look in to my eyes
it's where my demons hide

freed of the burden of sight he is a different creature in shadow; whisked away from his flock to stand as the lone wolf.

but no -- he is not the wolf -- isn't that her?

she of the soft down and fluffy feathers, sharp teeth so well hidden. draven is no fool; he senses the danger even if he does not know the source. they lusted for the death of them all, did they not? her dreams painted with blood -- how often was it his?

of course she does. draven is petulant, angry, imagining her nights filled with gentle whispers and not violent wails. thinking her dreams to be as soft as she, for if they were not --

-- she would never sleep.

you could

for a second there is true vulnerability in the moldy marks of his face, an openess to his expression that speaks to the brief swell of hope. he remembers her offer in the ice and sees it differently.

"tell me," and why does it sound like a plea, here where there are no others to witness it?

"please."

would he anger Bjorn with his rejection of the gift?

does he care?

postscript by aurora

love's the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty —

it is a small moment, fleeting in the quiet-cold of the freeze. of this place they — he — have brought her to. a moment to notice the look in his eye, something that was different from the second before. but before she can do more than acknowledge the flickering, it is over. the candle snuffed out — the moment slipped between her fingers, gone.

the fact that it was there at all, though, means something.

it has to mean something.

( hope? )

his voice, too, is strained. perhaps it is just the quiet of the freeze ringing in her ears, the rush of blood pounding through her veins, but @Draven sounds different. his voice less ice and more water, fluid. giving. she thinks if she reached forward, stretched her arm out real far and touched him, she might feel warm blood beneath the plush of his fur.

( she remembers the weight of his brother atop of her; she wonders if the eye would feel different. )

and then —

please.

she is smart enough to tuck her surprise away, to keep her features soft. but something in her crows at the victory, and relishes in the sudden power afforded. with the simple utterance, the scene has shifted — an echo of the past, but brilliant in its re-imagining. carefully a paw raises to the satchel she wears. carefully she removes a few sprigs and leaves, a bundle of goodies that just might be the answer to his pleas. and should he care to remember, these were the same herbs she’d offered him before. the ones that he’d assumed to be poisonous, the same ones she’d ground into the ice than give him. mismatched gaze looks from the offering to him, eager for any flicker of recognition.

there is sharp-toothed triumph braying in her chest.

( such a commotion, for helping the very beast that hurts her;

little wolf, what are you doing—? )

postscript by aurora & lyrics by h.i.m

look in to my eyes
it's where my demons hide

alone he is unburdened. here, where there are no witnesses, he is changed. whether it is the absence of the brothers or the distance of his flock, draven is half the monster he usually is.

still sharp teeth and claws but melted. the edges are not as hard; perhaps, though, it is only the weight of insomnia. it is hard to rise to snap and snarl when his eyes burn, begging to close but pried open out of sheer stubborn defiance.

she moves and so does he. the slosh of water against his bedraggled fur , as she reaches for the very gift he had once rejected. even now he meets it with a wary eye, reminded of their isolation.

but then —

— does he care?

if this is how he is to meet death then perhaps it is what Bjorn wishes. driving his disciple to near madness so that he might be pushed over the end with the more brush of a finger. take the plunge, the blinding leap.

draven moves to the shore and steps from the water, steaming, the mist embracing him and further erasing his edges. he is ethereal in the night, silver mist and brilliant glowing eyes; every bit of it is focused on her.

forward, still, until his colossal bulk casts heat upon her own (assuming she had not ducked and fled, flighty little owl). he wants to ask her why, he wants to demand more; he settles on a different pry.

“now?”

ah but he does not look at the herbs, ice-eyes instead focused intently on her.

postscript by aurora

love's the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty —

her hand waivers where it’s held out, extended towards him in more than just a simple offering. it is an offering in every sense of the world — peace nestled between the basil leaves and dry roots. she’d tried once before and if he struck out, now, that would be it. she was no dog to be kicked and then expected to come crawling back — the very fact she is here, trying again, has to mean something.

( maybe it means she’s soft.

maybe it means that she wants to be the one to rend him apart, and maybe it means she wants to gain his trust beforehand. )

at first, his answer is wordless. the little wolf is used to the silence and it is strangely treasured when @Draven and his brothers offer it. she watches him shift in the water, emerging from the steaming water like some great beast. his plush fur is drenched and the gentle drip-drop of water falling off of him is the only sound. that and the sloshing water as he comes close and closer still.

she slides backwards a step to allow him more room to maneuver, but it’s a small step. it means their space is still shared, breaths curling together in the steam as she peers up at him through her lashes. he is bigger than his brother; if she was not careful, those broad shoulders of his could blot out the entire sky.

she is the moon, here; she is the one in charge, here.

