Ouroboros Spine lxiii. if i said i'd be good would you even believe me?

He had proved to be a willow tree of a man.

Often he swayed in the breeze of Lótë's presence, quivering and finding comfort all at once. She tended to him. She fed him. She sheltered him.

She was strong.

He was weak.

But it had become ritual for them, him hiding in the deep depths of the ulaq she owned and her dropping sustenance for him. A life line threaded between the two of them.

Makan would not have survived without her.

Yet he is still so feral, so cradled by nothing but bare instincts. They have not shared many (if any) words that he is startled to hear her voice shatter his protected silence. But she is soft spoken. As light as a dove feather.

And he does not quake or quiver nearly as much this time around. Still he was low, the feathers of the quail sticking to his face. Softening sickly features into something more...comedic. Lighthearted.

Hard, He rasped out in a voice that was not fitting for a young man his age but surely fitting for his state of being.