01-25-2010, 06:06 AM
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Word Count: 1037. 50K DONE! 
DD
Ahren had always had the Sight. He had been able to see things he should not have seen, and this was something he gradually lost as he aged. His childhood, like her own, was made out of blood—but in his the dragon, the smoke, the ape, it was constant. After being ripped from his mother, after seeing the woman who had been his caretaker lying bloodied and broken on the floor, he had changed. Damian, with that red fury of a disease tearing his insides apart, had no one to strike out against except his son. And he had, over and over again. Once, even so hard that Ahren had lost his vision for a day, and regained it to find the world a much darker place. What he knew as color were varying shades of gray that soon became muddled as the years went on. Color was a concept that he had lost, along with his childhood, in his father’s house of dread.
So too, was his adolescence. Damian had not reacted kindly to his son calling him out for bedding with Misery, and by all accounts Ahren had no right to do so. But he was foolhardy and headstrong and he paid the price. Exiled before he had turned a year old, the blonde had fallen into the temptation of alcohol and violent and never looked back. He had raped one woman, and bedded with the one before him because these were the things that would give him power, and with power came pleasure and came that blissful satisfaction that he was safe, somewhere. Even though his mother and father had died, he still clung to them desperately, as any child would. He had worn his mother’s necklace every day of his life since he had gone to her church, and he wore it still. His father had laid his mark in the boy’s eyes, both literally and figuratively. He hated them, but he was desperate to hold on to any and everything that reminded him of them.
These things he had forgotten in the fire. Gabriel had done God’s work, and he had done it well. Ahren would never be able to cause such damage, and wondered why he had not considered such a thing. Still, it seemed all too appropriate. His doggish son was born out of blood and fire, and he carried the holy sign and he heard The Voice, just as his father had the Sight and his aunt saw the Line. The de le Poer line was gifted as much as they were cursed by these all seeing things, even if they might call it schizophrenia or that inbred madness that no one understood fully. Ahren, even now, even after he had lost his mind, would not know what had driven him to such a state. The sickness was his goat, and perhaps it was best that way.
He remembered her as one might remember a dream; fleeting instance that came and went in the sunspots that had formed in his memory. Years of heroin and alcohol abuse had burned out images, made him forget names and faces…but he remembered her, as clearly as she stood before him. He remembered the first night he had met her, and he remembered their den in the sand, and he remembered coming back to her if only to say goodbye, and now it seemed all of his memories were meaningless because she had changed just as he had. Ahren smiled, a toothy, mad smile, and his face turned wicked with that boyish smile he had always had. “I didn’t intend to,” he explained, his face turning so that, bird like, the good eye could examine her better. While her fur had shifted its shade, like a storm cloud, and while she bore new scars (including the prominent one on her belly) he did not see much different about her. She felt more solid then he did, despite the iron in his feet and the lead in his belly.
“Misery brought me back,” he continued, and now felt nothing but repulsion for the woman that had replaced his mother in all ways except his blood. “Said we belonged over those mountains, and no where else.” A part of the Khalif’s mouth piece had always known that, but her madness was not his own and so she had been called away, back to that place over her own mountains, back to the charyou tree and the world of white and black and Tak and madness. Ahren might have found himself a prophet there, but he had played council to a much madder king than himself. “Then fire came from on high and chase us all back over them. I made friends with some coyotes again,” he said, that peculiar smile breaking across his face, finding some dark humor in the idea.
Slowly, as if it had just dawned on him, the wolf’s eyes sharpened and his face turned dark. “You’re going back to Inferni, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, or pausing, he continued. “Ja, you must be. Gabriel still leads it. Corona’s there too. They’re doing well.” Then, finally, his eyes broke out of the haze that had crawled into them and refocused on her face, as if seeing her for the first time. “They think you’re dead,” he added, as if this information was something she would not understand.
Then, finally, he forced his feet to move. They crunched the frosted grass beneath them, sinking into soft earth and drawing a darker shade of no-color brown from the ground. He moved as if the earth was turning below him, walking slowly, swaying just slightly because he had not slept and he had not eaten, and the tobacco only fed so much of his need. When he was within arm’s reach, he stopped, finding himself nearly eye to eye with her, close enough that he could take in that scent he had not smelled in years and know, finally, certainly, that she was not dead. “You are really here,” he nearly whispered, and reached one scarred hand (“XII”, the hanged man, the arcane knowledge long since lost) out to touch her face.
