all good things to those who wait

for timeline's sake, i am setting this for dawn of the day after the rank challenge between ptarmigan and cara. since the outcome is still undetermined, i am being vague as possible.

<3 u guys

Dawn had not yet lifted her rosy hue against the sky when the shaman departed his den. Beneath the cover of the starred black ceiling, Lecter breathed in the comforting fragrance of the night gone to earth, to bed down in the mountaintops. Silently, the man stood for a fleeting moment upon the stone ledge outside his den, ears cupped forward to catch the low warbling of the morning-birds, the slither of a brook not far from where he had reposed himself.

Thus sated, Lecter turned into the deeper cover of Ouroboros, gliding without the continuous pain that had so plagued him for the better part of a year, down to the mossy shoreline where he had last taken the scent of Jinx's body. Muzzle lowering, he brushed the grass with reverent lips, before the sinews of his gaunt legs carried him into the waters. Cursing in a rasp beneath his breath at the cold of the lake, the madman forded his way to the island with sure strokes, icewater eyes fixed upon the far shore.

Having not departed the mainland in some time, Lecter at once was both unafraid by the prospect of what he would discover here, and tantalized by the anticipation of rage and agony if he did not locate her. Lashing his pelt into a thousand gritted spikes, the man stepped forth along the banks of the island, the spectre of his love hovering ever near at his shoulder.

The curled tendrils of fog writhed around him, and so pale in hue were they that he did not immediately spot her body — it was but for the dark mud streaking her flanks, her shoulders. Jinx lay entwined in threads of waterplant upon the shore, gently buffeted by the current of the sleeping lake, and Lecter was hard-pressed t move forward, to destroy the innocent sanctity of her peaceful form.

The ice of the waters had cooled her, hardened her muscles into stone that gave somewhat beneath his touch. A fond tracery was given her jawline, her eartip, her lips — her perfume was that of the winter, and of earth, all but the faintest lingering trace of infectious rot washed from her by the lake's insistent kiss.

Tearing himself at last from the corpse that held no spark of his former love, Lecter surmounted the sprawl of rock separating the cold beach from the main body of the island, and let the swift trot of his kind carry him numbly toward the fairy-circle he had discovered in long times past: a ring of late summer violets interspersed with the faintest lavender. Here the witch let go the burden he had carried from his den, a tiny packet wrapped tightly in oak leaves gone discolored with age; he set it down and returned for his wife.

The moon watched with cool implacability as the witch drew Jinx slowly from the stones of the shore into the more gentle grasses of the island. Several times he gave pause, but some last wellspring of strength buoyed his skeletal frame, and at long last Lecter brought her unto the place where the fae danced.

Lynx purred, winding Her form sinuously around Her much-beloved shaman, and Lecter allowed himself a moment's respite, to glance into the yellow eyes that were at once tangible and yet were not there. A nod of Her finely pointed muzzle was given him, and the spirit departed to sit alongside the burial site, watching with ever-present silence.

He dug his limbs deeply into the soft loam, and began to dig, his movements smoothly mechanical. Before he had finished his task, Dawn stirred, slipping with gentle insistence o'ertop the mountain peaks in the distance. But the crevasse had been made; Lecter grasped carefully hold of Jinx's sodden nape and drew her into the gape of the grave. She formed a pale, thin semicircle in its embrace, her soaked pelt glowing in the eldritch light that is cast just before sunrise, and he found himself smitten anew, for even in death was she was his light, his sylph, lovely.

In turns he brought blossoms from nearby points upon the island, letting them fall in ruddy hues, in yellowed tones, in blue breath and pinked petals upon Jinx's curled body. Lecter's strength ebbed fast, and yet he gazed down at her for some time, perched upon the edge of the loamy crypt. She had been far too young for such a fate, her ambition still burning within her breast when the Dread Lord had claimed her, but Sos had taken her fire all the same.

There was but one task left to the pale witch, and he did not balk. Tilting back his head, Lecter sang his demise unto the stars that faded, one by one, fleeing the streaks of tangerine and peach that breathed into existence across the sky. He would not have the wolves of Ouroboros grieve him; he would have them carry on, the flame of Jinx's perseverance and pride burning hotly in their breasts; he would have them live.

There was a tremble to the man's lips, and he faced the mountain with open fondness in his eyes, but shortly thereafter Lecter let himself down into the vault, the oak-sealed packet with his jaws. The coolness of the earth was welcome against his belly; he curled Jinx's body into the curve of his own, teeth gingerly nipping apart the leaves that held the last and final dose of his poppies.

A small heap of them glinted at him, promising the utter silence of an opiate's death; Lecter turned his foreleg upward, glancing toward the last vestiges of darkness. He had been the faithful of Sos, the Dark God, and in quietude, in peace, the shaman offered his soul to the Great One with a single slash of his fangs across the mortal vein that lay close to the surface of his upturned wrist.

Blood welled, and began to pulse, pouring out to pillow Jinx's head; Lecter reached for the poppy then, sweeping the seeds onto his tongue and swallowing their wretched bitterness. At once fatigue overtook him, then the nausea of the life's dying; he placed his muzzle across the crook of Jinx's neck, as he had done after he had healed her wounds in what seemed a lifetime ago.

Darkness spread tendrils across the edges of his vision; the witch's body stiffened, convulsing once, twice, jaw clenched against the moment of death, and Lecter breathed no more.

Lynx ebbed into nothingness as Dawn at last painted away the lingering night, the wavering stars, to be born again at the end of the day, and a faint perfume of blood and of flowers wafted forth from the grave where shaman and sylph lay in repose.