Gween was old. He didn’t know how many foebahs he had endured the rough life of a feral, but of all the cold times he had faced this was by far the bleakest. He clung to the hope of a still-distant Spring. His old bones ached and he struggled to rise these days, but dutifully did so to relieve himself and to tend the bloated soon-mummahs he watched over. He was fed and watered by the younger set, offering them the wisdom of his seasons in return. Nowadays it seemed they bled into one another before his milky, near-sightless eyes. Sometimes he’d mistake a young filly or boisterous colt for a long-gone friend and they’d giggle and correct him. This gave him heart hurties but also a strange, wistful sort of peace. Seeing old personalities and colorations arising among their descendants gave him a sense of permanence and posterity he might otherwise lack. The one litter he had fathered had been lost to barkey munstahs many warm times ago. He had never had another special friend. Even now there was only room for Her in his gentle little heart. He still remembered her smell, her green eyes and her flowing lilac mane. His memories kept her young and pretty even though he’d grown old and grey.
He awoke that cold morning to an odd silence. Where was his herd? A feeling of dread settled over him like a pall. He had advised several ‘good smarties’ over his long life but the latest was brash and fiercely resented his influence. He had warned them Spring was too far away for their warming-time migration but clearly the Smarty had taken this as a challenge, not as the gentle sharing of hardwon wisdom he had intended.
He grunted and tried to stand, but to his distress he found he could not. His age-dulled green fur had been bound to the floor by ice. Without the other fluffies to warm it the den, a hollow beneath the roots of a tangle of trees and bushes, had become deathly cold. Condensation had frozen and trapped him and his ancient body was too weak to break free. That was the least of his troubles though. They had abandoned him and for the first time in his long life he was truly alone.
A small parcel of nummies had been left for him, barely within reach, but it would not last long. Worse, there was a thick root rubbing painfully at the back of his neck. It was buried deep in his dirty brown mane, a fact that worried him for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. He called out for his herd again and again that day, but no one came. Soon he fell silent, acutely aware of the risk of predation. Silent tears ran down his muzzle as darkness fell, freezing to his fluff before they reached the ground. So this was how he would meet his end. Hungry, cold and lonely; without love or hope.
He slept.
The days marched on. His frozen effluent added to the ice binding him in place. He rationed his food carefully. Maybe they would return? Maybe they’d see the folly of migrating this deep in the cold time before it was too late. That would be best. For him, well, of course. It was his only chance. But more importantly he worried for them. It was too early by far, too cold and dark and dangerous. He closed his eyes and their blurry, colourful, happy faces seemed to drift before him. The memories grew clearer as time fell away, becoming visions of friends from his youth and even of his long-lost special friend. Then, quite unbidden, he imagined their huddled shapes forever still beneath a blanket of gently-falling snow. He croaked out a soft, “Huuu…” through his cracked lips. He realised he would never know their fate, and somehow that was even worse than… than…
How could he? He hated himself for being so selfish, realising he had all but wished them dead just for a semblance of closure. What if that wish came true? It would all be his fault. He was a bad fluffy. Maybe even the worst. In that moment his stoic old heart began to break. It was all too much to bear. He cried, then chirped, then peeped himself to sleep.
The miserable foebahs compounded. Day became night again and again. His sanitation grew worse. His food ran out. The root digging into his neck seemed to be getting deeper. Tiny hairs grew from it, tugging at his fluff when he tried to move. To his horror he realised the tree was growing into him. Like him it was hungry and struggling in the uncommon harshness of this cruel, lonely winter.
The growth took hold rapidly as the weather slowly warmed. His weggies ceased to respond and infection set in, fungal hyphae joining the invading bacteria and rootmass as they violated the sanctity of his flesh. The mysteries of earth, root and tree slowly overwhelmed the biotechnological wonder that was his little immune system. Before such forces man and his works were as nothing.
“H-huu… P-pwease mistah twee. Fwuffy am not fow nummies! Am fow huggies and wuv!” He implored. But mistah twee had no ears to hear him. Only an ancient, alien hunger that drove it ever onward in a timeless cosmic struggle. Red in tooth and claw; green in leaf and stem.
As the first hints of life awakened on the surface Gween’s struggle came to an end. The roots had worked their way throughout his body, fertilised by his manure and nourished by his blood and his bones. Two emerged from his empty, weeping eyesockets and a striking variety of mushrooms grew on and around his ragged husk. Somehow he still drew shallow breaths, his engineered biology enduring the vile intrusions. Whether through stubborn resilience or some sort of freakish symbiosis a tiny spark of life still lingered. It could not last though. Mercifully, his time was finally up.
From the blackness of looming oblivion fantastic visions assailed his blighted brain. He saw green fields, his lost babies at play, his buddies from his earliest days, even his herd still shaking the winter snow off their backs. His vision was clear and his limbs were young and strong. In his final, twitching, shuddering moments of life he was somehow standing beneath a sunny crystal-blue sky. Then he saw Her. She reached her little forelegs toward him. “Fwuffy missed yoo, speciaw fwen!” She called, her green eyes sparkling with joy and youth.
“Gween miss yoo too. Miss yoo so much!” He managed to whisper before running to embrace her. Tears came unbidden though curiously none were ever shed by the ruined husk he had left behind.
Far above the pitiful mound of bones and fluff that had once been Gween, a few tiny viridian leaves defied the dwindling chill. They grew only upon the tree that he had nourished.
Nestled among them was a tiny, lilac-hued flower.