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she spoke and he heard but merrick was beyond the touch of her words now. the redcream hackles which had leapt involuntarily at her approach now settled, but his body was carved iron beneath the winter-thick and neglect-matted pelt. he was only aware now of how his dusty fur stuck out at angles.
he did not touch and he did not seek it. it had ceased to be a need of his with her passing. the man ate enough to sustain his coiled muscles and the flame of hatred burning hungrily inside of him, a pure upon which smouldered the living memory of astara.
meat he could not taste;
but blood;
he did not care about his appearance, not truly; it was a cursory thought — "you couldn't be more than me, ash," merrick murmured, words floating warmly upon his tongue. the things that he had done. the kills. the endings. and more than the blood he had shed was himself, his own rotted heart on full display and beating fetid tendrils of ash.
"you were frightened of me, that day in the meadow," he recalled, still gazing skyward as if he might catch a glimpse of those unearthly ravens;
"you were right to be."