01-25-2010, 05:00 AM
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Word Count: 1,066
The winter had been the hardest. Ahren could barely move when he woke during the mornings, and had to find any form of shelter that would fit his small frame in order to try and keep himself warm. These attempts often fell short, and he would shiver and toss and turn and ache for days at a time. Now that the snow was slowly starting to fade away, save the occasional March storm, he was able to move more comfortably. Except he would never be comfortable, and his body would never forget the wounds that it had suffered. Noah’s teeth had sunk hard and sunk deep, and had Ahren given him any more time then his arms would have been broken completely. Instead, his cartilage ached endlessly, and even the mystery salves he had once used under Misery’s guidance seemed welcomed now (though Ahren was uneducated in the ways of medicine, and knew very little as far as healing).
It had, for a fleeting moment, crossed Ahren’s mind to go to his son. Except Gabriel owed him nothing, and while Inferni had opened its doors once before, his son above all others (that were currently living) understood that Ahren had gone mad. This had been a long time coming, but the disease that had ripped through Esper Hollow had done its work. Jasper had nearly been killed, and Laruku had gone blind. It was lucky that Ahren had only suffered in the mind, though he was certain that if he had been in pain Draco would have killed him without a second thought. The night his son (the son who looked far too much like his mother) came through that door, Ahren had believed the boy intended to do such a thing. Draco’s eyes were just as he had remembered them, that horrible, bombardier blue that belonged to his sister-cousin’s side of the family. That boy was no more his then Gabriel, who bore the Lykoi star on his shoulder despite carrying his father’s name, but something had changed. After so many months, Draco was no longer a boy, angry at his father for chasing off his mother and abandoning him. Like Mab, Draco had become a gunslinger, and while he had come with a false name and hid himself in the wilds of the forest, his blood spoke volumes. Ahren did not doubt that his son told others he was Mab’s child.
Perhaps it was better that way. The rest of his children were scattered to the four winds; Gabriel and Corona remained in Inferni, where they were bred to be. Jasper might have vanished, for all he knew, but the boy could not cling to his father forever. Especially when Ahren could offer him nothing but the sickness that was crawling through his brain and turning him wicked. He did not harm the animals he hunted, but those few wolves he crossed paths with, they all fell under his hand. Ahren needed to kill because it was the only thing that made him forget; he lost himself in their scent, in the rise of blood and horrible sounds that they made. This was his pattern. He had done so before, traveling to the abandoned areas of Bleeding Souls and picking fights simply to slaughter strangers. It quieted his brain and let the thoughts go dormant, if only for a small amount of time. It was a bad habit, like a tick, like picking his nails, like the cigarettes.
He took another long drag, savored the burn and the taste of the tobacco, and flicked the butt into the forest. It spun through the air and hit the ground, smoking in the damp mud. Ahren’s sense of smell had made it so he barely understood the smoke anymore; he was aware of it, but other things still manage to come in, to be muddled by the constant abuse that his muzzle underwent. Still, it was not scent that made him stop, but that dull sensation he had once associated with the Sight. Mab had understood this, and once tried to explain it to him, but her words had fallen on ears deafened by drink and made ignorant by his own arrogance. This was why she had removed him from her home, turning him out on the street without a second thought.
But that sensation pulled him out of his dream like state and made him turn, seeking out the secondary sound he now heard. Footsteps, rushing through the wet ground, pushing through the shadows and coming at him like a familiar ghost. His body remained still, and his eyes focused on her as if they were unable to produce a clear image. Then, slowly, it seemed to wash over him—his face changed, like the surface of a pond broken by a stone. The ripples rushed out and made his eyes go wide, made the hair along his neck rise. The pull of the earth below him seemed incredibly strong. Lead sunk into his feet and made it so he could not move, and if he could he was not sure what he would do. Twin impulses ordered him to flee from her or run to her, but he did not understand what he was seeing. Kaena was dead—Gabriel had said Kaena was dead. She had wandered off into the desert like his son and now all that was left was this ragged, scarred ghost with her golden eye and that all too familiar scent that sunk into his chest and make him weak.
He had resolved himself not to miss her, but there was a ghost (but she was there, she was right fucking there) staring at him and he was unable to move. Even the forest seemed to have gone still, as if time had stopped around them. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t supposed to happen, he had left her behind because he could not allow himself to love her anymore—but something in him, something that was long forgotten and something he believed was hollow was filing with an uncomfortable sensation, making everything he had believed suddenly turn on its head and turn his stomach into knots. She didn’t speak, and because he could not stand the silence, his rough voice broke into the uncomfortable air. “I thought you were dead,” he croaked, having not spoken for what felt like eons.
