the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He had never understood the emotions that flare so helplessly in other’s chests. The rage, the hope, the sorrow; it was all so exhausting, even for him as a bystander. Did they not recognize that this was beyond their control? They could no more bring him to heel with narrowed eyes or excited smiles than he could tame the cosmos. His magic was a dark and primal thing, curled dangerously in his chest, and they could not overcome it. He himself had long since submitted to it, the power and duties that came along with it.
At the hint of aggression, at the display of emotions, he merely shrugs in reaction, the mulberry of his shoulders rolling. He had no time, no interest in this, but yet he stayed, fixing them with his infinite gaze, the emerald absorbing and reflecting light in the strangest of ways. “Incorrect,” he chided, his voice deep in his throat. “You have never met me.” Their world was so small, he thought idly. So confined to the trappings of their own mind, to the boundaries that they saw and so often erected on their own.
“I, however, have met you. In my own way.”
Never face to face. Before today, he had never known them consciously. But they were there, as all of his family was there, simmering in his blood, their identities part of him, pressed into his chest and running through his blood. At the boy’s demanding question, he flicks his gaze toward him, pinning him there beneath it. Even without the magic, he was formidable, topping out at 17 hands high, his chest wide, his muscles thick. He was his father’s son, and while he didn’t rely on it, physical strength didn’t elude him.
“How do you think I did it?” he replied, answering the question with a question. There was no venom to his voice though, simply flat and thoughtful, before he turned back to the girl, the one who seemed to blossom beneath the possibilities. “You are right though. I have no desire to hurt you.” He snorted a little, shaking his massive head.
“Regardless, anything that I did to you would only hurt me.”
Woolf
