03-06-2018, 10:11 AM
They are both runners – but where she runs from family and protection – into the arms of unknown adventures – Khaedrik has only tried to run from his own shattered mind.
And oh – how miserably he fails.
She holds his interest – with her scent of almost forgotten rosemary and thyme, and her saline breath. She is like him – a new spirit, rangy-legged and wild. But there is no star-shine to brighten his brow, no; Khaedrik is despite his young age a broken haggard thing, made deranged by the constant war inside his head. From the shade of his racing heart, he peered into the forest´s many rotting hearts and dissembling halls – and found the same smiling darkness, that lurked inside his own breast.
The wolf lifts its black, black lips to reveal a row of predator-teeth. It is the monster – so different from the boy, golden with youth and innocence. But oh, how effortless it would be to let go of the control he has over his own mind, to trade prey for predatory – to drown her in wolf´s breath and rake-teeth. Everything in the world was to be flesh, consumption to those vile teeth. To consume all that those claws of rip could grab, the maw of death and salvation. The beast sees only skin, supple, tangible and soft. Easy to eat, easy to chew.
And he had no sword, to stab at the glee of his nightmares.
All he had was twined in the snarls of his mane; and he shook those curls of darkness, wondering if he was going insane.
It is her name; wildflower-pretty and her that brings him from wolf and madness and back to forest and girl. There is a moment of absolute clarity; where his mouth tastes her name, tastes the dreams and salt-spray that is braided into each syllable.
”Wishbone” he repeats – and there is strange appreciation in his voice. ”I like it”
He clings to her laughter; to the stardust she sprinkles over him – splintering darkness and madness and danger. For a moment; he rests in his own skin, for a moment he feels normal.
”I´m trying to figure out what to do with myself” he answers truthfully, still clinging to that momentary respite.
Cryptic, perhaps. But is she not child, too, has she not the same questions and insecurities that all youth share. Except the wanton lust to kill those she would call friends.
Khaedrik sighs. The wolf howls.
An omen.
@[Wishbone]