now? delicate features shift, her head twitching — she almost nods, but then thinks better of it. a different idea, a different plan. draven is almost soft here, and she wants to see just how malleable the night leaves him. quietly she steps close to him and raises her paw, offering the bundle out to him — intent on feeding him the plants herself. carefully, tenderly, as she offers whispered instructions. chew — swallow. the roots of a devil’s claw plant and the wide leaves of basil and wormwood would not be delicious, but they would help.

then... return to your bed. it would take effect sooner than he thought. she would be furious if he fell asleep in these pools and drowned, before she’d had a chance to —

well.

brows raise as she looks to him, expectant — mismatched gaze shifting from his pallid, cold eyes and the hot curl of his mouth.

postscript by aurora & lyrics by h.i.m

look in to my eyes
it's where my demons hide

early autumn lends a chill to the night, amplified by the height of the freeze. on these peaks he might freeze were he a lesser beast, not cut from the cloth of a god.

even with Bjorn’s heat he cannot stop the shiver that runs the length of him, from nose to tail tip. is it the cold, though, or is it her?

little minx, all batting lashes and gently turned lips. pressing closer before the ashes of her rejection have settled — he wants to slap her paw and gift away. it is that brief impulse, fiery and vicious, that so often guides him. Bjorn, perhaps, raging at the connection she bears to the ones that tended him apart.

tonight he fights the cruelty, meeting her with uncharacteristic softness. clay warmed by flesh, resting in her paws to shape and shift as she decided.

eat she says, and he does, his eyes boring in to hers as he does. slowly and methodically, the muscles of his jaw causing his profile to shift and change.

swallow she says, and he does. the taste is bitter, like rotten meat on his tongue, crawling with dirt-dressed insects. draven does not give her the satisfaction of knowing how it coats his tongue, the rancid flavour lingering long after his throat has worked it down.

return to your bed she says, and he does not. temptress, seductress, masterfully hidden behind soft curves and long lashes. “join me,” he repeats himself, his voice almost gentle as one hefty paws rises in an attempt to curl around the edge of her jaw.

postscript by aurora

love's the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty —

she feeds him.

he lets her.

the moment is strangely intimate — him, keeping his fangs to himself and she, lingering so close. each plant is dutifully chewed and eaten, and only when her palm is empty ( and his stomach full ) does she blink. noticing, maybe, just how close she’d pressed to him, just how her spine curved to allow her to lean even closer. there is heady power to be taken here and the little wolf cannot help but clutch at it. if @Draven recognizes the herbs she feeds him then he does not comment — was there anything stopping her from slipping him something less helpful? she does not, and each plant she feeds him will soothe his mind and ease his sleep, but he does not know that.

she is in control, here, and the little wolf finds she likes it.

the paw that had fed him returns to join its mate on the ground below, pausing only briefly to adjust the satchel she wears. it’s a small moment, allowing enough time for him to finish swallowing, and that should be it. but oh, little wolf, when have you ever let go? when have you ever backed off?

the way draven looks at her… there’s not a challenge in his eyes, not quite. but there’s something. bestial and dangerous, something dark lurking in that icy gaze. his hand raises to her face, almost gentle in the way it curls against her jawline. her little mouth falls open on a silent gasp, not from surprise but from something far more electric. she is no blushing virgin, nor is she the temptress he thinks she is, yet she cannot deny the feeling churning in her chest.

a low, pulsing echo of what she’d felt, nestled into the summer heat with harou. like that day, this moment too was tinged with just enough of unreality. as if it was just a waking dream, as if she hadn’t risen from her bed at all. join me, he murmurs, and her head tilts — pressing, lightly, into his wide palm. her own show of trust. sleep, she murmurs — not quite an answer, but not a no, either. it is an impossible thing to ignore the pounding in her chest, the heat curling lower still, especially when she peers up at him, pressed this close.

postscript by aurora & lyrics by h.i.m

look in to my eyes
it's where my demons hide

it is almost too easy to give in to her. to relinquish the power and control he so readily wielded. what spell had she cast, to snatch it from his paw? when had he left it open and free for the stealing?

the night blurs at the edges, the steam rising from his flesh swirling around them when he looses an exhale. there is no thought that guides him, now, nor any vision to lead his movement. draven acts without inhibition, letting go of the tension that always knots his shoulders. they relex, soften, and his paw presses more heavily against the curve of her jaw.

her gasp is silent but it does not go unanswered.

a rumble rises from his chest, a sound that is no growl nor purr but something entirely different. a soft ferality, an impulse, as he strokes the plush fur of the wing-clipped owl.

will she regrow her feathers, now? take flight against the steamy night air? will she dodge him again, escaping with the surge of power he has given her? has he given her the tincture, the magic balm?

draven's head tilts as his gaze shifts, briefly, to her shoulders, as if he might see the wings sprout before his eyes. soon enough he is distracted by the press of her cheek to his palm, ice-eyes returning to hers of two-hue. "no," he dares to breathe, even as the world softens around them. instead he lowers his head and aims to brush his lips across the rise of her cheekbone, before dropping further and seeking her own lips.

he looks to capture them, capture her, tucking her away in to this hazy dream-world she has sculpted for him. for them.

