WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
Form
Info
Date: 25 Aug
Time: Night
Location: Borgata Colotl
fufufufufuf
The pale form seemed tiny in her arms. There was undue warmth in Shibboleth's body, evidence enough of the fever that had wracked the girl's body for some days now. There was a stink to her, sticky-sweet and faintly tinged with rot, evidence that the infection had entered her body through the hole in her belly. Eris had not known this could happen to children; she did not know that they could become malformed within her very body, before they had breathed the fresh air.
The tiny form shivered against her chest, and Eris wondered whether Shib was cold or whether it was another of the shaking fits. Seizures, perhaps -- the sable shaded woman did not know. She was not a medicine woman, and she had not permitted anyone other than Larkspur and Molca to so much as see Shibboleth since her birth. Only the girl's siblings knew, and whether they truly understood, the hybrid did not know.
Her yellow-green eyes seemed afire as she gazed over and across the bay, contemplating the drop down into the water. It would be too easy to hold the small thing over the abyss and let the tiny form slip from her grasp. Eris swallowed hard and clutched the form tighter, hunkering down and kneeling over this edge, the quietest of whimpers emerging from her throat.
It was the voice of the can tah that woke him from the nightmare. He recalled it for an instant—a dream of the Dahlian fire, of how he had fled—and then it was gone. Larkspur’s ears rose high, trembling, as they listened to the tongue of the unformed. There was no moon. Tak ruled nights like these, when even his red eye hid his wicked misdeeds to the world. The air radiated with the sensation of it. A cold nose quivered as he sucked in the local scents; Rowan, sleeping nearby, Magnolia, outside but near…and Eris. Eris, close. Eris and a hot sickly-sweet scent that he knew was the thing she refused to destroy. It was not a living person to him. It never had been.
He slipped out of his crumbling fortress, a dark shadow speckled by the sun’s chosen color. This night it did not matter. Nothing betrayed his presence as he followed, a swift-footed hunter that moved with the grace of all wolves. Even his eyes did not gleam in the darkness, though they were wide, and his pupils impossibly large. Tracking her was easy; Eris had learned much from Sirius, but not enough.
A massive shadow halted at the edge of the cover, watching. The woman held her child (for he did not claim it, despite its blood) to her breast and Larkspur’s eyes narrowed. Did she even now love such a thing? It was an abomination, an affront to his gods. By keeping it alive, she spat in the face of those powers that even Tlanti had recognized.
She had to love Shibboleth -- the child was, after all, undeniably her own. What was wrong with her, too, was also Eris's doing, though the coal-hued woman could not yet admit this. Even she knew, though, that Shibboleth was beyond saving now. The girl would barely eat anymore, and what little was left of her would surely waste away. It would be kinder to cast her to the water, it would be kinder to let her slip beneath the water and drown.
There was a long moment of hesitation from the sable-hued woman, who remained where she was, quivering ever so slightly. At long last, her arms extended forward, holding the small, pale form out and over the water. Eris would have to toss her, out and over -- to drop her straight down, her body would surely be dashed to bits on the rocks.
The Auxiliary contemplated which would be worse -- drowning or striking her poor little head against one of those rocks -- and found herself at an impasse, unable to proceed forth with whatever it was she was planning to do. Her arms trembled ever so slightly, and she began to draw the child back, curling her body around the small, silvery thing, rocking it ever so slightly, her fingers stroking at the hot, barely-aware face.
For one instance, he saw her as she had been. He remembered why he had gone to her. She had been strong, before. His massive jaw parted, tongue tasting the air between his teeth. How badly he wished for her to succeed—it was not what he desired, but oh, the child would die. Then she hesitated. Her hands withdrew. The magic was broken and with it the shackles that held him. Tak walked with his strong muscles, his heavy body, and he announced himself with a single deep rumble. If he startled her, she might go with that child into the rocks and black ocean below.
