i met evil
when i was only a child

gargoyle figure at the edge of the lake, dark toes tucked safe away from the edge of the icy water. eyes closed, and it is not hard to determine why.

high above the ravens circle and soar, silent but for the shift of feather, the adjustment of wing tip and tail. careful, gentle, a perfect form. nature-born; ravenous.

here he can see. here he basks in the strength of bjorn's gift when they speak to him of distant herds, potential prey.

warning him when his brother slinks near so that he might --

-- blink.

"brother." a husky greeting, as ice eyes remain focused on the too-crisp lake.

that is not all, for he adds "to what do i owe this honor"?

postscript by aurora

As the moon ascends
The wolves come out
to see the end

from the flames of the fire
i feel you crawl into my bed
throwing shapes at the sky,
i watch you crying into me

Trigger Warning: Dead Animal

Ushered from the darkness, from the yawning abyss of hunger and shadow, Harou descends; Harou is all wraith and shadow; flashes of merle and sleek obsidian fur, of a white-silk chest saturated in crimson rivers of blood, as every muscular edge of the army's wolf is bathed in bloodied athleticism.

@Draven's ravens circles up ahead of him, their hungering wings flapping against the gellid arctic air. Harou holds a dead badger in his mouth as he arrives, its neck cracked and laying limp against his fangs, as he drops the carcass to the floor - this, he does not give to Draven, but shoves aside, and yet: "Hungry?"

An avid hunter, it is where Harou spends most of his energy, combing the tundra and the forests for prey. There would be no more words after that, only a silent and hushed knowing, the air between him and Draven always tense-filled and ominous. Silently, Harou comes by Draven's side, Harou's fur rustling against the winter winds, a sharp smile curling his lips.

"How are you?"

i met evil
when i was only a child

He brings meat but he does not offer it; a small cruelty not entirely unexpected from a beast like his brother. Draven does not comment on it; he has eaten, recently, but still his answer is “always.” @Harou ♔ would understand that, surely, for the yawning pit never truly left them.

Turning, now, his wounds are cast in to new light. Tended and cared for - his leg bearing a bandage so tenderly applied. Would he recognize her, there? His other injuries are less serious, but it is clear that the Eye will not move so easily for a spell…

“I’ve been better,” comes his wry toned answer as his gaze shifts back to the icy lake.

postscript by aurora

Part vampire Part warrior
Carnivore and voyeur
we all feed on tragedy,
it's like blood to a vampire

Harou says nothing to @Draven, inclining his head to one side, nodding in the direction of the dead badger, a signal that Draven may take it. Harou, only ever hunts for sport, mainly, enjoying the screams of his prey and how the blood is strewn, hot and sticky, against his fur. Chasing, hunting, killing, everything to subdue the wrathful ache constantly consuming the army's wolf, keeping him restless and feral, awake at night, either prowling the forests or stalking Faolán's den, in secrecy.

In secrecy.

Faolán - oh.

Howls full of dread and terror fills Harou's heart, even now; of a yearning void, that ached to consume, a feeling both sweet and delicious, hungry and wild. Any softness evident in Harou now, is the soft, whispering curl of life that Faolán secretly gives him, a driven heat - a passionate heat - as Harou's eyes glow, bright and burning, a vivid flame against the pallid contours of his chiseled face. This brightness had not been there before, this same feeling between euphoria and wolfish contentment, as the memory of Faolán lingers in Harou like a song. Between her thighs, he'd found new religion, new worship - yet another dark secret that follows Harou like tainted melody.

Would Draven sense it off of his brother?

Harou's eyes trails the bandaged wounds of Draven's, assuming it to be Faolán's work, and something sharp and curling and iron-hot fills the wendigo's chest, but the thought flickers with easy dismissal, despite the lingering taste of venom pooling, low and hungry in Harou's mouth. Stability and peace would be more important here, and Harou walks that line, between sharp charm and wicked charisma. Harou is cold, Harou is secretive.

Still, for all the distance between Draven and Harou, the army's wolf sets aside his suspicious nature, allowing for an easy conversation to flow between them. Still, something in Harou's posture screamed possessive, something sharp, poison-tipped, and dangerous, as the hunter prowls forward, his red eyes scanning the lakes below, saying nothing more to Draven. The silence feels almost unnerving.

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

A sneer, then, at the offering. Frustrated by the games his brother plays, feeling the rise of hot anger at the careless offering. He did not need his cast offs; even wounded he was a force enough to feed himself.

