Swiftcurrent Creek I love you will still sound the same

He had taken to tending his wounds with the dwindling supply of lemon balm and comfrey, and growled as he laid his eyes across that which he had left. Lecter would need to venture forth and gather some more, though his ill-fated excursion for sage had left him wary. Jinx had not come to him, but some bitter part of him doubted that he would welcome her company.

It was the way of the world, he supposed, lifting himself to his paws and meandering down his personal trail through the woodland, that the young should come together. Lecter knew he had little in his ageing form to offer the ivory sylph; he would die long before she reached the peak of her years, and now he would die without having left her children. Perhaps the dark male whose name he did not care to know would grant her that; perhaps Lecter's progeny was doomed to belong to the spirits, in one form or another.

Entwined in his hateful thoughts, the madman placed muzzle to the loam, the keen knifeblade of hunger twisting in his gut. There was little chance that he would catch but the bravest, stupidest creature with his healing injury; better luck would be had if he sought out a cache. Stubbornly, however, the ice-eyed witch cast his senses about instead for supplies to replenish his gutted stock, in case he was called upon again.

But it was not the sharp citrus of lemon balm that flared his nostrils, nor the earthen fragrance of comfrey. It was a scent that all at once pierced his heart and set his hackles soaring; Lecter regarded his former lover with a carefully neutral expression painted coldly upon his features.

In the next moment, he turned away from her, disregarding not only her rank and her ability to command him, but her, the very loveliness of Jinx, the remembrance of her touch. Stride lengthening, Lecter prepared to leave her presence.