Five days had passed since Marbas had left his Siren at the river, and despite the advice of Riverbone’s daughter — “You’ll have to stay close for awhile. You have to come to me in the bay, if anything like this happens again — or if it starts to burn, or hurts too much, or if you get lonely,” — Coelacanth began to make her way back to it. In truth, the wounds did hurt, but thanks to the siren of Tara’s detailed instructions, they remained free of dirt and debris and were not in eminent danger of infection. The inky ingénue had possessed no previous knowledge of the healing herbs, but she found it was easy and automatic to notice yarrow when she saw it now, and did her best to spread poultices of the stuff over the punctures whenever she could. By now her silky, feathery fur had grown coarse and stiff with salt and plant matter — and the pulling and pinching sensation it engendered irritated her beyond what she could endure. She wanted a bath — she wanted her river, she wanted her brother, she wanted familiarity — and set out to satisfy the urge. Who could stop her?
Dried remnants of chewed yarrow clung to her breast as she limped and shuffled toward the river in a sick parody of her usual dancing gait; she paused to sweep her slender muzzle toward the embankment despite an involuntary gasp of protest at the shockwaves of pain that fissured through her sleek musculature. Tears sprang to her eyes, making them glow like two snow globes inhabited by bioluminescent plankton, and spilled over the inky satin of her cheeks. Much of Marbas’ scent must have been blurred or muddied by time or the undulating arms of the sea — but she padded doggedly onward anyway, seeking him with feverish anxiousness that heightened with every step. What would she say or do if she found him? How could she tell him that she was sorry? That these wounds were in large part her fault, Seelie had no doubt. That being said, she could not fathom allowing the mahogany-eyed wolf within touching range now — in fact, only the slate-and-sand Atoll had been within close range of Coelacanth since the incident.
Amoxtli’s love for treasure hunting and for adventure had led him on many variegated journeys throughout his life, either with or without Coelacanth — but always, always, she had been able to feel his presence. He was the force toward which her inner compass gravitated. For a little over a week, he had not returned to their den — and although this was, in itself, not overwhelmingly concerning, Coelacanth saw within her mind’s eye his dragon’s hoard of treasure collecting salt and sand in alarming measure — she saw it buried, the luster and shimmer dulled by salt and neglect. The neurotic, obsessive nature of the shepherd dog — the very thing that made them so adept at counting and keeping sheep — was beginning to emerge and Seelie found herself unable to look upon the emptiness she already knew she would find. Oxtli was not here, she knew — he was out of range, somewhere she could not sense. She knew he was not dead — she was sure she would have felt a disturbance in the very air she breathed if that were the case — but he was most decidedly elsewhere.
Serein and Sirimiri told you this would happen, she reminded herself as new tears of petulant self-pity followed the tracks of their predecessors in rivulets down her velveteen cheeks. The two Corten females were twins — the only twins born since Crosscurrent and Undertow — and shared a similarly uncanny closeness. Upon noticing the perfect, wordless confederation between the two tiny sheepwolves, both aunts had taken it upon themselves to prepare Seelie and Oxtli in every way they could for the day the halfbreeds’ binary star expanded and split into two separate universes. Coelacanth and Amoxtli had never truly believed it would actually happen — but the atramentous female had no choice but to accept it now.
Coelacanth was normally a creature of joy and light, but the abrupt absence of Marbas in the wake of Amoxtli’s inexplicable disappearance weighed heavily upon the little Groenendael; sore of heart and weary of bone, she followed the river upstream until she discovered a miniature waterfall bordered on one side by a higher elevation of mossy rock. This odd formation created a moss-blanketed pool, tucked away from view and protected from the river’s strongest pull, and she nestled into it with a tremulous whimper of discomfort that fanned out into a soft sigh of pleasure. Half-submerged, she was practically invisible and found the protection from prying eyes a welcome respite. The flow of pure snowmelt laved the symmetrical, wing-like wounds that marred the sensitive juncture of throat, breastbone, and point of shoulder, and its clean sweetness was a relief to her parched throat. Bathing in earnest, granted a reprieve from the pain of her wounds by the numbness brought about by the water’s chill, she preened with her fangs whatever fur she could easily reach. Again and again she dipped her head below surface, using her paw to smooth the tufts of her ears to smooth, tapered pinpricks.
When a dull ache broke through the numbness, she knew she ought to stop; she sighed again and stretched her graceful neck to rest her pert chin upon a mossy rock, watching the water spill down and outward, toward the sea.
