Part One: Spring and Hell
The stag paces slowly through the quiet forest.
There is snow all about, muffling the sound of his hooves. There are no other sounds to drown out in whiteness.
The stag knows where she is, and he knows what to do. They have done it before, she and him, and they will do it again until the end.
He enters the cave, the water rippling away in protest at his touch, but returning to him to caress his body. He strides into the water until it touches his chest, soaking his sides with icy coolness.
The stag breathes one sigh, a warm moist breath. At the roof of the cave, a cluster of ice crystals spear down to the pool. One thin crystal in particular is struck by the breath and, warmed by the life from the stag, releases frozen, pent-up water. One drop slides down the crystal and falls to the pool below.
When it hits, the drop does not splash like it should. Instead, the water swirls up and out of the water like a specter. There is a face in it, a slow, waking face, hidden behind endless curls of luscious hair. The eyes are closed. The skin is crystal blue.
The stag leans towards the shape and names it.
She is Gaia, beautiful Life.
She wears nothing, for she is unashamed of her body, knowing rightly that she is beautiful. Her hair, a flowing mass, acts like a robe and tries to hide her nakedness, but she smiles and slips it away.
Gaia turns her face towards him and opens her eyes. Her slim hands, cold like water, but warm with vibrant life, touch the stag’s muzzle and caress the wild tangles of his hair. They embrace like lovers reunited, adoration and tenderness emanating like light from a beacon.
Then the stag pulls away, his face and eyes commanding her. Gaia looks too, and sees the quiet, cold forest. In her eyes there is an excitement and energy that the stag knows well.
Gaia sweeps over the pool and out of the cave mouth. She spreads her arms and they become wings, lifting her up and forward. She sweeps along, growing in size and strength. Her skin is emerald green.
The snow melts away from her, letting loose their cold, grudging grips on the dark, hard earth. At first, nothing is visible besides wet and frozen dirt. But then Gaia breathes life, the life the stag gave her, into the air.
Like frenzied snakes, green vines and grass shoot upwards, each with its own voice to sing out the joy of living. Flowers bloom under Gaia’s efforts, shining like iridescent suns between the grass blades.
Trees lose their black darkness and instead blush into shades of rich brown, some darker than others, some so fair they look white. Flowers explode here also; massive clumps of them heavy on the branches.
Gaia does not ignore a single mote of life, bringing one and all into the delightful elation known as Life. Her graceful fingers bring up even the tiniest flowers from the dirt.
Birds sing now, and butterflies flit over the previously bare meadows. Bees begin their work, trundling pollen and nectar to and fro. Some of the animals settle in Gaia’s hair, each beautiful in their own ways, and each adding to her beauty with their merged colors.
The stag paws at one tree in particular, his eyes strangely moist. Gaia knows the tree and flushes with anticipation.
First, her hands smooth out the gnarled flesh of the tree, folding it back and reforming the wood. It is now a young tree, as living as she and all else. Next, the tips of her fingers dance nimbly over the tree, and wherever she touches springs to life, bursting out green shoots and tender leaves. Her eyes, and the light that issues from them, make buds appear, swell and erupt into beautiful white flowers, tinged with a blush of pink.
The stag watches her, and he is happy. Every time Gaia knows how to bring life to this tree, this one tree among others. Every time it is different, but all times beautiful.
Gaia is happy, mirthful beyond words. Her eyes positively glow with all that she sees, loving it and being loved back. There is a synergy between her and nature, humming vibrantly until the forest is filled with the sweet sound. Higher and higher she climbs, spreading life to every corner of the world. No living thing deserves the dark loneliness of death, and she works to fulfill this creed.
But something is wrong.
When her wings spread out over one patch of ground, the seeds of life curl up and die, each one a pain in Gaia’s heart. She cannot understand why this has happened, and tries once more.
Again, the cries of pain and anguish arise to her from the dead ground. She cannot bear it, and turns from the death before her. In doing so, she sees the great black shape of a burned mountain. It is at the base of its slopes that her seeds have died.
Shrinking down with the loss within her, Gaia flits forward, her eyes wide and curious. She remembers something, something terrible and brooding, but she cannot stop herself.
The stag sees her fly up the mountain and nods: it is as it should be.
Gaia gains the summit and stares down at a giant crater within the mountain. There is no life here, the emptiness echoes like a broken thing, pitiful and twisted. The jagged rocks raise themselves up like cries of need, but go unseen and unheeded.
Gaia moves again, slowly and cautiously, her small feet never touching the ground. Her eyes are locked onto the thing at the center of the crater: a massive shoulder of rock, thrown up to the sky like a defiant fist. It is knurled and ugly, deep streaks marking where some great power warped it.
Gaia has never seen such terrible deformity, but she is drawn to it nevertheless. It is almost because of her beauty that she is lured to repugnance.
