in the end, everyone is aware of this: nobody keeps any of what he has, and life is only a borrowing of bones.
B
easts do not sleep as men do. No. The creature rests in the sunshine lightly; and when he feels the weight of eyes upon him, his own open with reptilian coldness. The raptor regards his surroundings; until he makes out the silhouette of the wild boy in the wild wood. But the raptor, aside from a coiling and uncoiling of his great tail, does not move. If Pravda has forgotten, Prigovora never forgets.
He is, perhaps, too busy appraising the damage to his cottage to notice the wild boy’s approach. More likely, it is because Leonidas moves with the silence and sure-footed grace of a feral creature. How often does a wolf ghost through the woods, unseen and unheard? More than any of us might ever know or understand.
Such it is, with Leonidas.
The boy has returned, Prigovora alerts Pravda through their bond. He will never grow accustomed to the beast’s voice; the primordial chill of it, like the first touch of winter, or the eyes of a hawk through the trees. Pravda feels it grating upon his mind; metal against metal.
Nevertheless, Pravda’s response is immediate. He snaps his head to appraise their “guest.” He does not enjoy being caught so unawares, or so disheveled; and as such, it takes him longer to recognize him than he would like. But then Prigovora floods Pravda’s mind with memories of ravenous hunger and a young colt resting in the underbrush, more like a fawn than a horse.
“Ah,” Pravda says, with recognition.
He can still hear the voice that asked, trembling, Why are you bonded with a monster? Are you dangerous too?
Pravda had never answered.
“I’m glad to see you are well.” Pravda’s voice is carefully measured; polite, but cool. He is no fool. There is no telling what sort of man the boy has grown to become; and that unanswered question sits heavily in Pravda's breastbone.
Because, child.
Because, the truths of life are more monstrous, more dangerous, than any beast with fangs.