Dried remnants of chewed yarrow clung to her breast as she limped and shuffled toward the river in a sick parody of her usual dancing gait; she paused to sweep her slender muzzle toward the embankment despite an involuntary gasp of protest at the shockwaves of pain that fissured through her sleek musculature. Tears sprang to her eyes, making them glow like two snow globes inhabited by bioluminescent plankton, and spilled over the inky satin of her cheeks. Much of Marbas’ scent must have been blurred or muddied by time or the undulating arms of the sea — but she padded doggedly onward anyway, seeking him with feverish anxiousness that heightened with every step. What would she say or do if she found him? How could she tell him that she was sorry? That these wounds were in large part her fault, Seelie had no doubt. That being said, she could not fathom allowing the mahogany-eyed wolf within touching range now — in fact, only the slate-and-sand Atoll had been within close range of Coelacanth since the incident.
Amoxtli’s love for treasure hunting and for adventure had led him on many variegated journeys throughout his life, either with or without Coelacanth — but always, always, she had been able to feel his presence. He was the force toward which her inner compass gravitated. For a little over a week, he had not returned to their den — and although this was, in itself, not overwhelmingly concerning, Coelacanth saw within her mind’s eye his dragon’s hoard of treasure collecting salt and sand in alarming measure — she saw it buried, the luster and shimmer dulled by salt and neglect. The neurotic, obsessive nature of the shepherd dog — the very thing that made them so adept at counting and keeping sheep — was beginning to emerge and Seelie found herself unable to look upon the emptiness she already knew she would find. Oxtli was not here, she knew — he was out of range, somewhere she could not sense. She knew he was not dead — she was sure she would have felt a disturbance in the very air she breathed if that were the case — but he was most decidedly elsewhere.
Serein and Sirimiri told you this would happen, she reminded herself as new tears of petulant self-pity followed the tracks of their predecessors in rivulets down her velveteen cheeks. The two Corten females were twins — the only twins born since Crosscurrent and Undertow — and shared a similarly uncanny closeness. Upon noticing the perfect, wordless confederation between the two tiny sheepwolves, both aunts had taken it upon themselves to prepare Seelie and Oxtli in every way they could for the day the halfbreeds’ binary star expanded and split into two separate universes. Coelacanth and Amoxtli had never truly believed it would actually happen — but the atramentous female had no choice but to accept it now.
Coelacanth was normally a creature of joy and light, but the abrupt absence of Marbas in the wake of Amoxtli’s inexplicable disappearance weighed heavily upon the little Groenendael; sore of heart and weary of bone, she followed the river upstream until she discovered a miniature waterfall bordered on one side by a higher elevation of mossy rock. This odd formation created a moss-blanketed pool, tucked away from view and protected from the river’s strongest pull, and she nestled into it with a tremulous whimper of discomfort that fanned out into a soft sigh of pleasure. Half-submerged, she was practically invisible and found the protection from prying eyes a welcome respite. The flow of pure snowmelt laved the symmetrical, wing-like wounds that marred the sensitive juncture of throat, breastbone, and point of shoulder, and its clean sweetness was a relief to her parched throat. Bathing in earnest, granted a reprieve from the pain of her wounds by the numbness brought about by the water’s chill, she preened with her fangs whatever fur she could easily reach. Again and again she dipped her head below surface, using her paw to smooth the tufts of her ears to smooth, tapered pinpricks.
When a dull ache broke through the numbness, she knew she ought to stop; she sighed again and stretched her graceful neck to rest her pert chin upon a mossy rock, watching the water spill down and outward, toward the sea.
July 30, 2016, 06:46 PM
(This post was last modified: July 30, 2016, 06:53 PM by Kierkegaard.)
“We need you, Raseri. We cannot hope to survive this without your help.”
The moniker was one that the pallid brute frequently used. He had traveled for a lifetime and very few actually knew his true calling. This was the preferred way of a nomad of his kind. It was the only way to prevent the attachment. Those who knew him had a pull over him, and Kierkegaard did not wish to be pulled any way that he did not intend for himself.
“I doubt you can survive it even with my aid,” he drawled back to the slender beauty before him. His smoldering vision bore into her white-masked face and he frowned, though there was a hint of empathy in the thundering rumble of his voice. Tears sparked in her eyes and she cast her gaze toward the earth out of frustration – the fur along her neck and spine bristled. Suddenly, there was a great growl from within her and she lunged forward, snapping her fangs around the top of his muzzle and biting down viciously. A hiss escaped his mouth and Kierkegaard pulled his head back, feeling her canines dig into his face. But perhaps he had deserved it, and so he stopped struggling against her, and heaved a great breath through his nares. The girl – Moth – had every reason to react so harshly toward his curt response. He was condemning her and her people.
