It was now that the fog swept at his feet, stretching closer to his bare toes like waves at a beach. Now, though, the beach was so far away; a distant memory, or even a fantasy at this point. What lay before him was not a path he could turn away from. He had made a choice and this was his consequence. He, body and soul, took a step forward with dissipating confidence and bare feet that crushed little twigs and leaves whom had already lived out their short lives. The boy ventured deeper into the thick, eerie fog, daring the worst to happen though it already had.
“Tell me, child, why do you insist on controlling your own fate?” the wind seemed to whisper through the trees.
The boy did not answer. The heart he had once followed died out in his chest, like a light being smothered by the night. Suddenly, roots from the trees lining the never-ending path pushed out from the ground and lashed out at his heels before plunging back into the ashen dirt to follow him as he ran. The wind laughed and mocked while the branches reached for his face, spreading apart like claws as red-stained sap dripped from the tips. He did nothing to defend himself, nothing to cover his face or kick away the roots as they created jagged cuts over his cheeks.
“You chose this for yourself,” the trees spoke gently, “You can’t keep fighting us.”
The boy felt himself beginning to crave the fate he had created for himself but the wind blew with such force that he was nearly tossed on his back. To steady his already weak knees, he took a step back, an unfamiliar softness trapped beneath his calloused, bleeding foot. As he lifted his foot, he saw a young daisy, crushed beneath his weight. Frost stretched across his skin and sent chills up his spine and his mind went numb while tears pricked at his cloudy eyes. The only bit of life on this never-ending path had been killed, by him.
Angrily, a gust of wind shoved him forward to demand his life as he became unwilling to offer it. He no longer wanted to die, he wanted to live, to be... remembered. Was he alive at all? Could he go back? His mind fought, his soul rebelled, his body twisted in a struggle to get away only to fall forward. His fingers dug into the ash covered dirt and stained his pale fingers in black, in death. The boy had pressed his very hands into the flesh of death and was forever marked by the cloak it wore. Branches and roots shot out for a second time, whether to help him or keep him from running he couldn’t tell. He began to scream, and plead, and writhe in their grasp.
“But this is what you wanted,” limbs then wound around him tightly, taking him in toward the trunk of a tree. He was their hope. He was life. The wind whispered to him in words he refused to hear, in a voice he may have recognized had he listened. As he struggled more, the wind howled and churned while bolts of unnerving power lit up the midnight sky and the moon fell from the hood of death.

Peace. At last. A ball of fire, of hope, and of life climbed through the clouds. It rose between the trees, barely seeping through the many branches as they stretched to warm themselves against the uncommon light. A small breeze cleansed the soil of the many deaths it had harbored in leaves, twigs, and ashes. One tree, however, remained unmoving. It stood as still as stone but contained much more than granite. The limbs of the tree were circled around the trunk, each branch crossed over one another. On one little branch though, was a young leaf, reaching out and waving in the wind to the sun.