fever dreams that scare you sober.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 04-12-2010, 12:40 AM

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For as lofty as the visions and the fantasies were of this boy, this boy who lived within a world that was not his own, there was a much deeper realm that would drag him down. It was not an earthly place, for there was not much that could be done to the body to break ones mind. Larkspur had watched as his skin was burnt away by hot iron, smelt his fur and flesh turn to smoke, and all the while clenched his teeth on leather and listened to a crone speak madness. There might have been a normalcy, between their two worlds, but in this moment they were a black hole and a white dwarf spinning out of control towards each other.

Larkspur’s eyes did not change, and remained focused on the boys face. He was confused. He did not understand. This was to be expected. “Yer mother don’t know her own blood,” the black wolf grunted, recalling how Misery had spoken of the man that had sired her. As far as he understood, after his aunt-mother’s children had died, the bloodline had grown weak. They had grown stupid and forgotten. “I’m D’Angelo. And y’got a cousin who lives in m’pack, but she’s about as D’Angelo as yer mother.” Snorting air through his nose, a peculiar smile pulled at the corners of the black wolf’s mouth. “But you,” he added, his peculiar accent fluctuating like a summer storm. “Y’got D’Angelo eyes. Even if’n y’ain’t worthy of th’name.” And certainly, the boy wasn’t—not yet.

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