Word Count :: 468 omg creeper
Despite the abandonment, the cream-shaded youth saw nothing but love for his mother. Despite what everyone said, despite what he believed on the surface, there was some desperately clinging hope within him that she had left for good reason. The chocolate-tipped youth was hardly resentful of the pallid ghost for leaving; he simply did not understand, and this had driven him to the point of madness. Maybe Larkspur had the answers to these questions, as well—the D'Angelo boy could not say for sure, but he had to find out. Somewhere out there, he was waiting, the man with pumpkin-orange eyes and fur like a shadow flecked with silver. Larkspur was both god and the devil to Harlowe; he represented the youth's own abandonment of everything he knew, the comfort and safety net of his family and his familiarity in Phoenix Valley. Even still, he was knowledge, he was power, he contained the answers, and he would not grant this to Harlowe until the first step had been completed. Was this then part of that test? Had Rio been sent to him for this purpose, then?
Everything about Harlowe would have seemed to decry religion; he was a logical and methodical type, yet he did not require scientific proof for belief. He was not a creature entirely lacking in faith, and something in him believed that this was a test. Rio would try to stop him, and maybe she would succeed for a moment or two, but this was destiny itself calling and yanking him over the borders of his homeland and unto territories unknown. Now he stopped shuffling things about madly, ceasing his wild movements. A single book remained clutched in his hands, though he had yet to look back toward his sister or even so much twitch an ear in her direction as she spoke. “You know.” There was the edge of accusation in his tone. How dare she come here and pretend? She had been sent here and called here just as he was being sent and called to Dahlia de Mai; something in her had pushed her here, and she had followed its siren's scream just as certainly as he pursued the one emanating from Larkspur.
“You can't stop me. I won't let you,” he said, standing now. He was still young, and he was impossibly long and bony, awkwardly stooped in this narrow, tiny cave. Even as the creamy-hued youth looked on her with wild olive eyes, his fingers and limbs trembling, there was love and sorrow wrapped into him. Neither of them had any choice—fate wound their strings tightly, and they were twisted together, impossible to untangle. The book slid out of his hands, thudding against the floor loudly. There was not so much as an echo in the tiny cave.
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