it's any other day." He paused again, but only briefly. "We shouldn't be here," he said. "Shall we call it a night?"

She nodded her response, but knew that he was already gone. He never stayed long, after he had told his stories.

With a sigh she leaned back, spreading out on the stone floor, her legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. She only half listened to the mournful howls as they drew closer.

She wondered, idly, how this new story was going to turn out.