Deer Eyes

(Sensitive theme in story: blood, talk of death, bones, maggots, rot, war, and flesh.)

As war raged on, blood spilling on pikes and rocks, birthing fluid coated the soft clovers that blanketed the forest floor. Mother, my mother, a deer, birthed me, I look at her into her big brown eyes. I believe I am the first of my kind to be sentient, I stand on unsteady hooves, while I listen to the human men bark orders nearby. Mother licks me clean of her fluids, and I lean into her tongue, while the antlered men of my kind flanked the sides of our herd, as our elder Matriarch led us deeper and further from the action.

Now, in these upcoming weeks, is my birthday, when I first gain my antlers, though I reek of doe smell, it’s odd. My herd believes so too. The war that had taken place in the land of my birth had ended 2 months ago, blood had soaked into the earth, bones were chewed on by wolves, flesh was eaten by maggots and creatures alike.

Within these occurring days, my father, a sturdy buck, grew odd of my doe smell despite my budding antlers, his call to my smell was to wash and refresh me of my smell to river water. Matriarch took my smell as worth gold, she fondly taught me her way, yet her way never took my brain, for they were far too constrictive on my movements. The stags of my herd grumbled superiorly, my presence a threat to herd traditions. Mother nursed me thoroughly, her blank brown eyes that matched not intelligence but love always stared tenderly.

In these years as aging takes hold of me, Matriarch had died, it was a fortunate thing almost, her existence was narrow-lived and her apprentice took place with better wariness, though, Matriarch was thorough in keeping herd perimeters safe. Apprentice is far too slack in safety, her excuses flimsy for our leader. Father has forgotten to teach me the role of the antlered men of our herd. Mother has been far more focused on nurturing the young and Brother has been avid in play and battle. Sister hadn't lived long as Death knocked off her hourglass far too early. Cousin watches the tree-line as his job as head protector, his head bowed in hostility. His guard hadn't ever lowered since his mate died, unfortunate that she had. She was Healer and hadn't had an apprentice, her craft almost lost to the winds of yonder.

Yet, years are a currency not most can afford. I, with sentience, had been blessed with a seeming forever lifespan. Mother grows old. Old. An odd word to gregarious species who'd haven't brain capacity. I, with sentience, seemed to be blessed in existence with brain availability. Father has forgotten my presence as his eyes grow duller from that animalistic normalcy. Sister. What to say of a doe who'd never feel rivulets upon her fur? Not much. Brother had fast matured since Wolves had been skulking near territory we'd claimed. Cousin had been found. Found mangled on the rocks of the river bank, how sad. Apprentice, who'd grown to hate the term, had grown furious in her wake, aggressive and hostile her mannerisms were, her existence disliked by all.

Then, as a decade encounters my existence, I watch my herd evolve and change. The forest alongside, as root systems grew long and voracious, taking hold of the campsites of the war-torn soldiers who fought brave on frontlines. Gregarious traditions evolved despite the affinity the elder stags were so desperate to keep. Wolves had grown bold, taking a fawn not too long away from the territory of ours. Other cousin has been placed head protector, his antlers jagged, and his commands clear and sure. Apprentice had drowned in her malice, her commands and ways only left her mouth in harsh barks. Too similar. Far too similar to those who led the war. Her presence a reminder of belligerent commanders who found themselves deified and above others in fantasies they own. My herd now the pedantic soldiers who never took a stand for themselves. Yet. They couldn't. They didn't withhold the required brain capacity for a coup. Though, I. I could, but if so, I shall be outcast. The coup I would attempt to hold would taint reputation that had been passed like an heirloom through relatives and generations.

After. Wolves.. they, they are Death incarnate. Mother had been victimized first. They played with her hide till not one could recognize it. Her bones drier than rocks that had been used to smash heads in. Father had been carrion for a far while, vultures being harsh creatures that hold no mercy not even for young. Cousin is not to be spoken of, his death a mar on us. Brother found normalcy in his mate and offspring, forever bonded to them.

Incoming soon is the day of my birth which will mark my 20th year of living, and it reminds me of war, war that has flattened my birthing place. On that day, years ago, I grew my antlers, though the doe smell has lingered. Unfortunate that in recent, Mother has died, her blood spilled in the streams by the wolves’ den, even Matriarch lives no more, she died by the time I had hit age 3. Though, as I aged, the forest changed, the blood that was of my mother’s and the men who charged in battle had now long dried, the bones of Matriarch and the nurses of the war had yellowed and became brittle, and the flesh of those poor soldiers and Mother were in stomachs that had long rotted. Yet, the trees hadn’t forgotten as they grew over the abandoned tents, the clovers remembered while they sprouted between the orbitals of a skull, the rocks never reminisced on how they passed plenty of hands, smoothing them down, and the winds blew lullabies that mothers used to hum to the men when they were in infancy, even the dirt collected around boot-prints that were firmly imprinted in the mud, as Mother Earth remembers what we forget.