The boy was still too shaken to move, too numb to think through the horrors that stood starkly before him. The bodies were long cold, and yet the scene seems fresh and untouched. It was no wonder that the others thought he’d done it… but Pan couldn’t even hurt a fly. Truly, it was laughable that any could think him responsible for such a heinous act. Still, he does not worry what they think. The boy only fights through the haze of his own shock and horror, leaning into the red stallion for comfort as his pulsing nares drink in the masculine scent of him. There is something calming in the smell of wood that clings to Metaphor’s skin, and the boy closes his eyes and tries to slow his racing heartbeat, gulping air as if he could never breathe again.
Sloane comes first, and her words are accusatory as she stumbles on the scene. For the briefest of moments, Pan opens his eyes and wonders if there is something familiar about her. He tries to make sense of her words, but they seem far away and muted, as if she yelled through water. His mind was still reeling, his panic and anxiety at stumbling on such a horror too fresh to find a way to string two words together. So he simply stands quietly, his face a paler shade of white.
It is not until he sees the girl with gold in her hair and curiosity edging her voice, that Pan can pull himself out of drowning. He draws a deep breath to steady himself, only now moving one step away from Metaphor, then two.
@
