Plunged under the cover of darkness, even with the illumination of the moon and reflection of the snow, the forest remains dark. Hathor is on edge, if only due to the high-pitched wails that echo across the forest—she swears she sees something in the corner of her eye, yet every time she looks, there is nothing.
‘Paranoia,’ she reasons, for it is rare that any would hunt a lioness, even alone as she is.
Wretched and wounded, Taylor muscles his way through the forest, his strides quick and unnatural. Smashing the plates into the dishwasher, slamming the door shut on his way out, filled with an erratic rage spinning towards entropy— driven by dollar signs and the thought of being seen.
More and more, the dark coming back. Be quiet, Taylor.
burn sear pain tick tick tick
Taylor is a silhouette in the night glow, hunched over, a dying fox under his hands. A gaping hole in its chest, like seeing a .45 caliber bullet wound from the other side. It screams and screams and the noise fills his head. Bouncing off the walls.
His face is what can only be described as utter calm. He wipes blood off of his cheek. The fox has just died or it has been dead for several minutes. He struggles to grasp onto time.
A candle snuffed out, the screams of despair halt. Hathor, too, freezes. At first, she’d been sure the wails were nothing more than a fox in heat, screeching akin to her own species—how much they confuse the two-legged ones with their haunting screams; they expect a murder scene.
Dread pulses through the forest, a thicker eerie aroma washes over. The blood drains from her body, figurative compared to the marred fox that lay at the feet of it’s captor. None of which the lioness sees, none of which she knows. Only the scent, the cease of screams, and the sense of paranoia growing.
She hesitates for a moment, before continuing on her way.
It is only after the fox is long gone that Taylor begins to realise this one had a family. It had a mother and a father and maybe it was even loved. When he thinks maybe it even had a brother, his face twists. He tosses it to the side, and it ragdolls over to a foot of a tree.
And so begins the long and arduous process of burial, which he only completes a quarter of the way before he sits down and puts his face in his hands.
A beat passes. A close-up of Taylor looking up, and even in the darkness, we see the just-healed scar on his neck. I see you,
he croaks, squinting at a vague greyness in the black. The world is thrown into a black and white lithogram. He's washed out in silver, and the blood on his legs, on his chest, looks almost black.
He is unaware of the mountain lion passing nearby.
If he was Macbeth, bloody and ruined in the porcelain U of his bathtub, then the stranger was a voyeur in her Venetian mask, shrugging out of the audience and into the stage to get a better view of whatever depravity was happening in the bedroom, the bathroom, the ballroom.
She walks closer and closer— Taylor withdraws, but his back is to a tree, and he only succeeds in hunching up further. Whatever's on her face, fear or intrigue or hostility, he wouldn't be able to tell. He's too far gone.
Her nails make a tick tick tick sound against the forest floor. He stands, his face still bowed towards the ground, the posture of a dying tree, of someone asking for repentance. He wouldn't be able to tell. He's too far gone.
And so resumes the process of burial.
Very casually slides Evien in.
It was wholly by chance that Evien was in the woods that night. He hadn't meant to be out overnight, away from the territory, but he'd been caught up exploring and searching for herbs. The boy had managed to find some - western redcedar and sword ferns. Both invaluable assets to the pack; Evien had grabbed as much of them as he could manage, carrying the redcedar bark within the ferns that he'd arranged in a sort of carrying bag.
Suddenly, the smells became much more... complicated. Big cat and familiar wolf and unfamilar wolf and blood that made Evien's blood run cold. Dropping the herbs and taking off at a pace that was surprisingly quick for a wolf with only three usable legs, and he only paused when he was able to take in the scene.
Fields was bleeding, standing in front of a woman. Actually, cowering was a better word for it. Evien bristled automatically and hurried to get in between the two as best as he could manage, teeth bared at the offending woman and tail raising furiously. He wasn't sure if she was the aggressor, but she was making Fields uncomfortable and Evie was honestly not okay with that.
"Back the fuck off," he snarled, lips pulling back away from his teeth.
A single bead of sweat races down the highway of his nose. The monotony of digging was comforting, and the minutes pass through him like he's a sieve. What was that quote, about shivering when someone walks over your future grave?
This woman is full of restlessness. Skyrocketing electrons. Taylor can almost hear whenever she tilts her head, or looks back-and-forth, like some spectator of a grandmaster chess game. Always a spectre, always a standee. It was possible she had other intentions, intentions that involved a knife being put somewhere in his person, but they're digging, and they're nearly done.
The snapping and jangling of twigs— for a second he's plunged into panic, and it takes him away like vertigo, but he looks back and it's Evien, snarling.
Kastner,
he calls out. His voice feels like a stranger's in his own throat. It's alright.
Don't shoot.
Well, color Evien confused. The boy looked between the two larger wolves, green eyes still narrowed and body still tense. Upon closer inspection, the blood on Fields was not his own, but instead just clinging to golden fur, and it did not even belong to a wolf at all. There was no injury to be found, but something was still wrong. Evien had just judged incorrectly.
Cheeks growing rouge and hands shoved into his pockets, Evie was the picture of sheepish. Apparently, he'd been wrong, driven by emotion and overreaction. "Um... I'd like to apologize," he began, turning his attention to the ashen woman. Logically, she would be able to take him down swiftly, for Evie was skinny and didn't have the muscle built up like most in Ursus. If he were honest with himself, he had no business trying to fight like that. "I may have misread the situation." And may have wrecked their fun.
Oops.
Evien's small brown face in the dark with small shapes cut out by moonlight pulls him halfway out of his neuroticism and then fullway. Things are clearer now. The air which had been heavy and wet and almost too solid to breathe is now thinning out and cooling down and the moribund synapses in his skull, they spark and begin a conversation with the millions of others.
He pulls down his sleeves. Smooths out his shirt the best he can. It's ok,
he says, and his voice feels like his own. The grey woman has one foot out the door and she has snagged her coat from the rack on her way out and worried herself into her shoes. He thinks let her leave. We were nearly done anyway.
Half of a dead fox juts out of the dirt. He thinks good enough, he nods thank you to the stranger with yellow eyes, and walks over to Evien, bumping his shoulder, saying let's go home.
Faddeeee!
Galena's crinkled expression ironed out like a crisp dress shit when the chestnut boy's tune changed to a bashful apology. The blonde consoles him, lucid now, and sends a look of something like gratitude across the dark space between them. The stormy woman responds with a slow blink as she fixes her collar and lowers her veil, smiling to herself, and slips away into the night. Friend, she decides.