The old man walked to the edge of the clearing. His pace was deliberate, the steps of a man who must concentrate on every pace. His eyes, rheumy with age, still flashed like dark amber from the embers of the fire. He ran a hand through his long greying hair, and tried to brush his salt-and-pepper beard out with his fingers. He wanted to look his best, for the moment.
After all this time, he had come back, but not home. Home was supposed to be where the heart is, and the heart had gone from this place. Where once stood a burning bonfire, carefully tended and watched by those around it, now only a few smoldering embers remained. The trees at the edges of the clearing bore the scorchmarks from where the flames had burned out of control for long enough to scare away those who might've approached the fire, and consumed many of the occupants. A tear escaped the old man's eye as he thought of one of his friends, nearly consumed in the blaze.
He sat on the remains of a fallen log near the firepit at the centre of the clearing, and gazed into the embers. Unbidden, memories of the past washed over him. Discussions with friends, laughter and song, deep philosophical debates that had lasted until the sun threatened to shine in through the canopy. The feeling of warmth that came not from the fire, but from the presence of friends nearby. The joys of new faces tenatively creeping into the clearing, welcomed by the pack, offered succor and hospitality. The happy moments of this place, grains of sand through an hourglass, seemed to flow past him, lost as tears in rain among the bitterness.
They had fought before amongst themselves, and bitterly. Tempers had flared, hackles had risen. But always before, there had seemed to be the knowledge that despite their differences, they were all of the same blood, the same heart. The last time, that must've been forgotten, for when the claws flew, there had been no holding back. As the passions of those around the bonfire had risen, so had the bonfire. The attentions of those tending the circle had been too distracted from their duties to prevent some standing near the centre from being caught in the conflagration. They, in turn, had run and panicked, spreading the flames from each to the next, until the whole of the pack stood screaming, all trying to put out their own fur, no time to spare to aid those closest to them. The old man removed his glasses, put his head in his hands, and wept. He had been one of the firetenders, and he had been too caught up in the argument to protect those he cared about. And now it seemed that they were gone. When he had seen what his carelessness had caused in his youth, he had fled. Now, a bent old man, he had returned to a place heavy with smoke and regret.
His tears burned themselves out after a while, and the old man felt a presence in the clearing. He looked up, across the embers, and saw, or dreamed he saw, the spirits of those who had gone before. Leaning against a tree, he saw the bear he called mentor, even if only in his mind. His eyes were calm and open, and he seemed to stare through the old man into his soul. Nearby, a pair of wolves seemed to be watching him. One was pacing in his impatience and energy, glancing at the old man as if to ask when he would rise and follow. The other sat serenely watching the old man, patiently awaiting the old man's decision. Finally, from the trees dropped a young lynx. She laughed when she saw the old man watching them, a smile on her face, her tail flicking back and forth. They kept their eyes on the old man, who suddenly felt very old indeed.
"I tried to help them." The old man spoke, his voice cracking from disuse after so long. "I wanted to teach them, to show them. I had to stay, you see. I had to. They needed a guide, and I had to be there." But his protestations seemed to fall on deaf ears. It took the old man a few moments to realise that it wasn't their ears upon which the words rang false, but his own. He had stayed, and they had grown to depend on him. They had not grown as he hoped; they had leaned upon him as a support. Had he gone in his time, they might've grown to follow. But he had stayed, and they had come to need him. He had been inattentive, and it may have cost some around the fire their lives. Now, they had gone, and perhaps none of them lived to come after. The old man wept anew at the thought that he had killed them by staying past his time. His breath grew ragged, and he put a hand to his heart. He tried to stand as he felt it leap in his chest like a caged animal. He fell forward, into firepit, and the beast trapped in his chest burst forth, the old man's life spilling away.
On the other side of the clearing, a young bear walked up to the others watching the spectacle. The lynx ran and threw her paws around him, and he hugged her in return. He smiled a greeting at the older bear, who nodded and smiled back. The young bear padded around to the old man's body, and nudged it once with his nose, before turning and walking back to the others. They closed around him, and together they turned and left the circle. Then, among the embers, a spark caught, and a small flame rose, summoning forth those who had once sat around this sacred fire, and danced in its light.
West Wing Calliope's Private Chambers
East Wing Torture Chamber, Prison
