new mercies in the morning [pollock]

[Pollock]

Enter again the sweet forest
     Enter the hot dream
       Come with us

He sets the trap, baits it; he knows how to make them feel important.
He knows how important it is to feel important because long ago, he was insignificant, too.

(Or so they say.)

It is part of the ritual, to convince them are good enough to be god-meals, so that they go quietly.
—he likes when they go quietly.
—he likes when they go loudly.

He notices she is injured. This does not escape him. How could it? Feral-eyed, lizard-brained, wolf-mouthed. Predator-hearted, he had seen it the moment he latched eyes on her—between each breath, which rattles with dust through his grimey lungs, he plays out their dance in his mind;
(In his mind, they are in a forest. It is not the well-fed, gravid Forest he had been the woodsman and wolf of—it is a new one, bent and burnt and strange looking, occupied by spikey joshua trees and hungry succulents. It is not verdant and luscious, but it is a sanctum in the wasteland.)

He imagines each stroke, too. 
Some quiet—sanguine and easy to shed; some loud—pale and sought after aggressively. To him, she is a canvas. And what she is to him is all that matters now. Once she might have meant many things to many others. She might have been lover, mother, daughter, friend. But what she might have been is excised by what she is to become. “Yes,” he moves closer to her, those curved horns pressing heavy on his mind, “you are. This place is hungry, Ohio.” His eyes, perhaps she might notice, are slightly sad. He is not sad for her. He is sad for the moment he can do no more with her, and he must lay her down and let her rest.

There is nothing about his tone, or those eyes, that recognize the strangeness of the words. To him, they are not strange, but simple and true.

He moves closer to her, as close as he can without touching her—though his breath does, and now she will be able to smell its stench and feels its warmth across her forehead. Oh, she could run, to be sure. She could do a number of things. But, of course, she is injured and, sadly, he is faster than she ever was or could be. He blinks at her, inhales deeply, and sends them out. He sends them clawing and scenting like hound dogs, springing from his mind and burrowing their way into hers. They are single minded and persistent, and through the trappings of her psyche (the love and the sadness; the happiness for which he has no use) they find the primal cord. She is Fear and he exhales into her, pulling it taut towards him.
He does not alter himself, nor what she sees around them. What is there will do.

This, too, is simply part of the ritual.

“I can help you,” he affirms, low and throaty, “‘out’.” He drops his head, great and heavy, and if she does not move—if she does not run, foolish as that would be—he’ll send those ridged, cruel weapons up towards her face. He expects—urges for—the crack he knows those jaw bones can make.
If true, they will not kill her, probably.
They will knock senseless in her, and that makes it easy.

the gift-giver