Her slender fingers reach up, palm outwards to the thing. Her face is changed, steeped in curiosity, terror and attraction all in one. Her jaw is dropped like one dazed. Her skin is green-grey.
Her fingers brush the surface of the rock, breaking the hard crust covering it. Her fingers are torn and stained.
Suddenly, fiery eyes burst open before her. They focus on her, the burning centers like enraged coals. Gaia steps back hurriedly, her confusion now complete. The being recedes into dark smoke and choking mist, but its form glows red throughout, outlining the terrible shape.
Gaia stumbles away, trying to open dead wings. Her feet cut themselves on the rocks and bleed her life out. She clambers to the crater’s lip, hurt and frightened.
The thing bursts out of the clouds, a giant thing of fire and glaring light. It has wings like Gaia, but they are not the same. These wings are bright with fire, but casting a dark shadow at the same time. The eyes blaze with hatred unmatched, flaming out at Gaia. The beak of the giant thing is sharp and cruel, meant for killing and crushing.
Gaia runs now, putting every fiber of her being into her flight. It is useless, for the thing opens its beak and vomits a jet of liquid fire at her, blazing white as it streaks across the sky.
The fire just misses her, and takes the ground beneath her feet instead. The explosion rips up rocks and throws them into the air like leaves. Gaia is lifted from her feet and flung down the mountain.
The force of her fall throws her against the ground, bruising her already wounded body. The pain in her head buzzes like an angry hornet. The blood over her tongue stings like a poison. Dazedly, she stumbles to her feet and sees the beast recede, falling into himself like dying flame.
She has no time to feel relieved, though, for suddenly he reappears, a different form this time. His body is liquid, flowing down the mountain like a fiery flood of death. He oozes ahead dangerously, the blaze never dying down.
Drunkenly Gaia gets to her feet and steps back. Her hands touch the stag’s tree, the one she had spent her life’s-blood to restore. It is still cool, even with death so near, and its energy flows into her. It is goodbye.
Revived, Gaia springs away, even as the beast falls over the tree and consumes it. Gaia’s feet beat painfully over the blackened dirt she once caressed, trying to find a place to hide. Sparks rise up into the air, mingling with the acrid smoke to blind her eyes. Stinging tears fall away from her face, only to sizzle away upon touching the hot ground.
As Gaia leaps through the inferno, she sees and feels the beast behind her, following like a deadly snake. But then, on her other side, the beast flows over rocks and trees, destroying all in his path. Before her also, leaping down to devour her.
She jumps almost too late, escaping death again. The beast crashes over where she had been mere heartbeats ago, scorching the ground. Gaia springs away and grasps up a cliff, each rock a handhold for bare seconds. Up and up she goes, determined to get away from the terrifying being that had exploded over her world.
At the top she pulls back, her chest heaving with each painful breath. The view here is wide, showing all that is left of what she worked so hard to procure. The flames are almost done with their work now, turning over, upheaving, shouldering away and obliterating all signs of life.
Gaia’s eyes are long since dry from the heat, but she cries anew, finding tears welling up from the sorrow in her being. Her skin is dark red in the glare of the fires.
And then, rising up like a hooded cobra, the beast is before her, taller than the cliff he stands upon.
Gaia cannot take anymore, her mind is frantic. She turns away and rushes on blindly, taking paths through the pandemonium that only take her deeper into the hellhole.
Her hands grasp the hard, rough bark of a giant tree, completely devoid of leaves. It is a pine, and was once beautiful, but now it is something for her to hold on to in the deep darkness of despair. Gaia climbs into the branches to get away from the heat, but it is futile; the fires rise with her.
Higher and higher she goes, each branch a new obstacle. She grasps and pulls, recoils and grasps again, pulling up to new summits. Her arms feel as though they will pull from their sockets, and yet she continues; not tirelessly, but hopelessly.
At last she can go no further. Her tender hands burn where the skin has been shredded away to reveal the raw flesh beneath. Her palms bleed and the sticky red trickles down her wrists and arms. Her hair is scorched and singed in many places, and dirty tear streaks mar her once perfect face.
There at the top of the tree, taller even than the cliff, she sees the beast roar up into the form of a bird again. It is an eagle, a cruel bird of prey, and his sharp beak yawns wider than the shadows of night.
His wings sweep backwards and he thrusts his open mouth over her, devouring Gaia.
Everything is dark.
So it goes.
Part Two: Ashes and Rain
The world is quiet again, but it is a stirring quiet, full of dead voices and ghostly, clawing hands. Ashes float through the air, borne up on the hot air of still-smoldering fires and pulled down into cold pockets of death. Stumps remain where grand trees once stood, and the grasses and flowers are dry dust.
Somewhere in all the ruin, the stag walks staidly, his eyes seeing all. He knows that it had to be done, as it had been done before.
