Every man dies
But not every man truly lives
At first, he thinks perhaps he’s dreaming. The scene seems so familiar, with the darkness infiltrating the corners of his vision until it materializes in the shape of the nameless mare. Kellan remains quiet, deer-like as he watches her pause for the breath of an instant before him. Is she daydream, or nightmare? He had dreamed of her once, (still dreams of her) the strange, liquid black of her skin melting to conform around him and suffocate him from existence. That had been a good dream, if he was remembering correctly.
This creature is different though - not as questioning, not as unsure. Her teeth rake furiously across his skin and the buckskin’s eyes widen, head tilting away from her while he marvels silently over the sound of her voice. “Not dreaming.” He confirms, neutral in his response. If she were dreaming, then surely he’d be dreaming too, and Kellan finds that unacceptable.
“You’re real.” He states solemnly, head reaching out to allow his nose to run smoothly over the curve of her dark shoulder. This is the only liberty he takes, reasoning it to be a fair exchange: bite for a caress. His eyes, rivaling the black of her own coat, close and he shakes his head. “It can’t be you.” He concedes, stepping away from her to determinately continue through the forest. He’s not quick in his retreat, only quiet and unswerving.
“I’m not the one you’re looking for anyways.” Kellan calls back to her, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. Even here, now, so long since their first encounter, she still shook some part of him to his core. Kellan cannot understand it.