“You have to kill it,” he said stonily. There was no room for argument within him. If she did not believe him then, how could she deny it now? He could do whatever more she asked; he bowed to her will as he did to Sirius, he no longer asked her where she went, but she could not deny this. “Tak will take it one way or another,” the Arbiter growled, a cold wind cutting through his pelt. The night-demon was with them; he walked all corners of the world, and he came for what was his.
She was dimly aware of the man's presence at the noise, and she did not start; she hardly moved at his approach, still clutching the broken and warm thing close to her, huddling over it and shielding it as a bird of prey with a fresh kill. Her chartreuse eyes trailed toward him but once, and returned to the sea and quiet contemplation. He spoke, and the sable-shaded woman did move this time, a shudder that seemed to wrack the entirety of her body, though as it passed, she became stiff and still as old stone.
He spoke again, and now she stood, swiftly, clutching the small child awkwardly with one arm. What did it matter if the little thing's brains got all scrambled up? Shibboleth had spent her first month of life drifting in and out of fever; she would be lucky to have even a quarter of a normal child's intelligence at this point. She moved toward him in swift steps, her free hand raised as if to backhand him. Terrible fire burned on all her features, unfiltered and without so much of an ounce of restraint mixed in with the fury there.
And then, it died, draining away as quickly as it had come, and she was left there teetering on her own feet, as if the wind that had ripped away her anger had taken every vestige of her strength along with it. Deadened chartreuse eyes looked at him, meeting his own pumpkin-orange gaze, and she spoke, though it was all soft defeat, lacking any further resistance. But she is mine.
The weakness he saw in her disgusted him. She was a leader for a purpose, and to lead meant that weakness could not be seen. He did not trust the others here, not as he trusted Sirius. What if one of them saw Eris in a moment like this? Everything would be lost. A part of him, dim but endlessly devoted, would not allow the woman who had bore his children to be humiliated. Not while there was still much to be gained for them, and even this sickly, star-cursed brood.
Her approach was sudden and he stiffened, but did not draw away. She had hit him before. So had others. If she struck him now, it would be a paper dragon against a pillar of stone. His mind was steel, set and determined. The power to command her was quite beyond him, as was the power to take the child. This was not his sin; this would not be his redemption. “It is dying,” he said lowly, in a strangely reassuring tone. “Tak festers within it. If you do not give it to him now, he will infect the others.” This he believed, even though there was no medical reason to fear it. Larkspur knew nothing of healing, only the terrible threat of all black-magic.
Tak had held no sway over Eris before. Why should it be different now? She had defied him and all the other gods, she had for many months now -- her head had been clearer, her sight stronger. Eris had not needed Tak or any other god for strength -- it had come from her, all of it! But looking at Shibboleth, the sable-hued woman could not say that she was powerful enough to stop this. Tak or one of his dark brothers had deigned to touch this litter, too, but he had given to Eris a curse this time, as much as he had delivered to her a gift the last time.
The hybrid looked at him, eyes clearing as if seeing for the first time the frosted gray and white around his muzzle, the almost delicate criss-cross of the scar on his cheek. Her eyes were empty, her gaze devoid of emotion and intelligence and all humanity -- they were the eyes of a dead woman set into the coal of her face. There was truth in his words, and she knew it, though the words burned no less for the truth they carried. She looked to the small, pale bundle in her arms, impossibly blazing hot and no longer even conscious.
How? There was infinite weariness in that one word, the inquiry of how this gift/curse was to be delivered to the monster in the sky or beneath the dirt, wherever Tak slept.
It was his nature to serve. While Larkspur’s size alone would have made him capable of controlling and dominating others, his being was one where subordination lived. No one had given him sway, not when he was a child, not when he was damned and cursed from birth. The gods had forgiven him for his loyalty. All faith was rewarded in time; it had been five years since his birth, and five long years had taught him harsh lessons. All gods, his, those of the Kimaris woman, those of strangers he did not know, they were cruel. They were hungry.
