Rush in a whirl of winds, quick steps lightening away through the forest, nothing to a grey streak in a sea of passing spring. To a setting sun, where composed colors change, as one would do so in brushing yesterday’s grime away, a lighter shade is seen, a pallid hue remains.

Oak and pine, standing tall, wetter to a darker brown bark to almost black as soot. In a glimpse, the grey streak comes and goes, rushing through afforest, of the maze that the woodland was.

As in calling the spirit of a great wolf lives within, a guardian; a faithful comrade to a prince’s grave mark. They work as one. For when the forest is in trouble, they act upon, not for gold or pride, but all to spare the shed of innocence blood to spill.

Years and years, they do what they can. In hopes none other, share what they carry on their shoulders.

That a once fear beast, massacred because of human nature, the wolf of one enemy; is every ones, due to never leave the woods, until spirit gives up or the wild’s elements level everything into nothing, but a crater in the ground.

The young prince’s tale was no different, hated and belittled; young minded to austerity of the world, blinded as the queen before his time that once said sweets were better than simple crumbs.

In death the boy and wolf, died by man, one of stranger, the other of blood; matters of kinship is toss aside, in the hopes for a better future, and those that seem as a threat in stopping that new world order from coming, must be handle, carefully or hastily, in turn comes in blood and an unmark grave or two.

The fates of the two, boy and animal, together by that cruel fate, never to leave, holding upon anew of another, wounded but breathing; near the stomach a growing spot of red blossoms slowly. Golden hair slicks tightly to the young maiden’s head, eyes formed a slit to see with hesitates of what was going on, only those woods were there and changing from day to night, with a airless wheeze, she sleeps.

The tattered clan prince and sullen tinted shade wolf doing everything they can, hoping this one soul won’t share their fate. The wolf rushes onward, never looking back or slowing down, being nothing but a ghostly blur, just as woodland’s pixies souls echo of.

With the prince, looking over his shoulder, in fear and awareness, of being follow was not something to brush off too easily, to that as scatter leaves from a fresh fiery tone autumn shower.

Worst even more so, as taken in the young maiden, the bond of her to the woods, made his face only grim more; kinship had struck again, on someone who he once trust for again, attack that of someone who look up to him in a golden light.

Seeing her again, forms a sad smile on his lips, with his grip tighten, wither of hollowness call to the wolf to hurry, as the red spot grows, the thinning of trees happened in passing hours.

In failure, learning is the outcome; for a wolf to trust, a prince to open his eyes, a girl to know her brother never really left her for what words spoke; can only mean to much, without proof.

And in proof, within the woods, the prince with his friend, protect, as they ride on through the woods, as one.


Prince Ivan on the Grey Wolf by Viktor Vasnetsov

Made in the year; 1889

Location when painted; Moscow, Russia

File:Wiktor Michajlowitsch Wassnezow 004.jpg

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