Me, my thoughts are flower strewn,

[Ahren de le Poer]

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indent It had been eight days. It had only taken God six to create the world, but it had taken him eight. Eight miserable days in which he saw no living soul, isolating himself from the opiates that had threatened to consume him whole. He screamed during the night, shook uncontrollably, struck his fists against walls hard enough that they bled, and finally crashed into that soft, safe place—that dark place he had always held onto. On the eight day, Ahren de le Poer, whose blood could have been considered royalty and who thought of himself as nothing but an itinerant waste of space, realized what had to be done.
indent The thought was neither planned nor mechanical—it came in a soft voice, registering only in waves. So it was to his old home he went, walking as if in a dream. He didn’t know how he found her bones, buried under the snow. He didn’t know how he found the kerosene. Still, he took those things to the church, and for a long time did nothing but sit in the afternoon haze, smoking, contemplating his own death. He stayed there for hours. Magnetism drew him to the knife he had carried since he was a boy. As he turned it over in his hands, the fresh scar on his forearm tingled, as if laughing. He raised the blade once more.
indent In the end, the deed took him only several minutes. The knife cut through his hair, cut away the weight he had been carrying for over a year, and piled it at his feet. Of all the sensations he had expected, the lack of weight was perhaps the most shocking. He felt cold, but he felt liberated, as if that simple action had erased over a year of mistakes. Quietly, the blonde rose, followed the ruined red carpet that led to the doors, and finally turned back. The modern-gothic structure stood as a monolith, a place of safety, but things could not remain this way.
indent A spark caught a match, and he set the carpet to flame. Ahren exited into the soft snow of the evening, shutting the doors behind him. The fire did not catch fully for a few moments, and then grew to immense proportions. The church sang as it burnt, its voice shattering glass, flame, twisting wood. Ahren stood there, alone in the snow, and watched—feeling as if perhaps he could now truly let go.

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[Laruku Tears]

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It was familiar, the smoke and the fire, the building on the fire, the heaviness in the air, and the smoldering feeling. The snow on the ground was cold, but the breeze was warm with ashes and cinders against his face. And he was drawn to it, a moth to the flame, because masochists liked watching the world burn away on their broken wings, because there was a peacefulness in the deconstruction of a past, even if it was just an illusion. Physical monuments would be burned and their remains scattered in the sky, but no matter how much time passed and no matter how much distance they put between them, the memories would always be there, even after they were forgotten.



Without the mess of blonde dreadlocks, the hybrid almost didn't recognize the other. But really, who else could it be? He saw the church as the library even though the twisting smile in the back of his head had been the one to burn it down. He saw books fall from bookshelves, flinging themselves into the rich orange and yellow. And he couldn't tell if they were actually there or in his memory or somewhere else entirely. Laruku stood next to Ahren, close enough that their hands almost brushed together, but he didn't think about that. Someone was screaming about betrayal, but he couldn't make out the words over the roar of the flame. Someone else was laughing hysterically, but that was pretty normal anyway. He had nothing to say.

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[Ahren de le Poer]

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indent Someone came to his side like a ghost, a shadow he could not escape. It was curious to Ahren that Laruku had somehow miraculously been there so often. The last time, he was positive he would have died if not for that intervention. He was clean, now, he was as clean as he could be. Opiates would always be in his blood, and tobacco always in his lungs, but he didn’t need that needle anymore. Those scars were hidden—those scars would heal.
indent So he just stood there, quietly, staring ahead at the fire. As with every thought that had come in this day, this night, he couldn’t justify what he did. His hand moved slightly, grasped Laruku’s, and held onto it like a child. He needed someone here, as private as this event had truly been. In that darkness, the night sky obscured by clouds, they were absolutely alone. Ahren didn’t even notice it had begun to snow, softly and quietly around them.

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[Laruku Tears]

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Laruku did not believe that there was anyone that really and truly needed him. The pack was, for the most part, autonomous, and the only indication they would have of their alpha's disappearance would be when his scent faded from the invisible fence. His daughter was strong-willed and smart, and she was growing up fast. Ahren didn't need him either, but here, at least, he felt like he was helping and doing some good, even if it was just a little. So there he was, wishing endlessly that he could make things better for people who didn't deserve to suffer and wondering why he wasn't choking on the fumes of someone else's past.



He inhaled sharply at the touch but said and did nothing. He still didn't want to think about it -- thinking involved too many things. Doubt, hope, fear, fear, and fear, and ghosts from the past that were always just waiting to resurface. Yellow eyes and sunshine, the sunrise that blinded him, the snow. The snow. The white flakes disintegrated before reaching the flames, almost like there was a magical barrier around the building. But there was none around them and the snow started to collect on his head and shoulders. It was beautiful in many ways. The end of the world and a fresh snow. He was watching the apocalypse, just like he'd always wanted.

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