The winter had been the hardest. Ahren could barely move when he woke during the mornings, and had to find any form of shelter that would fit his small frame in order to try and keep himself warm. These attempts often fell short, and he would shiver and toss and turn and ache for days at a time. Now that the snow was slowly starting to fade away, save the occasional March storm, he was able to move more comfortably. Except he would never be comfortable, and his body would never forget the wounds that it had suffered. Noah’s teeth had sunk hard and sunk deep, and had Ahren given him any more time then his arms would have been broken completely. Instead, his cartilage ached endlessly, and even the mystery salves he had once used under Misery’s guidance seemed welcomed now (though Ahren was uneducated in the ways of medicine, and knew very little as far as healing).
It had, for a fleeting moment, crossed Ahren’s mind to go to his son. Except Gabriel owed him nothing, and while Inferni had opened its doors once before, his son above all others (that were currently living) understood that Ahren had gone mad. This had been a long time coming, but the disease that had ripped through Esper Hollow had done its work. Jasper had nearly been killed, and Laruku had gone blind. It was lucky that Ahren had only suffered in the mind, though he was certain that if he had been in pain Draco would have killed him without a second thought. The night his son (the son who looked far too much like his mother) came through that door, Ahren had believed the boy intended to do such a thing. Draco’s eyes were just as he had remembered them, that horrible, bombardier blue that belonged to his sister-cousin’s side of the family. That boy was no more his then Gabriel, who bore the Lykoi star on his shoulder despite carrying his father’s name, but something had changed. After so many months, Draco was no longer a boy, angry at his father for chasing off his mother and abandoning him. Like Mab, Draco had become a gunslinger, and while he had come with a false name and hid himself in the wilds of the forest, his blood spoke volumes. Ahren did not doubt that his son told others he was Mab’s child.
Perhaps it was better that way. The rest of his children were scattered to the four winds; Gabriel and Corona remained in Inferni, where they were bred to be. Jasper might have vanished, for all he knew, but the boy could not cling to his father forever. Especially when Ahren could offer him nothing but the sickness that was crawling through his brain and turning him wicked. He did not harm the animals he hunted, but those few wolves he crossed paths with, they all fell under his hand. Ahren needed to kill because it was the only thing that made him forget; he lost himself in their scent, in the rise of blood and horrible sounds that they made. This was his pattern. He had done so before, traveling to the abandoned areas of Bleeding Souls and picking fights simply to slaughter strangers. It quieted his brain and let the thoughts go dormant, if only for a small amount of time. It was a bad habit, like a tick, like picking his nails, like the cigarettes.
He took another long drag, savored the burn and the taste of the tobacco, and flicked the butt into the forest. It spun through the air and hit the ground, smoking in the damp mud. Ahren’s sense of smell had made it so he barely understood the smoke anymore; he was aware of it, but other things still manage to come in, to be muddled by the constant abuse that his muzzle underwent. Still, it was not scent that made him stop, but that dull sensation he had once associated with the Sight. Mab had understood this, and once tried to explain it to him, but her words had fallen on ears deafened by drink and made ignorant by his own arrogance. This was why she had removed him from her home, turning him out on the street without a second thought.
But that sensation pulled him out of his dream like state and made him turn, seeking out the secondary sound he now heard. Footsteps, rushing through the wet ground, pushing through the shadows and coming at him like a familiar ghost. His body remained still, and his eyes focused on her as if they were unable to produce a clear image. Then, slowly, it seemed to wash over him—his face changed, like the surface of a pond broken by a stone. The ripples rushed out and made his eyes go wide, made the hair along his neck rise. The pull of the earth below him seemed incredibly strong. Lead sunk into his feet and made it so he could not move, and if he could he was not sure what he would do. Twin impulses ordered him to flee from her or run to her, but he did not understand what he was seeing. Kaena was dead—Gabriel had said Kaena was dead. She had wandered off into the desert like his son and now all that was left was this ragged, scarred ghost with her golden eye and that all too familiar scent that sunk into his chest and make him weak.
He had resolved himself not to miss her, but there was a ghost (but she was there, she was right fucking there) staring at him and he was unable to move. Even the forest seemed to have gone still, as if time had stopped around them. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t supposed to happen, he had left her behind because he could not allow himself to love her anymore—but something in him, something that was long forgotten and something he believed was hollow was filing with an uncomfortable sensation, making everything he had believed suddenly turn on its head and turn his stomach into knots. She didn’t speak, and because he could not stand the silence, his rough voice broke into the uncomfortable air. “I thought you were dead,” he croaked, having not spoken for what felt like eons.