300+. For Harlowe, WHO WOULD OBVIOUSLY APPRECIATE THE THOREAU TITLE.

Two things had become apparent to Larkspur D’Angelo.

The first, and maybe the most important, was that he had found his task. The boy was not stupid like he was, and the boy was eager. Both of these were useful, but whether or not his nephew was suited for the task was another matter. Misery had been right about their frail and fading bloodline here—Addison was entirely useless, and unworthy of her name. Though he had not yet met Naniko, he did not believe she would prove any better. The boy, on the other hand, had not been sought out. He had simply been there. Further still, he had her eyes. The green-yellow was an unmistakable mix. Despite the lack of fever-bright madness, the boy had Misery’s eyes, and this was enough for Larkspur.

The second, and maybe what should have been the most important, was that Larkspur was starting to go mad. Of course, this is not to say he had not been mad before. Most certainly, four years of abuse in the worst ways possible had taken their toll on him. His sanity might have left when they had tried to drag him to the fire, or even after them, when a burnt and bleeding man fell before the prophet and wept. In some way, Misery had managed to pull him together. She had used magic or perhaps her own madness to do this, stitching the man up like a ragdoll. Her absence had begun to unravel this. It was the thing around his neck, the can tah, the little god, that held him together. Through it the voice of Tak and the ini echoed. There had been more dreams since he had seen the boy. More dreams of that vile place and the beast that lived within. Larkspur took this as proof certain that the boy had been chosen. If this was wrong, he would learn soon enough.

Larkspur had come to the forest without the horse, in the depths of the night. He had been four legged then, hunting to fill his belly. Now, in the early part of the afternoon, he was two legged and full. The dark man sat at the edge of the lake, staring into its depths. Around his neck, the stone eagle whispered. A spider crawled over his white foot, and Lark’s orange eyes turned to it, but it crawled into the grass and out of sight just as quickly. Shutting his eyes, the wolf focused inward, and let himself be caught up in the nothing where the voice of Tak and the ini spoke loudest.

300+

Most of his time was spent alone—unless he was in the company of his mare. Larkspur took a great deal of time to ensure his horse remained in top physical condition, and cared for her appearance more then his own. His hair was tangled and messy, unkempt and frazzled. He cared so little for his own image, despite Misery’s warning. Haku had known and given him shelter. Though Conor had yet to confront him, Larkspur did not believe that his current alpha would know what to make of him. Certainly, there was a darkness within the D’Angelo. It was more ancient and more powerful then Haku’s, but it did not seek the same destruction.

At least, not yet.

The boy’s approach had been loud and sloppy, and Larkspur’s ears turned towards him long before his eyes opened. He was caught in that dark place, caught between the voice of the can tah and the ini (though those were both the voice of Tak). It took him a long time to break away, for it was an upward swim in a pit. When he finally breached, both of his Jack-o-Lantern eyes opened. He turned towards the now familiar scent and found the boy standing there. Sharp lines, dark features. Had he been born with his mother’s coat Larkspur would have rejected him instantly.

Yet here he was, perhaps summoned by the voice that Larkspur and his aunt-mother alone heard. This he knew because all of the others—all of the ones born with black fur—were dead. Though there was no answer, a wordless whisper carried itself from his throat to his ears. They twitched once, as if bothered by a fly, and then settled as he fixated himself on the child. He had smelt him for days. Though uneducated and lacking most skills, Larkspur could track and hunt better then even he believed. Had he not been able to do this he certainly would have died years ago.

“Makin’ a habit of chasing ghosts?” He asked, voice gruff but without malice. Larkspur did not hate the child, but he knew what had to be done.

An echo. Not his voice, but the boy’s. A sudden and remarkable change overcame Larkspur. The pupils of his eyes became wide, two black holes seeking to swallow the world around them. He saw the boy but did not see. Around his neck something else pulsed against his throat. Deeper still, in his chest and perhaps below the heart that had not been consumed, something black and thick pulsed. In his mind he saw a tunnel of pink-red, pulsing and coursing through a place that he was not supposed to have seen.

