Was it the wilderness children? - any

[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

It is a feral thing that turns his stomach to jelly, that drums in his head like the savage beats of a warpath.
(Thump. Thump.)
Feral. His mind slips behind a gale borne of northern fronts, and he scents blood and new snow and the electric admixture of bear fur and lead paint. He can see nothing but the glare of sun on that impeccable whiteness, blind and deaf.
(But he can smell. Soft skin and pretty hair.)
Feral. The snarl that snaps his lips back from their tight line is a base thing. A strange, cold, feral thing. And the glint in those black eyes – those that flash to her, sensitive only to that colour – are nothing short of animal.

Not animal like they are animal.
Animal like claws. Animal like teeth breaking in soft flesh. Animal like single-mindedness and obsession. Like the lion stares at the wildebeest, and nothing else.
(Thump. Thump.)

(—he lands in the center of a dozen mounds of damp soil.
A dozen holes gouged in the earth.

And by each is a funerary stone, and on some is a script he cannot understand. But could. Could, a long time ago – or, perhaps, a very short time ago, in a different place. Hestia, Thyndra, Astri…

Those ones are covered over, smooth and earthy smelling.
Some are gaping and expectant. Their stones are flat and uncarved.

But one, which he stops at every night he gets the pleasure of dreaming here...
It’s stone is not virginal – but what is there is not the strange etchings of a name, but marks like fingernails scraped bloody and bare. He knows why. Deep down, behind the veil of sleepiness that binds him to this place.
But the hole is empty.

She is gone.
Thump. Thump.)

He runs his tongue over his lips – a feral thing – and squints through the dusky darkness. He sees it everywhere. A flash of rich, dark blue here, in between the pallor of birch trees; there, behind the salt-licked rocks of his confessional sea. Like ribbons tied to branches, leading him somewhere mad and wakeful. He saw it in mirages and phantasms for so long. From the corner of his eye, slipping past him and his reality. Testing both of these things. 
Weeks, and then months and then maybe even years before her. Her, whose show of indigo hair had him following like a starved beast, but when he found her she was bright and golden and he understood.

Two miracles.

But this girl is neither of his things. His breath comes heavy and shallow as he moves closer to her, tilting his head from side to side, searching the plain of her face for the curve of black horns that match the pink lumps of scar tissue under his chin; the crook of her neck, and the mane that touches it. “Not a ghost,” he says flatly, finally. Those dark eyes form a film of frost and blankness on their surface. “No. Then who?” he growls, ears flicking back.

As a feral thing does.

POLLOCK
the gift giver