HE HAS NEVER FELT AS THOUGH HIS BODY WAS A HOME. IT WAS ALWAYS SOME MANNER OF A CAGE – SOME COOL COMPOSITION OF MUSCLES AND LIGAMENTS AND VEINS AND CAUTIOUS MOVEMENTS, SOME BOLD, SOME PAINED, ALWAYS CONSCIOUS OF EACH TWITCH AND MURMUR. THE CRACKS BETWEEN CARTILAGE, THE EMPTY SPACES BETWEEN. HIS EYES WOULD ROLL IN HIS SOCKETS, HIS BLOOD WOULD STEAM TO BE CONFINED. HE IS A WICKED ARTERIAL COMPROMISE OF STONE AND FLESH, SOMETHING BORN FROM A LUCID DREAM SCREAMING AND VENGEFUL. HIS SKIN MOVED LIKE WRITHING SERPENTS. HIS EYES GLOWED WITH THE COLD OF A DYING SUN. STRUCK BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH IN AN ETERNAL DISGRACE OF BEASTLY REPOSE – WRETCHEDLY HANDSOME, CRUELLY UNDIVINE. HE IS SHADE MATERIAL, CONJURED MOVEMENT OF POLTERGEIST WHIM, GHOSTLY MANIFEST; TAR-SLICK AND GILDED IN GOLD. HE MOVES LIKE A HOUND. HE BREATHES LIKE A DRAKE. STEAM, ROLLED FROM HUNGRY JAWS. BUT IT WAS NOW MORE THAN EVER THAT HE FELT AN EXTENSION OF MORTALITY – STRETCHED FROM COILED FIBER IN A DESPERATE REACH TO THE UNKNOWN. HE CALLS TO IT. HE PINES FOR IT.
BUT THE DARK IS SILENT.
THE STATIC QUIET WEIGHS OVER THEM LIKE A SWAYING NOOSE, AND THE SYLLABLES THAT COMPOSE “SOLTERRA” ARE AS TREACHEROUS AS THE JAGGED ROWS THAT TEETH BENEATH THEM, WAITING. ERASMUS'S EYE FLOWS FROM THE MAN'S SILVER-GLEAMING SCARS TO THE DUO OF SWIMMING BLUES, AND SUSPICION RISES OVER HIS SKIN LIKE HACKLES. HIS TEETH BID WARILY AGAINST HIS LIPS. HE IS FEELING IN THE DARK – FINGERTEPS PRESSED TO VELVET CURTAINS, STARLIGHT UNFOLDING. HE SENSES FOR APPREHENSION, FOR ANTICIPATION, FOR HUNGER. BUT THE MAN'S WORDS ARE A HUSK. INDEED, THEY BREATHE AMONGST THEMSELVES, TOO REBELLIOUS TO WAIT IN HIS LUNGS – SOMETHING LIKE DESPAIR, LIKE GRIEVANCE. IT IS NOT MENACE OR CRUELTY, NO VILLAINOUS MOTIVE THAT CRAWLS BENEATH THE SURFACE OF THEIR SHARPENED EDGES. THE PARTS OF HIM THAT WANT TO BELIEVE THIS MAN IS NOT A SKINWALKER ARE THE SAME PARTS THAT WISH HE IS. IT IS CHAOS. IT IS COMFORT.
HIS NEXT WORD IS HARD. IT IS SOLEMN, CHILLED, AND TAILS WITH ENTERTAINMENT. THE CONVERSATION ENDS THERE AND ERASMUS DOES NOT SEEK IT FURTHER, THOUGH QUESTIONS RISE FASTER THAN THEY CAN FALL UNTIL THEY SMACK AGAINST THE BACK OF HIS TEETH AND THREATEN TO REBEL BEING SWALLOWED BACK DOWN. HIS TONGUE CURLS, AND HE ALLOWS THE SILENCE TO FALL BACK BETWEEN THEM IN A DESIRE TO APPEASE THE MAN'S FAVOR. SOME PART OF THE EXCHANGE MADE HIM FEEL LIKE A CHILD AGAIN, A SMALL COLT ON THE HEELS OF AN ELDER IN A WORLD THAT OFFERED LITTLE MERCY. HE LOATHED IT. FOR A SECOND, HE EVEN LOATHED THE MAN FOR HIS QUIETUDE, HIS GRIEF, HIS TERYRS. HE LOATHED HIM FOR HIS SHORT ANSWERS AND THE WAY HE ACTED AS THOUGH ESCORTING SOMEONE ON THE PATH HE WAS ON TO BEGIN WITH WAS A WEARYING CHORE. HE LOATHED HIS SCARS – NO, THEY INTERESTED HIM STILL. AND SO HE LET EVERYTHING ELSE FALL AWAY FROM HIM, HIS EYE MAPPING EACH STRETCH OF PUCKERED SKIN THAT GLIMMERED IN THE MOONLIGHT, DISTRACTED FROM THE DOWN-SPIRALING FEELING THAT CAME WITH BEING UNDOUBTEDLY LOST.
