01-25-2010, 04:06 AM
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Word Count: 705
He could still smell fire.
Part of that, likely, was due to the fact he smoked constantly. From the moment he woke up until the time he slept (if he slept), a cigarette was attached to his fingers and attached to his lips. Ahren smoked so consistently because it was the only thing that allowed him to stay busy. The heroin had long since left his system, and the morphine had been left behind in the fire. That fire that he had been too cowardly to face. Even after he had watched his best friend (his lover? his brother?) smile and sink into that safe darkness Ahren had run. He had fled because it was part of his cowards blood and because he could not stand to face whatever it was that might come after death. He hated himself for the decision, but he could not shake the feeling that something else was out there, and that something else was pulling him.
Two legged as always, the blonde walked through the snowy forests for weeks, stopping only to hunt. This was an emotionless, unhappy activity. He sat and waited for a hare or a bird to cross his path, and shot it through the heart with the crossbow that he carried on his back. His weight had dropped, but not because of lack of effort. Ahren had lost something the night he had set the fire, the night he had killed Laruku, and it hurt. Over the past few weeks, while he walked as far away as he could from the lands he had been born in, it had begun to diminish. His appearance, likewise, had become ragged. Blonde to white hair fell past his shoulders, and his fur was dingy, sepia tan and the no color brown of dust. The only constant that remained was his singular working eye, as bright as it had been the day it had turned from puppy blue to the bloody crimson that was his families mark. Ahren bore only one sign, and that was the yellow mark on his chest, which likewise had begun to fade and now was hardly yellow at all.
A few days ago, he had left the peninsula where his son and the others had begun to make their new lives. Ahren’s place was not with them. He belonged to the dead, even though he had run like a coward and now had nothing in his life except for the crossbow and the cigarettes. These mechanical, addictive devices were a crutch for the all ready partially crippled wolf. His forearms were fragile and he could see no color except red, and this was only out of one eye. His purpose had been abandoned when the nihilist had died. Ahren de le Poer could no more change the world of his companion then he could bring about the end of days. He had tried, many times over, to burn these things to the ground. The church. The cabins. The car. Arcane and long gone symbols that bound him to a world he no longer accepted.
Gabriel had proven that he could survive, and he did not need his father. Ahren was pleased with this, despite the fact that he did not believe Gabriel would ever truly consider him at all responsible for anything outside of his birth. The blonde wolf had, truly, done nothing for him. Had he been able to go back, he would have changed everything, but the time for such choices was long gone and left on the sands of a beach that was no longer home. He could not see the ocean without thinking about the dead boy, and he could not sleep without dreaming of the terrible things that even now chased after him like mad, sickened shadows.
So he barely slept, and instead walked through the empty forests that changed ever so slowly from one day to the next, walked and left behind a trail of paw prints and smoke, walked without knowing where he was going, and walked because if he stopped, if he ever stopped to rest, those shadows and the things that he had run from might finally catch up and pull him under with them.
He could still smell fire.
Part of that, likely, was due to the fact he smoked constantly. From the moment he woke up until the time he slept (if he slept), a cigarette was attached to his fingers and attached to his lips. Ahren smoked so consistently because it was the only thing that allowed him to stay busy. The heroin had long since left his system, and the morphine had been left behind in the fire. That fire that he had been too cowardly to face. Even after he had watched his best friend (his lover? his brother?) smile and sink into that safe darkness Ahren had run. He had fled because it was part of his cowards blood and because he could not stand to face whatever it was that might come after death. He hated himself for the decision, but he could not shake the feeling that something else was out there, and that something else was pulling him.
Two legged as always, the blonde walked through the snowy forests for weeks, stopping only to hunt. This was an emotionless, unhappy activity. He sat and waited for a hare or a bird to cross his path, and shot it through the heart with the crossbow that he carried on his back. His weight had dropped, but not because of lack of effort. Ahren had lost something the night he had set the fire, the night he had killed Laruku, and it hurt. Over the past few weeks, while he walked as far away as he could from the lands he had been born in, it had begun to diminish. His appearance, likewise, had become ragged. Blonde to white hair fell past his shoulders, and his fur was dingy, sepia tan and the no color brown of dust. The only constant that remained was his singular working eye, as bright as it had been the day it had turned from puppy blue to the bloody crimson that was his families mark. Ahren bore only one sign, and that was the yellow mark on his chest, which likewise had begun to fade and now was hardly yellow at all.
A few days ago, he had left the peninsula where his son and the others had begun to make their new lives. Ahren’s place was not with them. He belonged to the dead, even though he had run like a coward and now had nothing in his life except for the crossbow and the cigarettes. These mechanical, addictive devices were a crutch for the all ready partially crippled wolf. His forearms were fragile and he could see no color except red, and this was only out of one eye. His purpose had been abandoned when the nihilist had died. Ahren de le Poer could no more change the world of his companion then he could bring about the end of days. He had tried, many times over, to burn these things to the ground. The church. The cabins. The car. Arcane and long gone symbols that bound him to a world he no longer accepted.
Gabriel had proven that he could survive, and he did not need his father. Ahren was pleased with this, despite the fact that he did not believe Gabriel would ever truly consider him at all responsible for anything outside of his birth. The blonde wolf had, truly, done nothing for him. Had he been able to go back, he would have changed everything, but the time for such choices was long gone and left on the sands of a beach that was no longer home. He could not see the ocean without thinking about the dead boy, and he could not sleep without dreaming of the terrible things that even now chased after him like mad, sickened shadows.
So he barely slept, and instead walked through the empty forests that changed ever so slowly from one day to the next, walked and left behind a trail of paw prints and smoke, walked without knowing where he was going, and walked because if he stopped, if he ever stopped to rest, those shadows and the things that he had run from might finally catch up and pull him under with them.