Porcupine Ridge Numerous sections are inscribed with "ETERNAL",

For @Lorcan !!

Anathema had chosen for herself a den near to the water, a little cave tucked among the jagged stone spires which girdled the thunderous peak above the ridge. They gave a fearsome appearance under the stars, but the sun always cast them in a more desperate light, to her eyes. They leaned haphazardly toward the mountain as if guarding something precious; failing each time bolts of hot light struck from the heavens.

From her den, she could see none of their drama. Only the water. She spent much of her time there, often wondering at how the bones seemed to breathe with new life when she submerged them. Frenetic, almost; wanting more. Perhaps, like her, it was the sea that they longed for.

Lorcan moved with purpose, his shadowy frame blending seamlessly with the jagged terrain as he approached the water's edge. The thunderous cascade of the nearby peak filled the air, a rhythmic roar that barely masked the soft crunch of his paws against the stone. His golden gaze, sharp and discerning, caught sight of her—perched near the cave, poised like a wraith conjured from the misty spray of the falls.

He let the silence linger for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips before he finally broke it, his voice smooth and edged with intrigue. Well, now, what do we have here? A soul drawn to the water?

The dark wolf moved closer, his steps unhurried but deliberate, giving her space while making his presence undeniable. Name’s Lorcan, he offered with a slight dip of his head, a polite formality laced with an undercurrent of curiosity. His gaze flicked toward the bones she handled, the glint of water catching on their pale surfaces.

And what’s your name, bone monger? Or should I just keep calling you a mystery?

Lorcan; a scarred man with a smooth tongue, Anathema noted, taking him in with a practiced emptiness behind her seaglass eyes. She moved her bones from the water slowly, without looking away from him, and tucked them closer.

Maybe enigma. Cute - but that's not what my mother named me.

Her birth mother, her first mother, the first one to abandon her —

She called me Anathema.

She looked away from him then, to her bones, as if she'd forgotten he existed at all. Anathema had nothing to offer him, not a man like that. All she had was her bones, her spiritwhispers, her dreams of the sea; black waters in her veins. She wouldn't pretend to be a girl who could blush and smile when he spoke, or laugh even when his jokes fell short, or tell him pretty stories to pass the time. She couldn't.

Lorcan observed her with quiet curiosity, his golden eyes flickering between the bones she cradled and the sharpness of her features. Her words, pointed and deliberate, rolled off him like water off stone. He offered a faint smile, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Anathema, he repeated, as if tasting the name. It suits you.

With a fluid motion, he settled a few feet from her, draping his lean form across the cool ground. He didn’t press closer—he wasn’t one to intrude unless invited, but his presence remained undeniable. The weight of him, even at this distance, was tangible, like a storm cloud hovering on the horizon.

His gaze lingered on the bones she clutched, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face. And what are you doing with those? he asked, his voice low and unhurried, as if the answer might reveal some long-forgotten secret.

Listening.

There was no better way to describe it, though Anathema felt it wasn't quite the right word. The bones reacted in different ways to one another with each new arrangement, but their position meant little else for their meaning. That part was — something else. A mix of that ancient ancestral knowledge in her veins and something like intuition. It was their energies she felt and interpreted; their moods and their wants.

The bones were impatient, but she sensed their acceptance too. The sea could wait. The Blackwater sisters were here for a reason, though Anathema didn't know yet know what.

You're a dangerous man. She looked up, not questioning but probing him all the same. This was no telling of the bones; any fool could guess as much. Dangerous men were commonplace, Anathema had learned, but there were some dangers she could live with. What she feared more than anything was the moments which would teach her that difference.

Lorcan huffed softly at her words, a low sound that wasn’t quite amused but not entirely dismissive either. Dangerous? Perhaps. But he didn’t refute it, letting the weight of her statement hang between them as he settled down a few feet from her.

He tilted his head, his sharp gaze fixed on the arrangement of bones before her. I’m not going to hurt you, he said at last, his voice smooth but carrying an edge that wasn’t easily softened. It wasn’t a promise, nor an assurance—just a statement, plain and unyielding.

His shadowy form remained relaxed, but his presence was anything but. What’s the story here, then? he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the bones. You listening to them, or are they listening to you?

His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his dark eyes. Whatever game she was playing, Lorcan wasn’t one to dismiss it outright. Not yet, anyway.

This time she didn't let her gaze stray from him. Anathema hummed thoughtfully as Lorcan spoke his questions and conciliations. Neither inspired any great emotion in her. His intentions could only be proven with time; for now, Ana hardly saw any reason to trust him.

I don't know.

An answer to all that he'd said, but none of it. She shrugged, unwilling to apologize for her vagueness. If he didn't understand then he never would.

My mother would have known - but I hear she's dead. So I'm figuring it out for myself.

Lorcan inclined his head slightly, his shadowed gaze steady on her as she spoke. The mention of her mother stirred something faint within him, a feeling he knew all too well but didn’t often linger on.

Mine’s gone too, he said simply, the words clipped but carrying an undertone of something more. He didn’t elaborate—there was no need to.

Instead, he let the quiet settle between them for a moment before shifting slightly where he lay, his movements languid but purposeful. Figuring things out for yourself, he murmured after a beat, his tone carrying a trace of approval. That takes guts.

He didn’t press further, letting the statement hang in the cold air as he settled, content to let her take the lead if she wished. For now, he was at ease, finding an odd comfort in their shared silence.

Mothers, she thought, were always destined to end the same way: gone. Dead or disappeared, it made no difference. Anathema saw no great tragedy in Lorcan's confession. Just reality. Just the way it always would have gone.

She blinked at his next words, though. Does it? Her head tilted to one side as she spoke, ears cupped forward. I guess it depends on what you're afraid of. Living in ignorance - that scares me. Whatever else I find, it can't be as bad as that.

Even if she found her own death — that didn't scare her.

Lorcan’s smirk deepened, the faintest tilt of his head betraying amusement. Ignorance, he said, his tone smooth and measured, can be beautiful.

His gaze lingered on her, sharp and knowing. Not all truths are worth the weight.

He left it there, the flick of his tail punctuating his words as though the matter needed no further debate.

A flicker of new life in her then, though whether it was intrigue or anger she could not say. You're wrong. Anathema stood, meeting his eyes directly. Ignorance, she thought, was the ugliest thing in the world. There was nothing beautiful about it.

Truth is always worth the burden.

The Blackwater girl held firm; outcast that she was, twice-abandoned daughter of a witch, born surrounded by too much shadow to ever feel the light — didn't she know by now, better than most, the cost of truth? It would have been safer to live a pretty prayer-filled lie, to pretend she'd ever felt God's light warm in her fur.

That just wasn't her; too much black water in her veins.

Lorcan's grin softened, though the glint in his eye remained sharp as ever. He let her words hang in the air for a moment, studying the fire in her gaze. There was something striking about her—unyielding, raw. It amused him, yes, but it also intrigued him.

Truth suits you, he said simply, his voice low and measured, carrying just enough weight to avoid flippancy. But not everyone.

He shifted slightly, a fluid motion, as if to give her the space she so clearly demanded, his grin lingering faintly as if he found her defiance… cute, in its own way. But there was no mistaking the respect in his gaze as he let the silence settle, content to watch the embers of her resolve burn brightly.