Beneath the moon, beside an ancient lake - Etro

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

He feels her, like a leech sucked deep.
Like a dragging, bitter undertow.

(Long ago – in two separate realities, both infinitely divided from the here and now – he had been powerless. 

He had curled up like a wet, stray cat into a ball and wished. And so it was. Invisible. Untouchable because he was unfindable… He waited, wanting. He stayed still, played dead and decayed as he waited for her to come back to him and their nest of her tissue and his vulnerability. It had come to him when he needed it, his sweet escape and his sweeter saving. In time, he found other uses for his vanishing…)
He flickers – he withdraws. But for the first time in his life, he can feel it failing him. Insubordination, in every pore – he feels the resistance, an anchor sunk deep into weeds and weighing him down. He wants for the strange and easy plunge between sensory plains – that cold sort of breath; that delicious kind of potential. It does not come. It licks at him and teases; seen and then partially gone until in frustration he holds.

(—he had been rendered feeble; hewn out of soft, peachy skin with long, skinny limbs. He had raised his hands to his face – hands… – and spread his fingers wide. He had examined, in the gaudy, multicoloured twinkle of dying, incandescent light, the anemic cobweb of purple-blue veins under his paper-white nakedness. Those hands he had sunk a blade deep into odd flesh, had painted the images of his future in queer, black blood.)
His muscles whine and groan and howl. And then they quiver and scream and lash out at his own skin like cornered dogs. His body quakes; knotting and unknotting beneath the bright, rough gold – cramping and stilling him in his tracks. He sucks in breath, cringing and turning on the spot – all too slow; lacking the predatory grace – and squints into soft, heavy darkness. Slaver wets the corners of his tight mouth.

Her greeting comes soft, breathy; a searching, wanting, waiting mewl. He turns his head to glance over his shoulder and wing, his hard and lightless eyes finding her. Searching. Wanting. Waiting. The gift giver turns, follows his nose around towards her… her… For a second his breath quickens and air fills the thirsty space of his lung. He considers yelling at her, sending her away from him.
He considers opening her up to palpate the puzzles therein (he can hear longing in her voice, he bends towards it like a wolf to a lost lamb); he considers making her his and laying her down easy. Gently…

It would be gentle. He is far too worn, too ragged.

His breath slows. He sucks the saliva back into his mouth and smiles his crocodile smile. “Hello, Etro.” He takes a step forward, searching for her smell and the warm place around her skin. (His muscles chime again, they yearn to pull away from her. He ignores it. Buries it deep beside other things he cannot bear. It cannot be.) He takes a step closer, and she will be disappointed by the paltry warmth he provides. 
He is not hers... but that doesn't mean they both need by unfulfilled. 

“I’m Pollock,” he smiles, ever wider.

He sends himself into her. He plucks at strings – those broken, he has no need for sadness; those humming brightly, he shrinks back from love – and finds the one he is looking for. The Primal One. Fear. 
His Forest has been bereft of pretty, new things for too long.

POLLOCK
the gift giver

So, left it hanging. He's going in for the fear induce, feel free to totally have her reject him. Partially. But for now, he refuses to believe he's being dicked around by another girl ;]