Peeling herself from his muzzle, she burned him with a pointed stare and her ears flattened to her skull. “You are an awful man, Raseri. You come here and teach us to fight and show us that we do not have to be oppressed by these… these monsters! And now you’re leaving us to die. You’re leaving us when we need you the most,” she growled to him, though her voice cracked with emotion and she was forced to pull her eyes away from his own. Kierkegaard blinked at her with a sullen expression on his face and he sighed. It was not the first time he had been condemned by another. It would not be the last, he was certain.
“It’s my time to leave, Moth. I have been here long enough.”
“No,” she said firmly and when her eyes flickered toward him this time, they were filled with a plea that he had never witnessed before. “You could stay. My father adores you. The sunstone wolves admire everything about you and all that you have done for us. I’m certain that you could lead us…” she trailed almost uncertainly and Kierkegaard canted his head with a curious expression on his features. “You could have me. Take me as your mate. I would be yours… forever,” she then whispered beneath her breath.
“Moth! There are rangers in the outskirts of the pack! They’re starting the attack,” a young man’s voice sounded through the cave and echoed around them. The white-masked girl snapped her head toward the entrance and then back to Kierkegaard with a questioning glance. His face was expressionless; his muzzle dripped blood into splotches on the cavern floor. The ghost’s lengthy limbs were stiff as he held her gaze with his own for a fleeting moment. “I have to help my pack fight this war. I am not a coward,” she growled to him with narrowed brows. “I am not you.” There was a flicker along the ridge of his head and he blinked at the words she had cast at him. She brushed her muzzle against his neck once before she turned her figure to the entrance of the cave and darted out into the heated sands of their desert pack. Kierkegaard’s fiery gaze followed her until he could no longer see her brown colors. Once she had disappeared from his sight, he found his exit from the desert lands and never looked back on the wolves of the sunstone. He knew that it was not likely any of them had survived the attack that had been waged on their borders. If he had fought, it would not have made a difference.
“I am not a coward.”
“I am not you.”
The ghostly figure’s frame jolted him awake with a sharp inhale of breath and he pushed himself up from his side, eyes darting to his surroundings. The thrumming of his heart was wicked and he fought to regain his composure after the dream. The darkness that wrapped around his pallid form was like a blanket, suffocating him in its darkness – enveloping his figure in her cold arms. Kierkegaard blinked his eyes, hoping to rid them of the sleep that still lingered there, willing him back into the dream. He would not allow himself to fall back into his slumber; he could not face the past that flickered through his mind like a crisp recollection. It had been so clear. It had been almost as though he could feel her teeth as they ripped through his muzzle. He could taste his own metallic blood as it drizzled onto the floor of the cave. But this was not the reason for his rapidly beating heart; Kierkegaard could still scent the sweet woman in the air. The brush of her muzzle against his neck had been torturous to endure, for he felt as though he could still feel the warmth of her breath against his body. But he could not… and she was gone.
The ghost’s breathing had evened itself out, and his frame was relaxing against the earth. Stars littered the skies overhead and he drew his head upward to peer at them. The summer nights were always the most difficult for the pallid brute; they were the warmest, and had prompted dreams of the sunstone wolves on more occasions than he cared to count. Kierkegaard had hoped that the sea would cool the air, but it had not offered him any sort of reprieve. The ragged man did not know why he even hoped for such a thing at his age.
The only reprieve that would come to him would be when death finally took him away from those lands.
A familiar scent jarred him for a heartbeat, and the ghostly figure turned his skull around in hopes of seeing the inky creature, but she was not within his sight. Pushing himself upward with a grunt and a huff, the large brute cast his muzzle to the breeze and drew in her scent. He had feared that his slumber had caused him to imagine her there – that she was only a figment of his imagination. No, the aroma of the halfling was a certainty, and he found himself debating whether or not to follow it into the more forested area of the river or if he was better off where he rested. The ghost knew that there was little good in forming bonds with others, but the rapid beating of his heart was something that he could not ignore. Ignoring the better sense inside of his head, he trailed after her scent with cracking limbs. The inky sea dog had smelled of the ocean when he’d happened upon her beside Rosings, so it did not surprise him that he would scent her once more on the shores of the great lapping waves.
