The Sentinels If forests could talk, what would they say?

Vercingetorix had picked up the change in the vibe of their conversation, but still he failed to understand, what "natural death" implied. Wraen painfully latched on the "even if it was..." as if this way of dying was still inferior of him being murdered. Or - what else an ideal setting for dying could be? In a battle? While protecting your loved ones? Who was to say that his death had also not been natural? After all as wolves they had killed so many deer and rodents and lagomorphs over their lifetimes - weren't that the natural way of them departing this world?

She did not protest, when he touched her, but found it hard to let the insult go. It should not have been this way, she should not have been hurting about it, as if the bad ending was the only thing that truly mattered. Her last horrible days hung like a dark cloud over all the good years she had had and the wholesome moments she had had now. The memory of suffering took away colors and the emotions. Everything now viewed through this darkened lens, seemed silly and irrelevant. 

She looked past the man at the ghost forest behind them. Did the trees, who lived many generations of wolf lives, thought only of the fire that had killed them? Relived that day over and over? Or had they made peace with it? They did not speak to her, but she thought that maybe being a life made of a different material also meant that they viewed the world differently. Maybe, what worried and upset her here and now, did not appear as important to them. 

"Do you think there is a place, where trees go after they die?" she changed the subject of their conversation. "Or do they stay, where they were born, and just become a building block to the young tree?"