So he watched her impassively and saw that while she deigned to this fate, she did not accept it. It was not her choice. Then again, it never had been. The beastly thing that was larger than any wolf in this land, more bear, more feral beast of some ancient time long past, it watched her with those dense yet intelligent eyes and saw her crack. The can tah whispered, and it was with this voice that the Arbiter spoke, his words heavy and without doubt. There was one singular truth in the ways of the immortals.
She might promise with her lips, but her heart would never belong to Tak. She would never truly worship him. He was worthy of her respect -- there was no doubt within her of this now -- but he would not have her reverence. Not Tak, not any other god -- she was beyond them, above them, below them. Fury burned somewhere deep in her, but she choked it away as adeptly as she had choked all other emotion where this pale, pathetic thing was concerned. Eris had played the part of stable leader to the best of her ability -- which was, admittedly, not half-bad, all things considered -- but the feelings she had choked away and buried somewhere within her still tore at her insides, aching and begging for escape. Perhaps they would burn, too.
She regarded Larkspur with a sudden uncertainty. Fire was not what she would have wanted; it was not what she would have chosen. It would be so much easier to twist the little neck until the tiny head faced backwards, the muzzle pointed in an awkward, impossible angle. So much swifter, so much less painful. But tradition was one thing the sable woman did respect, in some half-understood way; regardless of the god such rituals were designed to please, there was power in them. She remembered and realized in the same single, sharply-inhaled breath that this was a reflection of what had been done in Eterne.
There, it was the strongest given to prompt strength in the rest. Here, the weakest would be culled to save the rest, Shibboleth's dark and infected blood given over to purify and save her sisters. Eris could only nod slowly, hardly a moment of hesitation passing from this movement's cessation to her slow turn, walking toward... what? She did not know where to go, and she did not step forward after turning. Instead, she turned back around, leaning forward to place the small silver thing at Larkspur's feet. She knew he would not touch the child; she knew he would not keep her warm and safe, but what use did either of them have for such feeble comforts any longer? Even Shibboleth would find them utterly otiose, if she was even capable of understanding such things.
The coal-hued hybrid did not speak; instead, she moved off and away, back toward her home. It was not so very far -- Salsola's territory was small and compact, just enough room for what they needed. Their small pack did not require expansive hunting lands; they were not so numerous that they needed to swallow so much more than their ruins and their village. Only a spare few moments were spent within her home; though the sable wolf eyed the chest where her bear's skull and cloak were kept, she made no move for either. There was magic enough here, twisted and sick as it was, without all her fancy augmentations. She only took the matches.
The owl hooted as she began to depart, but Eris paid him no mind, knowing he would remain perched above her entryway. He hadn't moved since she'd placed him there, thinking it would be a good perch for him. Sandalio was yet a stranger, and she had yet to take interest in him -- more pressing matters currently occupied her mind. The matches clutched in her hand, the coyote stood in her doorway a moment, wondering if she should wake the other children. No doubt they would be sleeping soundly at this hour. She would not rouse them, not for this. A strange sort of dreamy indifference had overtaken the woman, and she meandered back toward Larkspur slowly, feeling as though she moved beneath water.
Eris did not immediately return to his side, and her chartreuse eyes deliberately avoided that small, gray shape, still motionless by his feet. Tufts of dry grass were pulled together, twigs and sticks. They did not need a lot of fuel to burn this fire -- their pyre would be pitiably small. Shibboleth was not a grand offering, some mammoth elk with twenty years of growth. Eris's pit was crudely constructed, lacking particular skill in putting it together. The black hybrid worked silently, though occasionally small, strange sounds came forth from her -- perhaps the beginnings of a whimper or mutter, always choked back to silence by the dark Auxiliary herself.