Lengthy strides carried him along the trickling river and he bent his neck to taste the water, wishing for a relief for his parched mouth and throat. The cool liquid struck him like an electric shock, and his flesh pricked until goosebumps had formed there and lifted the fur along his notched limbs. It was static to him, and he shook his pelt with a gruff snort before fixing his fiery optics on the path ahead of him. Her scent was growing stronger and he was getting closer.
Picking up his pace, the lumbering beast found the location of the small waterfall. The quiet dropping of the water was not at all what had pulled his attention. There, nestled in the crooked darkness, was the inky shape of the young girl. Her oceanic eyes were trained on something that he could not see; her body appeared to be resting, but there was something wrong. Trailing her form with his burning eyes, the ghost took a tentative step forward and scoured her every curve for a sign to show him what had happened. The tip of her tail all the way to the wet dark of her nose, but his eyes were searching her far too quickly for him to notice the wounds that had tarnished her beautiful neck. It was not until he had forced his heart to calm the rapid beating that he saw them. And when he did, the brute came unmade.
“N-Nathimmel?” his voice cracked as it exited his lips, and his ears flattened to his skull. “What has happened to you? Who has dared to lay their fangs on your body?”
Immediately, he was overcome by rage.
The moniker was one that the pallid brute frequently used. He had traveled for a lifetime and very few actually knew his true calling. This was the preferred way of a nomad of his kind. It was the only way to prevent the attachment. Those who knew him had a pull over him, and Kierkegaard did not wish to be pulled any way that he did not intend for himself.
“I doubt you can survive it even with my aid,” he drawled back to the slender beauty before him. His smoldering vision bore into her white-masked face and he frowned, though there was a hint of empathy in the thundering rumble of his voice. Tears sparked in her eyes and she cast her gaze toward the earth out of frustration – the fur along her neck and spine bristled. Suddenly, there was a great growl from within her and she lunged forward, snapping her fangs around the top of his muzzle and biting down viciously. A hiss escaped his mouth and Kierkegaard pulled his head back, feeling her canines dig into his face. But perhaps he had deserved it, and so he stopped struggling against her, and heaved a great breath through his nares. The girl – Moth – had every reason to react so harshly toward his curt response. He was condemning her and her people.
Peeling herself from his muzzle, she burned him with a pointed stare and her ears flattened to her skull. “You are an awful man, Raseri. You come here and teach us to fight and show us that we do not have to be oppressed by these… these monsters! And now you’re leaving us to die. You’re leaving us when we need you the most,” she growled to him, though her voice cracked with emotion and she was forced to pull her eyes away from his own. Kierkegaard blinked at her with a sullen expression on his face and he sighed. It was not the first time he had been condemned by another. It would not be the last, he was certain.
“It’s my time to leave, Moth. I have been here long enough.”
“No,” she said firmly and when her eyes flickered toward him this time, they were filled with a plea that he had never witnessed before. “You could stay. My father adores you. The sunstone wolves admire everything about you and all that you have done for us. I’m certain that you could lead us…” she trailed almost uncertainly and Kierkegaard canted his head with a curious expression on his features. “You could have me. Take me as your mate. I would be yours… forever,” she then whispered beneath her breath.
“Moth! There are rangers in the outskirts of the pack! They’re starting the attack,” a young man’s voice sounded through the cave and echoed around them. The white-masked girl snapped her head toward the entrance and then back to Kierkegaard with a questioning glance. His face was expressionless; his muzzle dripped blood into splotches on the cavern floor. The ghost’s lengthy limbs were stiff as he held her gaze with his own for a fleeting moment. “I have to help my pack fight this war. I am not a coward,” she growled to him with narrowed brows. “I am not you.” There was a flicker along the ridge of his head and he blinked at the words she had cast at him. She brushed her muzzle against his neck once before she turned her figure to the entrance of the cave and darted out into the heated sands of their desert pack. Kierkegaard’s fiery gaze followed her until he could no longer see her brown colors. Once she had disappeared from his sight, he found his exit from the desert lands and never looked back on the wolves of the sunstone. He knew that it was not likely any of them had survived the attack that had been waged on their borders. If he had fought, it would not have made a difference.
“I am not a coward.”
“I am not you.”
