The Heartwood Why does thou sit upon my grave

It seems with just three words, her entire being changes. A scowling type of disappointment shifts onto the dark woman’s face, yet all Alduin does is watch her. He tries to read her, but she is just about anything but an open book — besides her obvious distain for the hellhounds answer of course.

In response, she stalks forward. Nostrils flaring with the intensity of obvious disappointment and perhaps even anger. He can’t tell which one, but it must be one of the other — maybe even both. No, most likely both. And judging by the look on the supposed strangers pretty face, she looks just about ready to bite his face off. Little does he know that she will actually do it — and soon too.

So he tilts his head towards her as she stands beside him, wary of their close distance, but alas, he does not move. He is not scared of a small woman such as her. And in his lifetime, there will be no physical being that will frighten him so. She follows in that category, but out of everything he expects her to say or do, he does not expect her to lash out at him. Him. A scarred, burly, beast of a man — the reaper and hellhound himself.

For a pinch of a second he is struck with surprise as the small, thin woman uses his bulk as a stepping stool just to rip a bite from short, round, ears. That is until he too is quick to react. And he reacts as soon as his usual fiery hatred that continues to drive him forth in this world rears it’s own ugly head.

As blood trickles thickly from a slashed ear, he turns on her quickly with a snarl being ripped from massive jaws. A simple snap in her direction would suffice, for the only reason he doesn’t attack her is because he wants to know how all of these so called coincidences fall in place. Yet, his right mind hardly gets a hold of him — with Banesteppe whispering in his ear and anger licking at his chest, saliva falls from loose, snarling lips. And to make his male pride hurt even worse, she’s right back to business soon after. As if she hadn’t just drawn blood and just about asked to be ripped to pieces. He’s killed others for much less than that.

Plus, Alduin feels as if he’s getting whiplash. She speaks of familiarity — she knows him — but why can he not remember her? He’s had this problem since he got back to the wilds and his brain bounces off the walls of his thick dome trying to find that own familiarity within his distance and blurry memories.

And then she moves around him, speaking once more and snapping pretty white jaws at any angle she can get. The hellhound growls menacingly — a threatening sound deep within his chest that comes with a promise of blood and gnashing teeth. 

But he does not move or snap back. No, he keeps a tall, ferocious stance, following her with a fiery gaze everywhere she goes. Burning her visage into memory and trying to place it in his past.

How does he know her?

He can’t think long, for her words echo in his mind. She says his spirit is broken — split in half and condemned. Yes, he knows this, but how does she? It bothers him. 

But then,

You will become the master of the damned, lord of the forsaken, guiding those who cannot even begin to fathom the realities they walk with. This world has not accepted you for who you are, nor who you can become…

And they never will. 

That. That is his reality. She knows it too.

Only then, she’s circling around to bravely look death right in the eyes. He stares back, fiery and defiant, but listening nonetheless.

Her last words ring in his mind just as the others had. 

A brighter future. She says.

But those specific words make his cynical, self destructive, maniacal brain want to laugh. 

So he does. 

It’s borderline humorless and more sarcastic than anything. A harsh bark of scratching laughter grading on listening ears. It even sounds cynical to himself. Yet, the sound drops into a deep rumble and smoothes out until it is no longer.

“A bright future?” He purrs back, bravely stepping towards her, towering over her smaller frame. “I am sick and I will die sick.” He spits. “But my suffering is only temporary. Or so I’m told, but I believe it to be immortal.”

He stops for a moment, taking another step towards her. If she doesn’t move back, he will lower his head, practically nose to nose, before speaking again. 

“Tell me, witch. Is that why you’re here? To brighten a forsaken man’s future?” A squint of his eyes separates his sentences more abruptly. “And tell me, witch,” He repeats. “from where do I know you? Or are you exclusive to my dreams?”