Wheeling Gull Isle glory

he brought back the bear-dog (@Bernadette) and led her directly to the river-fed cave.

the lion's den.

he howled a nameless message to @Heda and @Jasmine to inform them of an arrival. it was not as warm as usual arrivals, it was merely a fact. neither here nor there. he could give them more details once things were settled.

once they entered the cave, he would speak.

tell me, what should i call you?

he was not certain he expected an honest response.

cameo!

a dark creature. another woman?
ever since she had begun thinking of bartholomew in more fallible terms, heda had grappled with several things. her admiration for him had not ended, nor had her interest in the stories he told. she continued to think highly of him. that her opinion was unchanged surprised heda.
but if that was the case, why did she still feel so frustrated when she thought of him as a father?
the young wolf had drifted forward at his call. it was not so graceful. they were down by the beach, he and this unknown figure. heda halted in the lavender field.

the readied venom of its tongue was washed by the sea, bitterness within the bones soaked as throughoutly as the chow's thick, heavy coat, which now hung about its malnourished frame in a revealing way.

it felt disgruntled, tired.

a languid, cool freshwater stream flowed from a cavemouth, and the preacher bid them follow it to within the stone and earth. there, a panting undead finally lowered its head and lapped at the water.

it let the question hang in the air, until its thirst was stated.

raising its head, a deep blue tongue darted out to gather the droplets from its whiskers. with a remainder of its churlishness, it extended the silence to look over the interior, the queer, dancing reflection of the flowing water upon the stone ceiling.

"i have none." the beardog rumbled. "there are those, who'd try and dispute that. but they know nothing."

it looked over its shoulder at the preacher.

"and you?" glint within the deep-set eyes. "do you still abide by the slavery of names?"

she drank and drank.

bartholomew knew he had made the right choice — and if he had not, then he hoped heaven would smite him.

of course i do. warm, washing. his voice akin to the sea. bartholomew. named in the gaze of God, i have no reason to not wear my name.

he spoke at length often, even if she prattled nonsense or rebuttals.

such was the act of caring.

it made a sound between an entertained chuckle and a dismissive snort.

"gaze of god." the beardog turned to face the preacher. "more a slave, than i assumed. was any of this ever a choice, bartholomew?" it sat on its haunches and spread its arms to encompass the cave, the island, the act which had brought a corpse there. "were you raised, like a sheep, for a single purpose only?"

it lowered its paws to the ground, and leaned forward, head crooked slightly to a side. "were you ever given a way out?"

she was pointed.

harsh. spiteful. jaded.

none of it surprised him! she was not the image of gratefulness for acts of kindness. bartholomew had not picked her for an easy and rewarding process.

and does it matter? i never opted to take the way out. i never strayed so far as to have no return.

such a thing did not exist, in bartholomew's eyes.

nobody could ever be entirely beyond God's grasp.

the dead held the priest's gaze, firm. 

with slow step, after step, it came nearer. black-eyed and hooded; in the pits beneath its brows, flickered the flames of unlife. 

the waters of the cave gave strange illumination.

⸸

now, they were near enough for their fragrances to mingle. 

( incense.

embalming fluid. )

the corpse canted its head.

"and if you someday do, father? if you falter, bloody your fangs... thieve, lie... make unholy the sabbath." it chuckled. "would this little lamb..." 

( parted only by difference in height, each warmed by the other's breath  )

"be worth enough, to be saved by the shepherd?"

she smelled, wafted by the soft breeze over the water in the cave.

hooded eyes only barely offered a reflection of her dagger gaze.

she thought him without sin. perhaps she thought all men of God were, but how wrong she was. that his faith had only been strengthened in his stumbling.

that he had returned to this island, in the wake of his mistakes and righted his wrongs.

i have not met a lamb who is not worthy enough to be led back into the flock, his chin raised, golden eyes taking a harder light to them now.

it is only up to the lamb, to wish to return to the flock.

its head lifted when his did, craning and craning to look upon his visage, mind starved for another's misery as the body was for blood. 

it saw the preacher's eyes shield themselves with holy light.

he could not see past the illuminated ring of own belief.

black of lips pulled back on one side, teeth bared and cheek lifted to squint the eye in a quick grimace, like a glimpse of something pallid and tall beyond a friend's shoulder.

with a scoff the dead looked away, turning its back. only a faint memory of healthy flesh lifted its sickle tail as it stepped away.

"is that, what you see me as? firstling of your flock?"

"oh!" head lifted as a wolf's did to howl, voice a ruff even as it rose. "does fruit of the ground not fill your belly, o vast and hungry shepherd?" it mimed reverence, mocked pleading, calling out to the rippling lights of the cave ceiling. "please, remember, when the firstborn heard your disapproval, it was the younger's flesh he offered instead!"

unwell.

beyond what he had tended to before. yet no mockery or ramblings could keep him from attempting to fix whatever ailed her.

he only wished it hadn't degraded her so much before he had found her.

sleep. he would not humor her any more. there would be other days for that. make place and peace in the cave. food will be brought to you, if you need anything you call upon me. spirit or flesh.

for once there was a harsh line in his voice.

the corpse would not turn its head to watch the preacher leave. seated and swaying, it would pretend to still commune with his ravenous deity.

only when the good pastor is but a silhouette, chasuble of light spilling over his shoulders, its head would bend backwards.

in the dark of the cave, only its eyes would shine.

it, and the rippling glitter of the waters.

and what strange illumination they gave.