The ghostly figure’s frame jolted him awake with a sharp inhale of breath and he pushed himself up from his side, eyes darting to his surroundings. The thrumming of his heart was wicked and he fought to regain his composure after the dream. The darkness that wrapped around his pallid form was like a blanket, suffocating him in its darkness – enveloping his figure in her cold arms. Kierkegaard blinked his eyes, hoping to rid them of the sleep that still lingered there, willing him back into the dream. He would not allow himself to fall back into his slumber; he could not face the past that flickered through his mind like a crisp recollection. It had been so clear. It had been almost as though he could feel her teeth as they ripped through his muzzle. He could taste his own metallic blood as it drizzled onto the floor of the cave. But this was not the reason for his rapidly beating heart; Kierkegaard could still scent the sweet woman in the air. The brush of her muzzle against his neck had been torturous to endure, for he felt as though he could still feel the warmth of her breath against his body. But he could not… and she was gone.
The ghost’s breathing had evened itself out, and his frame was relaxing against the earth. Stars littered the skies overhead and he drew his head upward to peer at them. The summer nights were always the most difficult for the pallid brute; they were the warmest, and had prompted dreams of the sunstone wolves on more occasions than he cared to count. Kierkegaard had hoped that the sea would cool the air, but it had not offered him any sort of reprieve. The ragged man did not know why he even hoped for such a thing at his age.
The only reprieve that would come to him would be when death finally took him away from those lands.
A familiar scent jarred him for a heartbeat, and the ghostly figure turned his skull around in hopes of seeing the inky creature, but she was not within his sight. Pushing himself upward with a grunt and a huff, the large brute cast his muzzle to the breeze and drew in her scent. He had feared that his slumber had caused him to imagine her there – that she was only a figment of his imagination. No, the aroma of the halfling was a certainty, and he found himself debating whether or not to follow it into the more forested area of the river or if he was better off where he rested. The ghost knew that there was little good in forming bonds with others, but the rapid beating of his heart was something that he could not ignore. Ignoring the better sense inside of his head, he trailed after her scent with cracking limbs. The inky sea dog had smelled of the ocean when he’d happened upon her beside Rosings, so it did not surprise him that he would scent her once more on the shores of the great lapping waves.
Lengthy strides carried him along the trickling river and he bent his neck to taste the water, wishing for a relief for his parched mouth and throat. The cool liquid struck him like an electric shock, and his flesh pricked until goosebumps had formed there and lifted the fur along his notched limbs. It was static to him, and he shook his pelt with a gruff snort before fixing his fiery optics on the path ahead of him. Her scent was growing stronger and he was getting closer.
Picking up his pace, the lumbering beast found the location of the small waterfall. The quiet dropping of the water was not at all what had pulled his attention. There, nestled in the crooked darkness, was the inky shape of the young girl. Her oceanic eyes were trained on something that he could not see; her body appeared to be resting, but there was something wrong. Trailing her form with his burning eyes, the ghost took a tentative step forward and scoured her every curve for a sign to show him what had happened. The tip of her tail all the way to the wet dark of her nose, but his eyes were searching her far too quickly for him to notice the wounds that had tarnished her beautiful neck. It was not until he had forced his heart to calm the rapid beating that he saw them. And when he did, the brute came unmade.
“N-Nathimmel?” his voice cracked as it exited his lips, and his ears flattened to his skull. “What has happened to you? Who has dared to lay their fangs on your body?”
Immediately, he was overcome by rage.
July 31, 2016, 12:41 AM
The fall of water was mesmerizingly hypnotic. When she tired of watching the delightful maelstrom caused by the miniature cascade’s churning tumble, Seelie cast her seablue gaze further, wider, watching the river’s serpentine flow as it spilled into the glassy delta chain and was transformed by the touch of the sea. Oxtli — where are you? A toneless whine trembled from her lips as she closed her eyes and focused on her fiery brother, with his masquerade mask of ink and his sunny smile. He would have something in his mouth, she thought fondly, and gave him a gleaming bauble — a handmade dreamcatcher adorned with chips of sea glass, bright pearls, and soft, white feathers. Then, hesitantly, beside the vivid and shining thought of Amoxtli, she placed the shadowed subtlety of Marbas — not as she had seen him last, but as she had seen him happiest, shot through with bourbon strands from the light of the rising sun, splashing in the brackish water. I am sorry, Marbas. I am sorry.
Perhaps she dozed for a time — she was exhausted — but her soul was restless, her feelings of loss and guilt relentless. You are alone. You are wounded and useless and alone. Flattening her tufted ears against her slender skull to ward off the negative thoughts that plagued her, Coelacanth bestirred herself to resume her previous activity — and it was in this manner that Kierkegaard found her, staring raptly down at the billowing cascades with a mournful cerulean gaze.
