❀ Third Ceremony - Spring
Apr. 4th, 2013 06:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
buddinghartThe second spring.
It was jarring to think that there even would be one – that it had been a full revolution of seasons since the last time this celebration had drawn close. Just like the last year, he awoke well before sunrise. This time, he had the good sense to get dressed before he left, fumbling in the dark for the warm heavy winter layers and the familiar security of his usual gloves. He tiptoed as best as his awkward human feet were able, easing quietly out the door in hopes he wouldn’t rouse Scout.
It felt a little funny to recall how enthusiastic he’d been last time. He’d raced out to the forest, thrown his head like his budding little spring leaves were sparrow wings trying to flutter right up to the treetops, let his voice carry as if predators didn’t exist. He’d thought the same thoughts that followed him as he made his walk out to the forest: he thought of home.
He didn’t know who would be expected to return that day; he had no idea who last year’s newly spring-hearted were. He wondered if perhaps anyone would be hoping that he’d be among them. It seemed like they ought to, but he was already a season late, and it was far too early in the year to hope that he could find a Jumpluff to pass on news of his continuing survival. Continuing survival, he knew, was not something greatly expected of the winter-hearted stags. The hungry season was difficult enough without the increased vulnerability of being alone – the predators felt the hunger just as keenly, after all, and a deer with no herdmates to watch his back must have seemed like a gift from the All-Mother herself to a desperate pack.
It was funny, he mused, how unhungry the hungry season had felt. The season-turning was supposed to feel like letting go of a breath you’d been holding all winter: a giddy return to life, a burst of relief that your painful endurance had come to an end. He’d been warm and well-fed all season, though – had kept all his autumn bulk instead of starving it away. Rather a momentous celebration, this day felt... like any other day, sort of. It felt altogether wrong to be thinking that, though, didn’t it? The herd back home would be abuzz with excitement, their spirits stirring in tandem with the modest little embers of life budding in their antlers. There’d be laughter and elation as the stags filtered home, warm smiles and a quiet, on-your-hooftips excitement as the heavy-bellied does patiently watched the days turning, the delight of the dances and the riveted, rapt joy of the stories.
But that was what the herd would be doing. All he would be doing was dancing by himself, then walking back into the divine realm – no, into the school – to do the same thing he did every day. That seemed to be the thought that stuck most; it was still all tangled in his antlers by the time he reached a spot that had enough space for dancing. Today didn’t mean anything at all in that world. Today was one more revolution of the sun, one more repetition of the routine, one more day of waiting in line for the food bear to hand out a seemingly infinite supply of verdant green food. When he danced this time, it was with a hesitant, self-conscious air: he couldn’t shake the awareness that this was not a herd-wide, synchronized celebration ritual, but a single young man wiggling his antlers around.
It was jarring to think that there even would be one – that it had been a full revolution of seasons since the last time this celebration had drawn close. Just like the last year, he awoke well before sunrise. This time, he had the good sense to get dressed before he left, fumbling in the dark for the warm heavy winter layers and the familiar security of his usual gloves. He tiptoed as best as his awkward human feet were able, easing quietly out the door in hopes he wouldn’t rouse Scout.
It felt a little funny to recall how enthusiastic he’d been last time. He’d raced out to the forest, thrown his head like his budding little spring leaves were sparrow wings trying to flutter right up to the treetops, let his voice carry as if predators didn’t exist. He’d thought the same thoughts that followed him as he made his walk out to the forest: he thought of home.
He didn’t know who would be expected to return that day; he had no idea who last year’s newly spring-hearted were. He wondered if perhaps anyone would be hoping that he’d be among them. It seemed like they ought to, but he was already a season late, and it was far too early in the year to hope that he could find a Jumpluff to pass on news of his continuing survival. Continuing survival, he knew, was not something greatly expected of the winter-hearted stags. The hungry season was difficult enough without the increased vulnerability of being alone – the predators felt the hunger just as keenly, after all, and a deer with no herdmates to watch his back must have seemed like a gift from the All-Mother herself to a desperate pack.
It was funny, he mused, how unhungry the hungry season had felt. The season-turning was supposed to feel like letting go of a breath you’d been holding all winter: a giddy return to life, a burst of relief that your painful endurance had come to an end. He’d been warm and well-fed all season, though – had kept all his autumn bulk instead of starving it away. Rather a momentous celebration, this day felt... like any other day, sort of. It felt altogether wrong to be thinking that, though, didn’t it? The herd back home would be abuzz with excitement, their spirits stirring in tandem with the modest little embers of life budding in their antlers. There’d be laughter and elation as the stags filtered home, warm smiles and a quiet, on-your-hooftips excitement as the heavy-bellied does patiently watched the days turning, the delight of the dances and the riveted, rapt joy of the stories.
But that was what the herd would be doing. All he would be doing was dancing by himself, then walking back into the divine realm – no, into the school – to do the same thing he did every day. That seemed to be the thought that stuck most; it was still all tangled in his antlers by the time he reached a spot that had enough space for dancing. Today didn’t mean anything at all in that world. Today was one more revolution of the sun, one more repetition of the routine, one more day of waiting in line for the food bear to hand out a seemingly infinite supply of verdant green food. When he danced this time, it was with a hesitant, self-conscious air: he couldn’t shake the awareness that this was not a herd-wide, synchronized celebration ritual, but a single young man wiggling his antlers around.