SOMETHING CHANGED THEN, A SMALL HESITATION IN THE STALLION'S GAIT THAT SNAPPED HIS ATTENTION BACK TO THE MAN'S FACE. IT LOOSENED IN THE STARLIGHT, GLIMMERS OF MUSING LACED WITH RECOLLECTION, REACHING INTO THE RECESSES AND SELECTING THE GRIM FROM ITS PROPERTY. THE BOY'S BROW FURROWS, HIS EXPRESSION LOCKED WITH CONTEMPATION AS HE WATCHES HIS OWN HOOVES TAKE THEIR STEPS, STIRRING SAND AND DUST IN A WHIRL THAT COATS THE THICK GOLD-STREAKED FEATHERING. THERE ARE FEW NAMES HE KNOWS, AND HE COUNTS THEM NOW IN HIS HEAD. ISRA. KATNISS. RAUM. NOVUS EXISTS AS A PURGATORY TO HIM, SOMETHING THAT HAS SPREAD ITS JAWS WIDE AND ENGULFED HIM IN ITS STAGNANT WONDER. HE KNOWS LITTLE OF ITS CUSTOMS, RELIGIONS, AND OFTEN MAKES OF HIMSELF RUDE COMPANY FOR THE LACK OF ITS WISDOM. HE DOES NOT KNOW MAXENCE. HE DOES NOT KNOW THE FORMER SOVEREIGN. BUT HE KNOWS THE TYRANT IN ITS PLACE.
YET EVEN HE, HE DOES NOT KNOW. AND THE WONDER PRICKLES ALONG THE BACK OF HIS SKULL, LOOMING LIKE A CURSE OF DISTRUST. TRUTHFULLY, HE KNOWS NO ONE. NOTHING. (BUT WE DO, WE SNICKER FROM THE SHADOWS.)
THAT HUNGRY THING LURCHES IN HIS BELLY AT EIK'S NEXT QUESTION. THIS CAUSES ERASMUS TO MISSTEP HIMSELF, THOUGH NOT NEARLY AS CAREFULLY. HIS LEG HITCHES FOR A SECOND, BEFORE PLACING ITSELF A STEP AHEAD OF THE REST HE HAD MADE, HIS EARS TUCKED BACK AGAINST HIS CREST. SOMETHING PULLS PINS AND NEEDLES ALONG THE LENGTH OF HIS SPINE AND HISSES, WHY DOES IT MATTER TO YOU? BUT HE SWALLOWS THIS WITH HIS NEXT BREATH, CLEARING HIS THROAT OF ITS SCOWLING RETORT. HE IMAGINES TELLING THE MAN HE IS FROM DENOCTE. HE IMAGINES HIS SILVER-MARKED SKIN UNFOLDING LIKE WAVES, RIPPLING MONSTROSITY. THERE IS DARKNESS BENEATH LIKE SERPENTS AND INSECTS AND FLOWERS AND EVERYTHING AND NOTHING ALL AT ONCE. HE IMAGINES HIS JAWS WRAPPING WITH FANGS, HIS BLUE EYES CHURNING WITH A BLACKNESS THAT THREATENS HIS OWN. HE IMAGINES RAUM PEELING THIS GENTLEMAN'S SKIN LIKE DRIED SNAKE COILS, FURIOUS WITH THE PURSUIT OF A DENOCTIAN SOLDIER. AND ERASMUS IS UNARMED. HE IS UNARMED. HE IS NOTHING. “nowhere, i suppose.” HE DOESN'T SKIP A BEAT, TONGUE ROLLING AGAINST HIS BACK TEETH AND PRYING AN EMPTY SPACE, BROWS LACED WITH THE REOCURRING THOUGHT. “i am a vagrant, new to this place. i was swept here by the sea.” THE SMELL OF THE BRINE IN HIS MANE IS DISTANT AND EVER FAINT BUT TRUE. HE SHUDDERS AT THE MEMORY OF THE UNDERTOW. IT POURS INTO HIS MIND WITH A ROAR, WASHING ALL THOUGHT OF RAUM FROM HIS MIND.