Kierkegaard’s Nathimmel saw him before she heard him; and perhaps this was unfortunate, for the flash of movement out of the corner of her eye frightened her — she dipped her slim muzzle accordingly to guard her wounded throat and chest as a low, toneless flutter of a growl shaped her virginal lips into the unfamiliar contortion of a snarl. She looked more like a drowned and offended kitten than anything truly predatory, but Crosscurrent had said much the same of her purebred mother and bore the notched ear and other assorted scars to prove it. The snowmelt had done its trick and numbed her wounds, reducing some of the painful swelling that surrounded the ugly punctures, so she forced herself to rise to her catlike paws with meticulous care and face her intruder — though she was far more likely to flee than to make good on her implied promise of malice. Then, “N-Nathimmel?” came the ghost’s voice, and all of Seelie’s defensive wariness fell away.
Kierkegaard! The atramentous creature whisked her feathered tail in eloquent apology, though it was unlikely he was able to see it — half-submerged, it resembled a line of blurred ink. Still, the expression in her oceanic eyes spoke for her, flashing with shadows of guilt at her initial reaction. This unnatural darkness receded by degrees as the joy of being graced by his presence, pure and unfettered and warm, cast within her eyes a bioluminescent brightness. Moving stiffly, she carefully exited the pool, biting back the whimpers of discomfort that thickened her useless throat — she could not cross the distance to him as she wished to, feeling a sense of hesitation at the thought of crossing boundaries she could not see, but offered a plaintive, pleading whine of invitation that he might show her where they lay. She took two shuffling steps forward, her forelegs moving gracelessly, and tipped her head entreatingly despite the pull of aggravated tendon that jolted her senses.
Perhaps she dozed for a time — she was exhausted — but her soul was restless, her feelings of loss and guilt relentless. You are alone. You are wounded and useless and alone. Flattening her tufted ears against her slender skull to ward off the negative thoughts that plagued her, Coelacanth bestirred herself to resume her previous activity — and it was in this manner that Kierkegaard found her, staring raptly down at the billowing cascades with a mournful cerulean gaze.
Kierkegaard’s Nathimmel saw him before she heard him; and perhaps this was unfortunate, for the flash of movement out of the corner of her eye frightened her — she dipped her slim muzzle accordingly to guard her wounded throat and chest as a low, toneless flutter of a growl shaped her virginal lips into the unfamiliar contortion of a snarl. She looked more like a drowned and offended kitten than anything truly predatory, but Crosscurrent had said much the same of her purebred mother and bore the notched ear and other assorted scars to prove it. The snowmelt had done its trick and numbed her wounds, reducing some of the painful swelling that surrounded the ugly punctures, so she forced herself to rise to her catlike paws with meticulous care and face her intruder — though she was far more likely to flee than to make good on her implied promise of malice. Then, “N-Nathimmel?” came the ghost’s voice, and all of Seelie’s defensive wariness fell away.
Kierkegaard! The atramentous creature whisked her feathered tail in eloquent apology, though it was unlikely he was able to see it — half-submerged, it resembled a line of blurred ink. Still, the expression in her oceanic eyes spoke for her, flashing with shadows of guilt at her initial reaction. This unnatural darkness receded by degrees as the joy of being graced by his presence, pure and unfettered and warm, cast within her eyes a bioluminescent brightness. Moving stiffly, she carefully exited the pool, biting back the whimpers of discomfort that thickened her useless throat — she could not cross the distance to him as she wished to, feeling a sense of hesitation at the thought of crossing boundaries she could not see, but offered a plaintive, pleading whine of invitation that he might show her where they lay. She took two shuffling steps forward, her forelegs moving gracelessly, and tipped her head entreatingly despite the pull of aggravated tendon that jolted her senses.
July 31, 2016, 02:34 AM
“I am not you.”
The ink-cloaked woman’s lip was reeled defensively over her fangs and she bore an expression of a wrinkled muzzle and harsh eyes. The ragged creature took a sudden step backward as the voice played through his mind once more. The instinct to run was climbing through his gut and reaching his chest with a vicious pounding. His eyes were cast to her warily and he could feel the fur along his back bristle with concern and confusion. Kierkegaard knew that he could turn and depart – that she would not follow him if he were to use the length of his limbs in a suitable manner and flee the scene. In the blue of her gaze, he saw a glimmer of Moth and felt a pang in his chest like an old war wound that had reopened. If he were to run away from Nathimmel, then he was just as the sunstone woman had painted him. Perhaps he was a coward after all, for his heart felt as though it housed very little courage… far less than he had imagined it would have at that age. The years had not been kind to him, but the great pallid brute had not been kind on them either. In a realistic light, he should not have made it as far as he had.