DDAhren had always had the Sight. He had been able to see things he should not have seen, and this was something he gradually lost as he aged. His childhood, like her own, was made out of blood—but in his the dragon, the smoke, the ape, it was constant. After being ripped from his mother, after seeing the woman who had been his caretaker lying bloodied and broken on the floor, he had changed. Damian, with that red fury of a disease tearing his insides apart, had no one to strike out against except his son. And he had, over and over again. Once, even so hard that Ahren had lost his vision for a day, and regained it to find the world a much darker place. What he knew as color were varying shades of gray that soon became muddled as the years went on. Color was a concept that he had lost, along with his childhood, in his father’s house of dread.
So too, was his adolescence. Damian had not reacted kindly to his son calling him out for bedding with Misery, and by all accounts Ahren had no right to do so. But he was foolhardy and headstrong and he paid the price. Exiled before he had turned a year old, the blonde had fallen into the temptation of alcohol and violent and never looked back. He had raped one woman, and bedded with the one before him because these were the things that would give him power, and with power came pleasure and came that blissful satisfaction that he was safe, somewhere. Even though his mother and father had died, he still clung to them desperately, as any child would. He had worn his mother’s necklace every day of his life since he had gone to her church, and he wore it still. His father had laid his mark in the boy’s eyes, both literally and figuratively. He hated them, but he was desperate to hold on to any and everything that reminded him of them.
These things he had forgotten in the fire. Gabriel had done God’s work, and he had done it well. Ahren would never be able to cause such damage, and wondered why he had not considered such a thing. Still, it seemed all too appropriate. His doggish son was born out of blood and fire, and he carried the holy sign and he heard The Voice, just as his father had the Sight and his aunt saw the Line. The de le Poer line was gifted as much as they were cursed by these all seeing things, even if they might call it schizophrenia or that inbred madness that no one understood fully. Ahren, even now, even after he had lost his mind, would not know what had driven him to such a state. The sickness was his goat, and perhaps it was best that way.
He remembered her as one might remember a dream; fleeting instance that came and went in the sunspots that had formed in his memory. Years of heroin and alcohol abuse had burned out images, made him forget names and faces…but he remembered her, as clearly as she stood before him. He remembered the first night he had met her, and he remembered their den in the sand, and he remembered coming back to her if only to say goodbye, and now it seemed all of his memories were meaningless because she had changed just as he had. Ahren smiled, a toothy, mad smile, and his face turned wicked with that boyish smile he had always had. “I didn’t intend to,” he explained, his face turning so that, bird like, the good eye could examine her better. While her fur had shifted its shade, like a storm cloud, and while she bore new scars (including the prominent one on her belly) he did not see much different about her. She felt more solid then he did, despite the iron in his feet and the lead in his belly.
“Misery brought me back,” he continued, and now felt nothing but repulsion for the woman that had replaced his mother in all ways except his blood. “Said we belonged over those mountains, and no where else.” A part of the Khalif’s mouth piece had always known that, but her madness was not his own and so she had been called away, back to that place over her own mountains, back to the charyou tree and the world of white and black and Tak and madness. Ahren might have found himself a prophet there, but he had played council to a much madder king than himself. “Then fire came from on high and chase us all back over them. I made friends with some coyotes again,” he said, that peculiar smile breaking across his face, finding some dark humor in the idea.
Slowly, as if it had just dawned on him, the wolf’s eyes sharpened and his face turned dark. “You’re going back to Inferni, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, or pausing, he continued. “Ja, you must be. Gabriel still leads it. Corona’s there too. They’re doing well.” Then, finally, his eyes broke out of the haze that had crawled into them and refocused on her face, as if seeing her for the first time. “They think you’re dead,” he added, as if this information was something she would not understand.
Then, finally, he forced his feet to move. They crunched the frosted grass beneath them, sinking into soft earth and drawing a darker shade of no-color brown from the ground. He moved as if the earth was turning below him, walking slowly, swaying just slightly because he had not slept and he had not eaten, and the tobacco only fed so much of his need. When he was within arm’s reach, he stopped, finding himself nearly eye to eye with her, close enough that he could take in that scent he had not smelled in years and know, finally, certainly, that she was not dead. “You are really here,” he nearly whispered, and reached one scarred hand (“XII”, the hanged man, the arcane knowledge long since lost) out to touch her face.