Fantasy, Home

Lady of the Bog

She walks through the murky water, mud suckling at the soles of her feet, squishing between her toes. The cold liquid splashes at her ankles, drenching the frayed edges of her clothes, adding more and more weight to her steps. Still, she walks, treading deeper and deeper into the water, uncaring of the twigs and leaves and algae catching in her long hair, tangling the once golden locks, now drained of their previous brilliance.

She cares for little now. Eyes once shinning with a boundless love of life, are now the dull unfocused gaze of the dead. Her movements are not her own, she is moved like a puppet, pale and cold and lifeless.

This is the bog. Her bog. The void she had trusted and traversed without fear, and whom in return, had allowed her to explore to her hearts content. In her youth she had walked among the old trees and swirling dark waters, green life content to listen to the constant stream of her bright and excited words. To simply watch this bright and warm spot of life dance amongst the green.

Who, in the end, had swallowed her muffled screams, as it dragged her deep into it’s depths.

So many had walked the bogs soft mossy earth, waded in it’s murky waters, but none like her. This girl so bright and loud, had brought new light to the bog. So when she came to tell them of her exciting plans, of how she would miss the bog after she left, the green reacted, poorly. So many had lived and died by the bog, and many would come after, but the bog was old, filled with the ghosts of life long past, and the bog felt itself wanting. It could not bear to loose the girl, so it stole her away.

It dragged her below, and kept her there, until the people who had come looking, left. Then, and only then did it let up, resting it’s companion along it’s shores. But the girl did not move, did not laugh or smile as she had before, did not stand and begin dancing once more, and so the bog panicked.

It slithered it’s vines up and across her every limb, raising the girl like a puppet. The vines trembled, for there was no warmth to caress, no heartbeat to soothe. The light in the girl had gone out, leaving only a dull husk behind.

And the bog burned, and trembled, mourning the loss it had brought upon itself.

So the bog used the body it’s companion used to live and thrive in, and made it walk, marching along it’s borders like a sentry, hoping to avoid another loss, frightening away potential companions, for it could no longer trust itself.

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