Taking her reaction as a command, the ghost turned to leave her – afraid that if he were to stay, it would damage her further. If the dark creature did not want him there, he had no reason to remain. She did not appear as though she could cause any real harm to him. If his intentions were malicious, he could have ripped her throat from her body and left it in the drizzling waters, but the ghost would never feel such a way for the dark wolfdog. He could not have harmed her if his survival depended on it. But he was wasted and losing time. The haggard creature had formed a fragile spine.
It seemed as though recognition had fallen on her features instead of hostility toward his presence. She lifted her tail in the waters in an apologetic nature. Moments later, she was rising from the pool where she had been resting to meet him halfway from where he stood. Her movements were labored and her body did not seem to obey her the way it had on the day of their first meeting.
His eyes fell on the wounds about her neck and his stomach lurched.
A beckoning glance from the sea-eyed spirit was permission enough for him to approach. His limbs were stiff still, and held his haggard frame in a locked position where he stood. The option to flee was still alive in his mind and he wished that he could extinguish that flame so that it no longer licked at his heart, but he did not know how. There was a typhoon of emotions that filled his body and shook his frame. Somehow, he could not prevent his eyes from straying to the marks along her form. They were trained there, watching each movement that she made, fighting the pain that she must have felt as she lowered her skull to the earth and requested that he move closer to her. If he had been a good man, he would have left the rage where he stood and moved to comfort her in any way that she might need. He would have abandoned all of the thoughts of revenge and murder that were forming in the twisted mesh of his mind. If he had been a good man, he would not have stood there with a burning gaze as she suffered.
But he was not a good man; he was a ragged burden.
Biting back the urges to run, the brute moved a single stiff paw toward her dark body and he felt his breath catch in his throat. Curse the recluse!. The anger that coursed through his veins was not entirely directed at the beast who had defiled her perfectly sculpted figure. It was a carefully crafted fury that he had compartmentalized to a disturbing degree – not only for the wicked and cruel of the world, but for himself.
Kierkegaard fought against it for that moment and slowly took the remaining steps until he could taste the brine on her coat and the scent that filled his nares was imprinted in his mind.
“How could this happen?”
The inky ingénue drew a careful breath, filling her lungs with a soft flutter of her concave flanks, and pursed her trembling lips to prevent its escape. Taking up what scraps of dignity she could, she folded briefly in on herself as though physically clutching them to her breast — had she a human form, she would have twined her slim hands nervously beneath her chin, fingertips curling in an anxious tangle against her lips, seablue eyes cast bashfully aside, the narrow angles of her elbows shielding her wounds from view. As it was, she turned her slim, supple body with a pained shuffle of her forelegs, leaving her hindquarters where they stood but arching one shoulder forward with agonizing stiffness to conceal the ugly, raw sets of punctures that mapped her the wings of her collarbone. Her streamlined muzzle dipped in shame at the welter of displeased emotion and fury that swirled like hellfire within Kierkegaard’s brilliant citrine eyes; she was self conscious in a way she had never experienced before. He did not see her — he saw the reprimand she had earned — and she was both slighted by this realization and frightened by the augur of violence she sensed.
As the serpentine wolf lingered, the tension of his rangy, long-legged body promising movement but not giving any indication whether it would be toward or away from her, his Nathimmel suffered — it was a test of endurance to which Kierkegaard had the best and only seat in the house. She breathed — long, sustained exhales and quavering inhales — and until he made his choice, that was all she did. Her oceanic gaze had long fallen away from his, for she knew what expression his sharply-etched features wore and did not want the visual confirmation of it to haunt her fragile attempts at slumber. He was angry — and whether or not he meant to direct it at her, the lash of it stung her empath’s soul.