He would not allow Harou to care for him, as if he is some pitiful creature in need of it.

There is a tension strung tight between them -- Draven is not blind to it. Feathers rise in a song as his ravens return to him, perched on boulder and brush, beady-eyes watching. He hears the clack of sharp beaks and wonders what they warn him of -- wonders, but guesses all the same.

Harou is silent and Draven knows it well; he ignores it, pays it no mind, sensing that perhaps it is the same yawning beast inside them both that stirs tonight. A heated touch they had shared and learned, separately; a beast inside that recognizes itself in another.

They are but one soul; would he really let her tear them apart.

postscript by aurora

As the moon ascends
The wolves come out
to see the end

from the flames of the fire
i feel you crawl into my bed
throwing shapes at the sky,
i watch you crying into me

Trigger Warning: Gore, Language, Toxicity

Hunger, wrath, ruin. Always in that order. Paranoia bleeds into Harou's mind, a dagger plunged deep into the flesh of the Heart. Like a butcher's knife, slamming down against blocks of bone; like a blade, newly sharpened, snarling flint and steel. Harou's rabid jealousy is quick to seethe. Spilling venom into his heart so suddenly, so wickedly, Harou can taste nothing but a mouthful of envy, and a newfound hatred so hot and burning, as he feels the muscles of his heart withering into a poisoned, wrathful violence. A clenched fist, slamming hungrily against the walls of his muscular chest. A cobra squirming in Harou's heart. All-consuming, all-devouring. Eating all that soft tenderness and visceral tissue.

Suddenly, the memory of Faolán's touch lingers, not with warmth, but rabid obsession. Suddenly, her lips do not taste sweet against his lips like a delicate memory, but a vile and bitter promise, with a raging hatred fueled by possessive, male scorn. Suddenly, the badger's blood tastes rotten, sour, in the hunter's mouth, and Harou's pulse quickens with a murderous wanting so wild and hungry, even Harou could barely understand this surge of wanting. Oh, oh. Harou is in a killing mood. These emotions. These feelings. All of it swelling so hungrily in his chest, pumping with vehemence. What are they? Is this love? If it is love, I do not want it.

He looks to Draven, burning, silently. Burning. That wrathful envy still crawls like a disease through Harou's blood, a mad whisper looming in his deranged mind. Assumptions, assumptions, assumptions, all of it folds down upon Harou like a tidal wave. Of a hundred different scenarios all pouring into Harou's psyche, dark and twisted like his very existence.

Each image starts with a naked and beautiful Faolán; each image ending explicitly, as the blurred images of Draven is draped between her silky thighs, taking and taking. Sharp, unwavering, with a chill so vehement and crawling, Harou's gaze never leaves Draven's form; the army's wolf, so keen and dangerous. Cold as winter's wrath, seeking the bandages that coils about his brother's wrist as though Harou sought to burn them off with his gaze, alone. It is a viperine hunger that coils within the titan, an envy so fierce and aching, he could not begin to understand this type of poisoned love. This kind of sudden, involuntary hatred.

Did you fuck her, Draven?

Did you taste her moans?

The bandages Draven wears mocks Harou. It reminds him of Faolán's touch. Of gentle, feminine hands. Of long, aching moments spent with her. And, oh - oh, why does this hurt so good? Why does it sting? Jealously, wrath, desire, ruin. Each a fickle mistress, cloying and unassuming at first, but hot and molten and halo-bright once setting in Harou's blood. And would you expect any less of Harou? The army's wolf? To feel, as deep, as he feels? To want, as deep as he wants? The Heart, so alive with emotion? With passion? With heat and a wealth of bloodied, snarling rage, enough to drown out a universe?

Wordlessly, Harou blinks back that s-s-screaming wrath from curling against his lips, hiding his hate, hiding his emotions beneath a wolfish veil of stoic charm. Harou is not the man to express how he feels, silent in his devouring. Silent in his madness. Harou's lips curl upward, twitching, indifferently, smelling the badger's blood and following it. Ribbons of copper saturates his lips now as he dips his jaws into the badger's chest, snapping up the breast muscle. Harou's talons scrape against the granite floor. There is murder on his lips, but his voice is cool and masculine, with zero fucks given.