When it was done, she stopped a moment, as if to study her handiwork -- in reality, she steeled herself to turn back toward Larkspur and her child. Every muscle, every bone, every drop of blood in her screamed to turn and run from him and Shibboleth. Instead, the dark woman turned back toward her mate, eyes on the ground, seeking that motionless little bundle. If it were not for the slight shudder of ribs, Eris would have believed Shibboleth already dead. That smell of death was readily apparent in the air, emanating forth from that tiny body with surprising force. Larkspur was right -- there was nothing they could do to prolong life within this one, and she had been the fool for trying.
The dark woman stepped forward, leaning down to the small shape, her fingers sliding beneath that feverish little body. Her ears were pressed firmly into her mane, and she could not quell the trembling in her arms as she lifted that feather-light weight, turning back toward the spit. She laid the child down slowly, tucking grass and leaves and twigs all around the silvery body. Shibboleth did not move or stir now; even the shaking had seemed to fade from her body, and Eris imagined or deluded herself that there was peace written onto that tiny face.
She lit the fire. The hybrid reeled back as if expecting an explosion, an impossible blazing of light -- she went so far as to lift her hand to shield her face, though soon enough, her chartreuse eyes turned back toward the pyre she had constructed. There, a tiny wisp of smoke shot up and arced through the air, slithering out with the wind over the bay. A tiny ember burned brightly, and flame burst from that ember, eagerly devouring the dried grass and twigs. There was a pop and snap as a branch caught fire, and now Eris saw Shibboleth, illuminated in red and yellow.
For one terrible moment, the sable hybrid thought the girl's eyes had opened, bright baby blue in all that red and orange -- her stomach rolled and she gave a shudder, shrinking back and away from the flame. It was impossible; the pale child had not moved except to shake and shiver at random intervals for days now, let alone open her eyes. Her siblings were strong and healthy, their eyes already opened to the world and devouring every inch of it.
She wanted Larkspur; she wanted to fling her arms around his neck and hide her face from the sight of the fire in his mane, but her pride stubbornly refuted this idea each time she thought of it, recoiling at the idea of prostrating herself so plainly. She was lucky to hold her position now; she would be luckier still if she did such a thing now, after displaying so much weakness to him. Instead, she curled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms about them. Her muzzle she rested on her forearm, leveling her gaze with the fire, forcing herself to look.
Now the smell of smoking meat was on the air, not so different from when they cooked food. The fire had consumed all shapes within it now, and Shibboleth was little more than fuel for the licking flames, soon to be smoldering embers and ash. The column of smoke rose thick and black now, though the breeze was carrying it away from the ruins and out over the water. She found her gaze following it, drawn to it -- it seemed to billow up and up forever, impossibly long, reaching for the place where the moon should be, the empty and black expanse of sky up above.
Every part of him belonged to the ancient and terrible road laid out by his forefathers. When Tak had blemished the land and took sanctuary from the sun goddess in the earth, they had followed him. They had gone mad in that pit. Many had died. Those who had survived were savage things more akin to monsters than any wolf that walked the earth. If he had known what rabies was, he might have compared it to such. There was no room for science within Larkspur—magic alone held sway, and this remarkable ideology kept him from seeing that the way the child died did not matter.
So he sat still, a gargoyle cut from obsidian and dusted with snow, with two holes of flame where his eyes should have been. The dying thing at his feet was not his daughter. It was a blight sent to prove that his mate had been wrong. Tak had come and taken the single white child from the brood, taken it and consumed it from the inside out. Had he been cruel, he would have killed it that day. Rank alone saved the babe, who had suffered silently while her mother stood by. Eris was a creature of pride. If Larkspur knew nothing else about the woman, he knew that.
Great paws did not move even as she returned. He was here to observe and direct, and to do what needed done beyond her hand, but the sin belonged to Eris alone. Larkspur had honored his gods. Larkspur had honored Eris, even as she betrayed him with another man. Yet in their relationship, she held power; her rank allowed this. To show as anything less would only lower his own standing within the pack, and while not a dominant wolf by nature, Larkspur enjoyed his place above others. He had earned it.