IT STAYS THERE THOUGH. IT CREEPS FORWARD SLOWLY AS THE SILENCE RESTS BETWEEN THEM, AND HE COULD ALMOST BEG EIK TO FILL THE SPACES IN BETWEEN WITH ANYTHING BUT. HE SUDDENLY REALIZES WHY HE HAS BEEN WATCHING THE STALLION'S SCARS.
HE WAS MAKING SURE THEY DIDN'T CHANGE.
BUT THE DARK IS SILENT.
THE STATIC QUIET WEIGHS OVER THEM LIKE A SWAYING NOOSE, AND THE SYLLABLES THAT COMPOSE “SOLTERRA” ARE AS TREACHEROUS AS THE JAGGED ROWS THAT TEETH BENEATH THEM, WAITING. ERASMUS'S EYE FLOWS FROM THE MAN'S SILVER-GLEAMING SCARS TO THE DUO OF SWIMMING BLUES, AND SUSPICION RISES OVER HIS SKIN LIKE HACKLES. HIS TEETH BID WARILY AGAINST HIS LIPS. HE IS FEELING IN THE DARK – FINGERTEPS PRESSED TO VELVET CURTAINS, STARLIGHT UNFOLDING. HE SENSES FOR APPREHENSION, FOR ANTICIPATION, FOR HUNGER. BUT THE MAN'S WORDS ARE A HUSK. INDEED, THEY BREATHE AMONGST THEMSELVES, TOO REBELLIOUS TO WAIT IN HIS LUNGS – SOMETHING LIKE DESPAIR, LIKE GRIEVANCE. IT IS NOT MENACE OR CRUELTY, NO VILLAINOUS MOTIVE THAT CRAWLS BENEATH THE SURFACE OF THEIR SHARPENED EDGES. THE PARTS OF HIM THAT WANT TO BELIEVE THIS MAN IS NOT A SKINWALKER ARE THE SAME PARTS THAT WISH HE IS. IT IS CHAOS. IT IS COMFORT.
HIS NEXT WORD IS HARD. IT IS SOLEMN, CHILLED, AND TAILS WITH ENTERTAINMENT. THE CONVERSATION ENDS THERE AND ERASMUS DOES NOT SEEK IT FURTHER, THOUGH QUESTIONS RISE FASTER THAN THEY CAN FALL UNTIL THEY SMACK AGAINST THE BACK OF HIS TEETH AND THREATEN TO REBEL BEING SWALLOWED BACK DOWN. HIS TONGUE CURLS, AND HE ALLOWS THE SILENCE TO FALL BACK BETWEEN THEM IN A DESIRE TO APPEASE THE MAN'S FAVOR. SOME PART OF THE EXCHANGE MADE HIM FEEL LIKE A CHILD AGAIN, A SMALL COLT ON THE HEELS OF AN ELDER IN A WORLD THAT OFFERED LITTLE MERCY. HE LOATHED IT. FOR A SECOND, HE EVEN LOATHED THE MAN FOR HIS QUIETUDE, HIS GRIEF, HIS TERYRS. HE LOATHED HIM FOR HIS SHORT ANSWERS AND THE WAY HE ACTED AS THOUGH ESCORTING SOMEONE ON THE PATH HE WAS ON TO BEGIN WITH WAS A WEARYING CHORE. HE LOATHED HIS SCARS – NO, THEY INTERESTED HIM STILL. AND SO HE LET EVERYTHING ELSE FALL AWAY FROM HIM, HIS EYE MAPPING EACH STRETCH OF PUCKERED SKIN THAT GLIMMERED IN THE MOONLIGHT, DISTRACTED FROM THE DOWN-SPIRALING FEELING THAT CAME WITH BEING UNDOUBTEDLY LOST.
