the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
She is curious in her awareness, in the way she awakens in the body, the very being of her stretching and yawning into existence, settling into this new, airy form as if it is the only one she has ever worn—the only one she should ever know. His green eyes peer out from this new skull, the weight of the rack upon him heavy and reminding, the blood smeared across his prey’s shoulder coppery and biting. She delights in the form, the wild instincts that tangle with her soul pulling her outward and yet—
and yet.
Her gaze turns to him, hungry for answers, for understanding, the voice not quite finding its way up and out of the strange, alien throat. He catches the questions on the air and steps toward her, the wet of his nose finding the delicate curve of her throat, sniffing at the wild on her. “This will not last,” his voice deep and wholly the same as it rings out, acknowledging the concerns that swirl into the air between them. “But it will last long enough.” Enough for her to experience life on the other side of the veil, at least.
He shakes his head at her next question, because it is the wrong one, because it is ill-fitted in this space between them, their wild pulses thudding in their ears. “It doesn’t matter what I am,” he dismisses it and turns toward the trees, the smallest of nods motioning her forth. She would come, he knew, because she did not have a choice—not when her form is linked to the magic that pulses in his chest, that bleeds out from his shoulder and onto the soft forest ground. Graceful legs spring him forward and away into the shadows, the muscles different and yet the same, his gait foreign but quickly becoming familiar.
Come, the words silently weave into her mind. We have things to discover.
Woolf