His hooves come to rest before a patch of ash, distinguishable from the rest of the wasteland for its lighter color. There is a faint sign of life here, dormant, almost dead, but there nonetheless.
The stag leans down low and breaths out deeply.
His breath, hot and moist, carries a rejuvenating spark of life, a caressing touch and a comforting tone. It brushes the ash, stirring it up into a spiral.
For a moment, the spiral rises into the air, gaining form and feeling. Too soon, though, it falls back to the ground, losing what shape it had. It is Gaia, smaller and more frail than ever before.
She is weak beyond speaking, and there is an aura of age about her that the stag knows well. She wraps herself in her hair, hugging it close about her in the cold. Her face she buries in her hands, despairing of all things about her. Her hair is wispy and tangled. In places, her skin flakes away like rotten parchment. Her skin is a dead grey.
The stag watches her carefully, knowing that she must come to trust him.
Without moving his lips, he speaks.
“Dear child.”
It is a message of love, passed from heart to heart, with no need to be spoken aloud. She understands it, but she cannot swallow the bitter meaning behind it. She knows what the stag asks of her, but she is tired, oh so tired. It seems so useless to carry on.
The stag nudges her gently with his nose, and she turns her face towards him. His eyes are large, staring deeply into her own soul. He looks away from her and his muzzle points towards a white tree she knows well. It is gnarled again, deformed and scorched.
Gaia closes her eyes and nods her head resignedly. She will try.
The stag lowers his muzzle towards her and she grasps his horns with what little strength she has. The stag paces off towards the tree, his hooves finding a path delicately.
Gaia leans against the hard horns and rests her weary head, trying to understand the pain the stag has inflicted on her heart. She knows it was his doing, but she does not understand why. If she could have one question to answer for all the pain and torture, she would ask it. But she does not have the breath for it, and she knows the stag would not answer her. They continue in silence.
As they go, the stag begins to pick up speed, lifting his hooves off the ground for longer periods of time. Over burnt stump and smoldering log they go, each second passing faster.
As the view goes by, Gaia sees what the firebird did to her land, her love, her heart. It stings even worse than before, and she squeezes her eyes shut to block out the sorrow. Tears flow again, and three crystal drops land in the dust below the stag’s flying hooves.
For a moment, the ground drinks up the water thirstily, and it is lost instantly. But suddenly, like a worm coming out of the ground, a live green shoot pokes its head from the ash. Two others follow, and a small patch of the wasteland turns slightly green.
Gaia watches, even as the patch is lost behind her. Somehow, the sight of those small shoots gives her new life. She feels a wind flowing through her hair, fresh and lively. She spreads her hands out and suddenly they are wings again, lifting her up and above the stag, away from his horns.
Her body transforms, growing to the size of the sky above. The flakes of parchment-like old skin fall and give way to a fresh body, smooth and perfect. Her skin is green-blue.
Gaia’s hair becomes a long train that sweeps down low to the ground, transforming into a heavy rain-cloud where it nears the earth. Down below, the stag gallops to keep up with Gaia, his heels splattered with the new rain.
At first, only more shoots like the first grow, twisting upwards and along the ground. But suddenly, like cannon bursts, trees explode from the ground, flowers return and the luscious carpet of grass is existent once again. The restored new stag’s tree is a dappled yellow-and-blue.
Gaia soars above the growing trees, her face radiating bliss. She closes her eyes to feel the life-bearing wind again, knowing that all is well. The trees grow even taller than before, and the green of the leaves is a deeper, brighter and more dynamic color.
Finally, Gaia’s heart is at peace. She looks once more upon her land, the world of life, and exhales a deep breath of excitement and satisfaction.
For a while, all will be well.
Epilogue*
The stag knows the time has come again. He searches, knowing that it must appear. This time, the water is colder, the snow thicker, and the ice crystal larger. The stag breathes into the air, but the mist of his breath turns away from the crystal and falls to the water like a miserable phantom. He breathes again, more forcibly this time, and the breath melts the crystal into a clear drop of water.
It falls to the pool and lands, throwing about water drops. The drops cause more splashes and a form rises from the general spatter. It is a male, and his powerful body ripples with muscle. His wings, spread out, are wider than Gaia had ever been, and his vigor in replenishing the earth is unmatched.
The stag is timeless, knowing and seeing all. He has no hold on any single moment of time, only knowing that each happening has an intended purpose and place in the years. He has seen countless number of Gaias and Firebirds rise again and again, neither prevailing, neither dying forever. He knows that it will continue in this way until the end of Time.
But somehow, an emotion tires in his unfathomable bosom.
He misses the beautiful girl, the Gaia that loved him from the beginning.
“I am sorry, Daughter,” the stag says, speaking again in the voice of the heart.
He paws at the base of his tree, enjoying the spicy smell of the giant red flowers the male Gaia put there.
It is different.
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