Behold -- a man reaching for the light at the end of the tunnel, weighed down heavy by the sins that rest on his bony shoulders. Behold -- a man who has only ever run from a gentle touch, standing still beneath Sam’s caresses, despite the occasional shiver that wracks his malnourished frame. The fury that has raged between his ribcage for nearly a decade has begun to cool, tempered by exhaustion -- he has carried Adriana’s rage for so long that if he were to crack open his own heart, he isn’t sure what he would find. Who is he, beneath the anger? Is he a person at all, or has he been a puppet on a string dangling even after her death, dancing to the loathing she had poured into him? It has been so long since he’s had a purpose that he isn’t sure if he ever had one that wasn’t punctuated by violence, by teeth and blood and bone, and he has been just as harsh to himself as he has been to his enemies. He isn’t sure what being gentle looks like, any more, but he trusts that Sam can teach him. “There hasn’t been water to bathe with,” Not with the walls that tower above the Oasis, not when being able to properly hydrate himself took priority over the heavy layer of dust that coated his pelt. He has relied on the thorny cacti that grow around his canyon home to drink from, cutting open the tender flesh with a makeshift knife, and he is thankful for the telekinesis that allows him to avoid the sharp spines. He could survive without food for long enough to find the dry desert grasses that grew high on the canyon plateaus, if he could be sure-footed enough to reach them. He would die quickly without water. “A few days, I think. Less than a week.” The words are muffled against matte skin, his muzzle tracing across the angle of Sam’s shoulder, his forehead pressing hard suddenly into the crease between elbow and barrel -- each touch is unsure, a little more violent than loving, and when Sam moves to turn around he reacts with teeth against the wolf’s neck until they are pressed back together. “I think that Raum is a stranger to mercy,” and oh, hasn’t he always been the same? Hadn’t he once sought out a crown in an attempt to cure the desperate ache inside his chest, to right the wrongs that had been committed against him? He sees himself in the Solterran sovereign, sharp as a blade, raging at the world for everything it has done and everything it has taken, and he is not so far gone that his soul cannot ache in sympathy. He knows how Raum’s story will end: in violence, in passion, in blood spilled on the sands and the jaws of justice closing in. It is the same way he had once thought his story would end. For a moment, he debates turning back to his desert home, to the path where he had hidden himself away, and the brief thought of fleeing crosses his mind -- he presses his muzzle to the curve of Sam’s cheek until the impulse passes, thinking of the armor he has hidden away -- but he will not need his armor for now, and he can always retrieve it later. “Lead the way.” |
@Jetsam
