Lone Star Mountain see in the dark

312

Chaos. Children, or at least this pair, was the embodiment of chaos, a force so wild and erratic that it could shift entire paradigms, the resonance of their existence warbling against the wine-glass moment. A whirlwind of thoughts, regrets, and laments thundered through his mind as the child struggled. Where his teeth not grabbing flesh and fur, he'd have commanded her to stop her nonsense, informed her that if she would stop struggling like a little demon, he would release her, herd her towards the mother who raged nearby.

The glass shattered.

The trio reached, the pale child thrashed and flailed, a fish so slippery she rent herself from his grasp before he even had a moment to release her. Heimskulegt barn.

A moment.

He watched, droplets of blood flying through the air, mangled white and red falling falling falling. He tried to move, tried to ctach her again, but there was nothing he could have done to change the outcome she had so foolishly chosen. Head met stone, body crumpled to the ground and before anyone could move, the healer's instincts drove him forward to stand over the girl, fully aware that he was chancing the mother's ire with this action.

Bíddu!

The word thundered amidst the storm of chaos, looking directly to the mother and letting all else fall away. Move her not. His voice was quieter this time, though no less frustrated. With himself, with the child, with the mother. This one is læknir. Heal. This one must check sá litli for deep hurt.

A paw lifted, slow, agonizingly slow, a careful movement as livered eyes stuck to the mother; if she held the grace to give him but a moment without attacking, the ghostly male would tune his attentions to the child once more, head lowering to set his ear abreast the young one's chest, listening. Waiting.

Hoping.