@Faolán

postscript by aurora

love's the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty —

his hand presses more firm against her cheek, cupping it. there is still no force behind his action but still her muzzle shifts, angling to the side as she looks up at him through frost-dusted lashes. warily, as always, but something has changed. the allusion of control fuels her, stokes the fire burning hot in her chest; she, alone, could fight off the nights chill with this. she felt heady with something more than just heat, and certainly it has everything to do with @Draven and the care he’s placed in her paws.

she could turn her hand in to a fist and crush him, if she wanted; she could squeeze tight until there was nothing there. she could, but doesn’t — but it’s the choice, here, that means the world.

the noise he makes rumbles in the scant space between them — she can feel it more than she can hear it. and even then, it causes the thick fur along her spine to shiver — the dark predatory sound calling to something deep in her dna. a bloodline subjected to bjorn’s cruelty would, surely, know him when it heard him. and yet here she is, the rabbit in the jaws of a wolf, with no moon to witness…

( ah, but — you are not a rabbit, faolán, you have always been the little wolf.

does that make him the hare, then? )

if he is that very rabbit, then it is a brave one. his attention shifts away from her ( or, rather, to her shoulders instead of her face ) before sharpening once more and when it does, he speaks. no. an easy utterance, but one that she immediately struggles with. she’s not quite ready to give up the control he’s so delightfully given her — she digs her fingernails in, a white-knuckled grip to keep hold of it.

and then —

he kisses her.

unlike harou, it’s not quite as chaste. his lips move against hers with purpose, temptation. maybe it is shock that holds her in place ( it’s a good excuse, at least ), but after a heartbeat she presses her face against his paw and pulls away — putting distance between them. sleep. she murmurs once more, voice still soft but.. louder, now. not unkind, but with a little more force. her head tilts, jerking her dainty muzzle in the direction they’ve both come from — as if to say she would return with him.

( this, as with all things, is just another test; long claws dig into the loose soil of the ground, a subtle tensing should he fail yet again. )

postscript by aurora & lyrics by h.i.m

look in to my eyes
it's where my demons hide

she is the wolf -- he has always been the raven. wolf birds, as they have been known; theirs is an ancient bond. she is the predator but he is no prey. instead he watches her with sharp eyes, knowing eyes, keen to follow where she leads. tonight, at least. tonight.

so come little wolf, won't you guide him? won't you take him by paw and tooth and claw and lead him away from here?

take him far enough and you could surely slit his throat. turn on your feathered counterpart, draw a claw across his neck, pour his blood on to the snow. water the earth with it so that he might sink in to the red before he meets his old friend Death.

now, though, it is a friend more familiar; a friend much closer at hand. rejection rises in the turn of her cheek, the space that yawns between them. draven reaches but he is clumsy and instead of grasping hold of fur his paw falls heavy to the ground.

everything is suddenly... so heavy.

he wants to be angry. he can feel the spark, distantly, roaring to life in his chest. it burns just of reach, smothered by a sudden weight, a darkness that is unfamiliar to him.

"sleep," he repeats, and his voice is not angry but gentle, quieted by the effect of the herbs she had given him. there is the faintest shift of his weight in the direction she has indicated, even as he fights to hold on to the feel of her against his lips. he is loose-limbed and tamed, but still -- still! -- he pauses. hesitates. his soul rallying against the wrongness of it all.

a final lunge for control -- "come" -- but the word comes out a question and not a demand.

slurred.

soft.

postscript by aurora

love's the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty —

his hand raises up, as if trying to grab for her, but @Draven doesn’t quite finish the motion. faolán doesn’t realize why at first, only realizing when she notices how soft he holds himself. she had not expected the herbs to work so well or so fast. his shoulders, usually held together so tightly, are relaxed and loose. delicate features, always so neutral or dismayed, now curse into something like a smile. just a little, just at the edges.

she would remember this, for later.

just in case.

he repeats her demand and she nods to hear it, ears tucking forward. it doesn’t sound like him, not at all, but she welcomes it regardless — quietly, selfishly, enjoying the monster when he was toothless. bjorn, of course, was never harmless.. but here, draven is a shadow of himself. it sparks something in her chest, fuels her in a way she doesn’t understand.

in a way she doesn’t want to understand.

instead of dwelling on it, faolán steps close to him. brings her hand up to cup his cheek, a mockery of the way he had held her. she does nothing but hold her hand against his face, mismatched gaze seeking his, and then she nods. she would lead him back home, back to his bed.

he would sleep, hopefully deep and soundless, but she would be awake all night — fraught with this new information, and how she could use it.

exit

postscript by aurora & lyrics by h.i.m