That was the only gift the Khalif had given their exiled son. At the front of his muzzle his lips pulled up, revealing ivory fangs. His eyes focused ahead, on the boy, but they did not see him. His pupils sought to capture the frail image of that young child and crush him. Then, suddenly: “TAK AH LAH!” He barked, his voice shattering the silence of the forest. “Si em,” the dark man spoke in a voice that reverberated through his chest. The voice was not entirely his own—it was as if his voice had gained a deeper rumble, as if a river was passing under the earth. “, tow en can de lach.”

It passed then, as suddenly as a summer storm. Larkspur’s eyes became his own again, and the snarl faded. His white muzzle opened once again, but shut without saying another word. He did not break his gaze from the boy, as if challenging him.

failpost

The dark man was still and felt the words reverberating in the still air. His eyes did not break from the boy, so pinned by the power of his speech. There was fear in those eyes, but something more lurked in them. It was then, reading a soul that did not understand its own destiny, that Larkspur made his decision. “Git up,” he said calmly. It was as if someone else had come and left his body entirely. In a way, this was the truth. But it was also a lie. Larkspur did not understand the truth of the world. He was uneducated and knew a simpler truth, but it was his truth.

He watched the boy rise, however unsteadily. “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he added, and that peculiar smile—a smile that could have been a grimace—broke across his face. His broad chest, marked by that white fur that could have been a bird, or could have been a skull, but never seemed to fully take shape because it was so much like a Rorschach painting. Maybe Misery had known that, when she had taken bleach to his skin. Maybe she had known his fur would grow out white in patches where it had been damaged. Slowly, though by no means cautiously, Larkspur asked: “How much do you really want t’know?”

The boy could be taught. He was afraid, but he was not stupid. There was potential in his open expression and wide eyes, in the darkness that marked his coat and had potential to reach his soul. Lark’s eyes, Jack-O-Lantern orange and burning hellishly, sought to swallow the boy whole. He tilted his head, messy hair falling into his face, and smiled in that all too peculiar way. Everything. “There’s a lot,” he admitted, and scratched the back of one hand. “But if yer willin’ to learn, then I kin teach ya.”

Then, abruptly, he laughed. It was a harsh sound—a carrion crow’s cry, dry branches in an October breeze, dead leaves against asphalt—one that sounded as if he had never laughed before in his life. One ear flicked at gnat, and then the D’Angelo shifted his weight and began speaking again. “There’s great power in what yer gonna learn. T’begin with, Khalif ain’t just a place, it’s our way of life. Our faith, our traditions. Everything. There’s three main forces in the world—two of ‘em good, one evil. They choose our family when they’re born, the three of ‘em. Those that’re marked black are cleansed by fire.” His eyes turned harsh, and his face turned to stone. That would have been him, if not for his Aunt-Mother. Destroyed, cleansed, pulled apart in order to be saved.

Faith was a terrible thing.

slow reply is slow

There was a flash—a moment of sharp and unabashed brilliance—where Larkspur knew. He knew. Yellowing teeth became exposed as his black lips pulled back, pink tongue curling up to the roof of his mouth. Was he cleansed? It was an asinine question and his body trembled at the notion. A dozen voices, then a hundred, began to call for him. They were the voices of the Khalif, screaming for blood. His blood. The voices grew into a roar and his muscles twitched, hands closing into fists, tail lashing behind him. There was a notion to strike the boy, one that rose steadily like a tide.

It was the can tah that cut through all the other voices like a knife and silenced them ultimately. This voice—the voice of the stone eagle, the voice of Tak—was the only voice he needed. The rage left his body and fell into the blue-green pool of water at his side. Larkspur closed his eyes and opened them again. Before him the boy still sat, ignorant of what he was playing with. “In order to be cleansed you were burnt alive,” the salt and pepper wolf explained. He shifted his weight and pulled up a section of fur on his side. Under the thickest part of it deep scars were visible. “They nearly killed me tryin' to do that. Yer great-grandmother is the one that saved me. She was chosen, and she chose me.” And now Larkspur had chosen this boy, despite his polluted blood.