SOMETHING CHANGED THEN, A SMALL HESITATION IN THE STALLION'S GAIT THAT SNAPPED HIS ATTENTION BACK TO THE MAN'S FACE. IT LOOSENED IN THE STARLIGHT, GLIMMERS OF MUSING LACED WITH RECOLLECTION, REACHING INTO THE RECESSES AND SELECTING THE GRIM FROM ITS PROPERTY. THE BOY'S BROW FURROWS, HIS EXPRESSION LOCKED WITH CONTEMPATION AS HE WATCHES HIS OWN HOOVES TAKE THEIR STEPS, STIRRING SAND AND DUST IN A WHIRL THAT COATS THE THICK GOLD-STREAKED FEATHERING. THERE ARE FEW NAMES HE KNOWS, AND HE COUNTS THEM NOW IN HIS HEAD. ISRA. KATNISS. RAUM. NOVUS EXISTS AS A PURGATORY TO HIM, SOMETHING THAT HAS SPREAD ITS JAWS WIDE AND ENGULFED HIM IN ITS STAGNANT WONDER. HE KNOWS LITTLE OF ITS CUSTOMS, RELIGIONS, AND OFTEN MAKES OF HIMSELF RUDE COMPANY FOR THE LACK OF ITS WISDOM. HE DOES NOT KNOW MAXENCE. HE DOES NOT KNOW THE FORMER SOVEREIGN. BUT HE KNOWS THE TYRANT IN ITS PLACE.
YET EVEN HE, HE DOES NOT KNOW. AND THE WONDER PRICKLES ALONG THE BACK OF HIS SKULL, LOOMING LIKE A CURSE OF DISTRUST. TRUTHFULLY, HE KNOWS NO ONE. NOTHING. (BUT WE DO, WE SNICKER FROM THE SHADOWS.)
THAT HUNGRY THING LURCHES IN HIS BELLY AT EIK'S NEXT QUESTION. THIS CAUSES ERASMUS TO MISSTEP HIMSELF, THOUGH NOT NEARLY AS CAREFULLY. HIS LEG HITCHES FOR A SECOND, BEFORE PLACING ITSELF A STEP AHEAD OF THE REST HE HAD MADE, HIS EARS TUCKED BACK AGAINST HIS CREST. SOMETHING PULLS PINS AND NEEDLES ALONG THE LENGTH OF HIS SPINE AND HISSES, WHY DOES IT MATTER TO YOU? BUT HE SWALLOWS THIS WITH HIS NEXT BREATH, CLEARING HIS THROAT OF ITS SCOWLING RETORT. HE IMAGINES TELLING THE MAN HE IS FROM DENOCTE. HE IMAGINES HIS SILVER-MARKED SKIN UNFOLDING LIKE WAVES, RIPPLING MONSTROSITY. THERE IS DARKNESS BENEATH LIKE SERPENTS AND INSECTS AND FLOWERS AND EVERYTHING AND NOTHING ALL AT ONCE. HE IMAGINES HIS JAWS WRAPPING WITH FANGS, HIS BLUE EYES CHURNING WITH A BLACKNESS THAT THREATENS HIS OWN. HE IMAGINES RAUM PEELING THIS GENTLEMAN'S SKIN LIKE DRIED SNAKE COILS, FURIOUS WITH THE PURSUIT OF A DENOCTIAN SOLDIER. AND ERASMUS IS UNARMED. HE IS UNARMED. HE IS NOTHING. “nowhere, i suppose.” HE DOESN'T SKIP A BEAT, TONGUE ROLLING AGAINST HIS BACK TEETH AND PRYING AN EMPTY SPACE, BROWS LACED WITH THE REOCURRING THOUGHT. “i am a vagrant, new to this place. i was swept here by the sea.” THE SMELL OF THE BRINE IN HIS MANE IS DISTANT AND EVER FAINT BUT TRUE. HE SHUDDERS AT THE MEMORY OF THE UNDERTOW. IT POURS INTO HIS MIND WITH A ROAR, WASHING ALL THOUGHT OF RAUM FROM HIS MIND.
IT STAYS THERE THOUGH. IT CREEPS FORWARD SLOWLY AS THE SILENCE RESTS BETWEEN THEM, AND HE COULD ALMOST BEG EIK TO FILL THE SPACES IN BETWEEN WITH ANYTHING BUT. HE SUDDENLY REALIZES WHY HE HAS BEEN WATCHING THE STALLION'S SCARS.
HE WAS MAKING SURE THEY DIDN'T CHANGE.
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