The phantasm moved, shifting one paw stiffly toward Coelacanth, and she kept her eyes fixed demurely upon the notched foreleg that held it fast — it was entirely possible that he would take one step, then another, then another, until he had walked past her completely with the intention of leaving her behind. Nathimmel closed her eyes and waited — and was rewarded by the sudden, solid nearness of him. Her flesh jumped and quivered in a series of uneven tremors; she felt, as she had felt the day they’d met, the power that lived deep within the marrow of his bones — buried under a growing weight of weariness and memory and age — age that Kierkegaard was still too young to feel so wretchedly. The atramentous halfbreed found herself intimidated by the wolf she did not yet completely know — he was not the siren of Tara she loved so dearly, and she dared not burrow into him, taking liberties that she had not been expressly granted — but she recalled his kindness and the way his eyes had softened with the ghost of a smile.
“How could this happen?” he questioned, and she tilted her finely-sculpted head back to look up at him, bright eyes made brighter by the unlikely bedfellows of Sorrow and Hope. Nathimmel fanned her tufted ears forward, then skimmed them back against her skull in feeble indecision. She could not make him understand — she had not the words or the will to try. Dipping her muzzle, she shuffled hesitantly forward, tucking her tiny body against his chest in a perpendicular embrace that caused their vividly disproportionate silhouettes to form a “T” shape. He could not stare at her injures this way, and she could not be tormented by the fury she had wrought within his fiery eyes. “This is better,” bespoke with tentative flutter of her feathered tail as it stirred weakly betwixt her hocks. “Do you see? I will make it better.” She worried for him, this ghost of the wood, and at this close range it was easy to recognize that the scent of his forest home had faded from his fur. Was everything all right? She turned too quickly, attempting to nuzzle at the fur of his shoulder — a harmless place, she hoped — and was drawn up short as the stretching of abused flesh caused her breath to catch in her throat. Perhaps it was for the best — perhaps he didn’t want his shoulder fur nuzzled, anyway.
As the serpentine wolf lingered, the tension of his rangy, long-legged body promising movement but not giving any indication whether it would be toward or away from her, his Nathimmel suffered — it was a test of endurance to which Kierkegaard had the best and only seat in the house. She breathed — long, sustained exhales and quavering inhales — and until he made his choice, that was all she did. Her oceanic gaze had long fallen away from his, for she knew what expression his sharply-etched features wore and did not want the visual confirmation of it to haunt her fragile attempts at slumber. He was angry — and whether or not he meant to direct it at her, the lash of it stung her empath’s soul.
The phantasm moved, shifting one paw stiffly toward Coelacanth, and she kept her eyes fixed demurely upon the notched foreleg that held it fast — it was entirely possible that he would take one step, then another, then another, until he had walked past her completely with the intention of leaving her behind. Nathimmel closed her eyes and waited — and was rewarded by the sudden, solid nearness of him. Her flesh jumped and quivered in a series of uneven tremors; she felt, as she had felt the day they’d met, the power that lived deep within the marrow of his bones — buried under a growing weight of weariness and memory and age — age that Kierkegaard was still too young to feel so wretchedly. The atramentous halfbreed found herself intimidated by the wolf she did not yet completely know — he was not the siren of Tara she loved so dearly, and she dared not burrow into him, taking liberties that she had not been expressly granted — but she recalled his kindness and the way his eyes had softened with the ghost of a smile.
“How could this happen?” he questioned, and she tilted her finely-sculpted head back to look up at him, bright eyes made brighter by the unlikely bedfellows of Sorrow and Hope. Nathimmel fanned her tufted ears forward, then skimmed them back against her skull in feeble indecision. She could not make him understand — she had not the words or the will to try. Dipping her muzzle, she shuffled hesitantly forward, tucking her tiny body against his chest in a perpendicular embrace that caused their vividly disproportionate silhouettes to form a “T” shape. He could not stare at her injures this way, and she could not be tormented by the fury she had wrought within his fiery eyes. “This is better,” bespoke with tentative flutter of her feathered tail as it stirred weakly betwixt her hocks. “Do you see? I will make it better.” She worried for him, this ghost of the wood, and at this close range it was easy to recognize that the scent of his forest home had faded from his fur. Was everything all right? She turned too quickly, attempting to nuzzle at the fur of his shoulder — a harmless place, she hoped — and was drawn up short as the stretching of abused flesh caused her breath to catch in her throat. Perhaps it was for the best — perhaps he didn’t want his shoulder fur nuzzled, anyway.
·
Kierkegaard’s Nathimmel did not know how long she stayed with the fiery eyed wolf before the pull of obligation drew them in opposite directions. Perhaps if she knew this was the last time she would see the serpentine wraith for an indeterminate amount of time, she might have sought to keep him with her longer — but she turned from him believing that their next meeting was just a short span of sunsets away.
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