Wheeling Gull Isle bismil

home. dawn. He shakes his head, continuously, an automaton. "no dawn. no dawn. nothing. no dawn. no home." home was the plateau, when things were good. dawn. . .dawn--

--with the stranger, his limbs coiled around hers;

alarian's narrow hips under aditya's--

pressure--press----oh god. . .

"you're my home, seelie--"

fire rose in his vision, like the blaze on the plains. he felt it sear his face once more, setting the ends of his hair alight. the fur on his spine lifted. his pupils dilated, and--

grayday on the ground, cold and still--

river, his throat cut in a ditch.

the morningsiders, cast to the wind. and with no one to lead them. no one. aditya was no one, he was a nobody, he had always been a nobody and he always would be a nobody. He was worth nothing, he meant nothing, nothing, to anyone, AND THE ONE TIME HE HAD WANTED SOMEONE MORE THAN ANYTHING BEFORE-----

in. out. in. out. and there was his heart, thump thud thump thud THUMP THUD and

there was blood in his gaze and the smell of ashes in his nose and

WHY SEELIE WHY HIM WHY NOT ME WHY WHYWHY--

everything was wrong. and everything had always been wrong and would always be wrong, haye bhagwaan! kya karoon? kya matlab?

KYON? KYON? KYON?

and there was a screaming, a screaming that WONT STOP STOP STOP

 STOP STOP STOP IT STOP IT STOP STOP STOP STOPSTO P STOSP STOSPTSOP------



a snarl ripped from aditya's throat, and he lunged at stockholm, teeth aimed directly at the man's collared throat.

no limbs, no appendages, no organs, no death. otherwise: have at him, seawolves.