Soldier is a far cry from war, he follows his king, but escapes his waning commands. He dies of death, but not by its sword, but by what he sees in what it provokes. He dresses in chainmail of silver and cloth of white, stained by red of another.
He fears for his life, for his guilt, and his peace of mind, more than his honour.
He wishes for home, for his mother, for his land, and cottage, and for being again a child in her arms.
He enters the trees of the greens and yellows, and he enter land of forest, kingdom of unknown.
He wants rest, and pink, but not black and red, he seeks escape and refuge from his duties of war and duties of men.
He wishes to be undone.
In soft pleas he rests with his wounded leg, and his back against a stump, it brings him comfort and reminds him of a time undone.
In the nightfall, the tree in which he lies against transforms, it seeks retribution from the soldier of the land of man who cut it down, the stump grows mouth and fangs of tweed and twigs and eats the soldier whole. Now the tree bleeds red again, in vengeance, in rage, in war. For man is no longer in the land of trees, and cannot steal, cannot cut down, if is unable to move. Because what is of a dead man's desire?
Inside the stump a loud cry is heard in raging wails, for he is being grinded down to nurture the earth where tree seeks greedily what it's dead and decomposing body can feed its roots.
So, the forest speaks, and so does its lands, and therefore the creatures it commands.
And the forest is no longer only green, it stains of red of man.