"Let us eat, brother," A cold, icy whisper from wicked Harou; charm so serpent and heavy - lay it on thick. Blood so hot and wretched upon the air, surely, the temptation would beckon them both.

Draven's flock makes the feathery avian noises, but far ahead, beyond the tundra, a pack of wolves howl, running through the snow in their wild hunt. Harou's ears fold back to listen to their haunting serenade, his own soul, singing with them. Laughing with them. Howling with them. Again, Harou dips his face into the pool of blood, into the visceral breast of the dead badger. War-paint; crimson and wet, red and bold, the methaphorical mask, a constant arsenal in Harou's pysche. The blood covers the titan's face. Dripping, dripping, dripping. It is so warm, so sweet, it is almost soothing, that Harou temporarily forgets the swollen wound now living like a wild animal in his chest.

i met evil
when i was only a child

Where one is fire the other is ice. Silent, stoic, eternal sentinel; a gargoyle perched upon the freeze, motionless. Watching, always watching.

The Eye never closes. Pried open with rusted-sharp hooks, peeling back the eyelids as bloodied tears follow ancient tracks. permanent marks, eternal trails turned black with age. Poisoned, moldy; the source of his canvas old blood, stained.

@Harou ♔ ignites and Draven remains still. He does not understand the anger — lies — and blinks baleful eyes. Blink, blink, refusing to rise to the venomous heat, refusing to react to the ire. It is almost mocking, goading, testing how far he can push this other piece of himself. How fast can the heart beat before it explodes, showering them both with visceral gore, torn tendons and shredded muscle a morbid paint for the icy tundra canvas.

Cruelty on his lips as he refuses, rejecting the offer again and again. “No,” because he would not feast with his brother tonight; he would not take the castoffs, nor brush shoulders with the monstrous beast that so closely mirrors himself.

There is laughter on his lips, his breath, but it does not spill in to the space between them. Instead he swallows it down (chokes it down) and maintains the same impassive expression.

As if he does not know he asks, pressing questions that are meant to needle. “what troubles you, brother? I see you. I feel you.” Reminders, however wicked they might be, that they are one and the same. A part of a whole. One piece of the puzzle — nothing without the other.

postscript by aurora

As the moon ascends
The wolves come out
to see the end

from the flames of the fire
i feel you crawl into my bed
throwing shapes at the sky,
i watch you crying into me

You cannot love her the way I can.

The tension coils, all serpent wrath and cunning, brewing with a heat so fierce, it is almost suffocating. Against the blistering-cold tundra, Harou does not find relief, not for the gellid, wintry air that moans and sighs against his lean muscles - not for the memory of Faolán's caress, once, so gentle against his skin, beckoning him with her tenderness. The winds were whispering hateful promises, irrational envy, now. All folds with feral loathing, making the army's wolf still the shudder of violence as it trembles white-hot against his skin; all that fiery, combustible wrath threatening to jolt forward towards @Draven, with a mouth full of lightning. Harou feels like howling, like beginning another hunt, a rage so explosive, and a bloodthirsty appetite, Harou could barely contain his restlessness.

Eagerly he feasts, suddenly possessed by a great hunger. His hot breath falls upon warm badger-flesh, a wintry tangle of misted blood, and visceral decadence; all dripping down Harou's throat until his ivory chest gleams like red rain, and Harou's eyes glows like red suns against porcelain skin. The heat feels sweet and feverish in Harou's mouth, ripping at the pieces of dark flesh, swallowing that taste down like vile, like liquor. Sharp, bitter, intoxicating. He revels in it, focusing in the here and now, tearing at the badger until it is half-eaten, its body rendered into a pile of marrow and bone, Harou feverishly preoccupying himself as Draven stands, unyielding before the Heart.

Draven is gargoyle-stiff, stone-cold, a slab of ancient, ruinous ice chiseled from rock, frost and iron. Draven is deadly cold, eerie, unsettling, the Soothsayer of the clan, the Raven king; dark, mountain-scented and wise. Although Harou does not feel unsettled by Draven's presence, only spurred, only roused, a predator-hunter made for killing, and oh; what a glorious and frightening sight it would be; for one god to devour the other. For the Heart to be infused with the Eye. While Draven creeps in his brooding, ancient mysticism, Harou is the bold, fiery warmth of the taiga sun, the heat of flames doused in gasoline; the wild, barbaric hunter with blood beneath his nails and ambition in his eyes.