The fire began as they always did, a faintly glowing ember that rose with the wind and came to consume the living sickness whole. Two dark figures gleamed in that firelight. Larkspur’s pelt reflected the color readily, for it had once met it before. Deep eyes sucked in the sight, consuming the color and taking it for themselves. Pumpkin orange burned with the living, undead, uncontrollable thing that was the flame. It had sought his soul, once, an eternity ago. These flames were not large enough to bring fear into Larkspur, who was wholly frightened of fire, but he respected its power none the less.
He said nothing. Silence held his tongue still, and no thoughts of comfort came to him. She had brought this upon herself, and for him to bear the weight of her sin was laughable. Had Tak not taken enough from him yet? Had he not met the earth-god as a child and faced it, screaming, as his senses were destroyed? He spoke the language of the dead. He had been into the ini and knew what true fear was. This display of emotion from Eris was feeble. No part of the Arbiter mourned what had been claimed by Tak, what burnt in a hellish cacophony of soft, breaking branches and the stench of sickness and death.
His eyes only broke to study the pattern of the wind, the path of the stinking black smoke that contained the festering soul (if gods had souls, that was) of Tak. Their daughter had never been. He knew that, and this was why he did not mourn. It was not as if they had taken one of the other girls, or one of their true, mighty children. Salvia and Pandemic set prescience; how could a dying body without a soul usurp them?
Lowly, and with great skill, he spoke in that damned tongue that would summon the beastly night-god to take what was his. “Mi him, can de lach, mi him, min en tow. Tak!” The wind seemed to hesitate, to take a breath. Larkspur steadied himself as he felt his body respond to the sacred tongue, to bristle and stiffen as the wind turned. It rushed from behind them, tugging at his thick pelt, twisted through the smoke and the dying fire and snuffed it out. The moment passed and the wind settled, soft and constant as it always was by the shore. The Arbiter did not rise. His massive head turned towards Eris, orange eyes gleaming like the still-dying embers of the fire, and waited.
She saw nothing in the fire. No shapes or shadows danced there for her. The flickering light crept forward from the fire, clutching beyond its reach and shrinking back again, too small to be anything more than a twinkling, pale dot from a distance. Perhaps she did not see because she did not want to see. Some distant and feral part of Eris understood the ritual and its meaning, but most of her stood steadfast, flatly refusing the bared truth. She would acquiese in the coming nights, lonely ones spent sleepless and tossing beneath the earth, when not even the warmth and strength of their remaining children provided comfort. Her conscious psyche rejected it fiercely for the moment, however, and she was no better served for this ritual.
Part of her now wished, in some sullen and desperate way, that she were a creature as Larkspur: dull and guided by instinct and foreknowledge alone. She might not have been so dilatory in the matter of Shibboleth; she would have been able to dispose of the girl as readily and easily as one throws away the cracked bone once all meat and marrow has been devoured. She was not Larkspur, however, and as quickly as this moment of jealousy seized her, it passed again. The man had his strength, but she did not lack for her own, and it was their opposing natures and complementary strengths that would strengthen the remainder of the children, too.
Neither of them moved, and after what might have been an eternity, Larkspur spoke, muttering words Eris could not begin to understand. The hybrid tilted her head ever so slightly, listening to the pause and subsequent sigh of wind. She felt the breeze tug and pull gently at her hair, tousling the fur of her body, and when it passed, she felt a strange sensation of lightness. It was undeniably queer and she thought it false at first, wrinkling her nose and turning it toward Larkspur, only to find he looked at her now, too. He seemed to be waiting; this drove a sharp barb of anger into the sable woman's side. What did he want from her now? If she was supposed to say something, she did not know what to say. She returned his gaze, just the barest edge of razor sharpness lingering in her chartreuse eyes.
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