Both so alike, and yet so very different. Draven, the ominious shadow-nightmare come to life, Harou, the fire snarling breathing infernal ruin. Even in appearances, Draven resembles the mountains unbent, unbroken - colossal, powerful; and Harou, Harou moves with a viperine grace, an almost effeminate, savage lethality, next to his larger brother Draven.

Wordlessly, Harou ignores Draven's question, allowing a dangerous smirk instead to carve into his lips, flashing something wolfish, secretive and criminal, Harou's laughter a ghost-caress against the tundra wind. For awhile, Harou says nothing, nothing at all, despite the venomous urge to seethe, to growl, low, possessive and threatening: Faolán is my woman, and mine alone. When Harou finally speaks, however, his voice is all steel, the icy breath leaving his lips, and just like that, Harou's wrathful nature subsides in a razor-flash. The monster submerged in obsidian waters; the dragon, sinking back into a mountain's wealth of gold. Slumbering, biding, patiently waiting. "Then hunt with me, Draven. Let us bring back elk carcasses and fur hides, let us bathe our women in the spoils of another successful hunt," This time the invitation is warm, almost friendly; but Harou does not wait for Draven, as the army's wolf begins his descent down the slopes.

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

There, then, is the truth of it all. Draven can not love the same way; Draven cannot love? They are all but parts of the others, pieces of a whole, torn asunder and locked in mortal prisons. A heart without an eye, an eye without a heart; both without a lung, without a hand.

The heart is bold, fiery, passionate, but he does not see. Draven is his opposite, glacial and reticent, and he does not dive so recklessly in to love the same way the heart does. They are different, opposite -- together they are more of a whole than they are apart.

There is no jealousy, here, for he does not see things the same as his brother. Draven does not see in absolutes, and thus he does not face the same ravenous possession that claims the Heart. In time, perhaps, this would change, as he grew more dependant on the woman who held his leash -- in time, perhaps, he would demand more and more of her until there was nothing left for the rest of them.

Harou is snarling in his silence but still the raven-king does not react. Maintaining his statuesque composure until his dear brother extends a paw and offers a hunt; ignoring the questions that had been pressed. There would be no response, but then he did not need one, did he? Draven knew enough without being told, he could glean the answers without hearing them said aloud.

Hunt together, live together, die together. It was the inevitable fate of the Bjorn brothers four. "Let's," finally a sound, a single word on an icy breath, as the moldy beast rose to pick a path down the slopes, scenting the air as they went.

postscript by aurora

As the moon ascends
The wolves come out
to see the end

from the flames of the fire
i feel you crawl into my bed
throwing shapes at the sky,
i watch you crying into me

Hot with masculine rage, Harou goes on a killing spree. Killing elk after elk. Down they drop, like delicate lambs to hellish slaughter. His blood is boiling. His heart is racing with a ravenous fury he can barey control. Violence unfurls across the heathen's powerful muscularity, as he explodes against every prey, felled by his salivating jaws. He can barely contain his terrible wrath from squriming like a thick dragon, threatening to explode with hellfire from beneath his skin. He wants to bury his fangs into Draven's neck and tear away at his jugular until all life ebbed from his brother's body. He wants to bathe in Draven's blood and get his revenge. Explosive, proud and vicious, Harou prowls forward hungrily, bristling with murderous intent.

Faolán, is his woman. His woman.
How dare Draven thinks to even touch her?
Taste her?
Have her?

Oh -

Here, blood now covers Harou. It drips, drips, drips with holy acrimony. He pants hungrily above his kills. He wants to snarl into the universe, so all around him may burn in his howling wrath. He wants to stab Faolán's heart with an icy dagger, so that she too, may feel his pain. His mind is completely messed up, depraved, with those phantom images of Draven and Faolán tangled together. The what if's, the what could have been's, and every other paranoid scenario, imaginable. Here, he takes a pause, a shudder slipping down his spine as wrathful heat descends his body and a seething snarl leaves his lips. His heart is covered in arrows. Faolán's arrows, flying true and piercing, deeply. Oh, the pain. Delicious, morbid pain. Twisting all that love he feels for Faolán, twisting all that tenderness, into something grotesque, hideous and ugly.

I had Faolán, first.

It's the only thing keeping Harou calm at this point (if you can even call that calm), that last sliver of control, holding the possessive, insane beast at bay. Harou does not turn to look at Draven, as the wolf begins to drag the elk carcasses back home into Frostsong.