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

Treads of moonlight wove through the tangled bushes and dense evergreens. Here, autumnal winds cleave against the cloying midnight, a lovely saturation of cold breeze and winter-promise, purring deep into the belly of the black earth. Lamentations linger against each curling shadow, and there is a silent horror to the way the wendigo moves, sliding past each trailing shadow.

Here, there is only silence and shadow, as Harou prowls, relentless and unable to sleep. There is a quietness to his step, and a hush-hush-hush of predatory pawfall against dense evergreen. Silence fills the night, and his heart beats wickedly, still. There is an edge of haunting to his stride, as the wraith moves elegantly past the shadowy rows of trees. Here, darkness is full and unrelenting, setting a scene of ominious silence and reverent awe.

you must fix your heart
and you must build an
altar where it swells

winter creeps ever forward, ever closer. there is an instinctual pull in her chest to prepare, to stockpile. herbs, furs, food — whatever she can get her hands on before the pale beyond descends. they’ve never experienced a winter here before and she fears it’ll be like their homeland: dark, endless nights that stretched on for months and months. darkness and only darkness, blood-letting in the night; men giving into the darkness of their hearts. with the company they keep… it is a normal fear to have.

with the monsters she lives with, it is a normal fear to have.

she smells like them, now. she wears his scent as she trails him, a masculine cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. barefoot she follows him, passing through the tundra and the fields beyond. the trees grow taller and vegetation denser, the last surge of life before the winter comes on. she’s never been here before, though — the trees press too tight together for her to be comfortable, the smell of petrichor burning in her nose.

still, it’s easy to follow him.

she knows his scent almost as well as her own, though he lacks the spice of her herbs. the hunter becomes the hunted as she creeps closer and closer, making no real attempt to hide herself as she weaves her way through the trees behind him. the quietest melody is on her lips, the gentle humming a soundtrack to add to the crickets of the night.

+10 Track someone through a neutral territory - 1/2
+10 Practice fabricating another’s scent - 1/2

postscript by aurora & lyrics by my chemical romance

I see the clouds they're rolling in
They hide the sun but not my sin
the judas kiss still on my lips
can't walk away from where i've been

Danger lurks in every shadow. Here, beauty is both sin and allure. Violence, comes easy to the wolf. Winter-promises settles like holy prayer against the flesh of the earth. Like frothy warnings, a feral rabidity along the wolf's stiff upper lip; here, love ceases to exist, as all that violence trapped within Harou threatens to burst into the fullness of a devouring winter. Cold, unrelenting, cruel.

It feels so cold here.
Like I've moved on.
Like I'm no longer breathing
Like you took the breath from my lungs
Like you stopped my heart

And I'm trapped in this forest
In this nightmare we've created
There is no moon here to guide me
From this darkness that surrounds me.

Here, the hunter feels winter creeping into his veins. In his heart, savagery grows. His heart somehow feels darker. Wilder. There is a bullet wound there, in his chest. It's lodged in his flesh. He can taste the signs on the cold, unraveling wind. Here, it's colder, nights getting longer, the sun less bright, less warmth. Less loving. It's syncing with the beat of his cruel, wounded heart. No love, no tenderness, no mercy. It makes him feel cold as death and ice.

Perhaps, he is already dead. And that this is not reality.
But another dream turned, nightmare.

True beauty lies in the soul, not in the flesh. But here, he feels dead, both in soul, heart and flesh, despite being surrounded by so much beauty. Here, between the long, shadowy trees, Harou feels morbid. Despite the lingering essence of @Faolán - the most beautiful of all - as she presses close, lurking in his shadow. Here, Harou pauses in the darkness. His ears flick forward, sensing her against the forest. Here, he holds his breath, not knowing how to entirely respond. His lips curl, upward, as if to snarl.

His gaze turning towards her. Piercing. There is no warmth in his eyes tonight. And his posture, like any wounded wolf trapped by arrows, says; don't come closer.

Between them, there is shadows.
Between them, there is miles of ice.

And you have hunted me down to the ground.

You have killed your wolf, little hunter.

you must fix your heart
and you must build an
altar where it swells

a nightmare for him, but still a waking dream for herself. daylight, as always, will come in and pull the sleep from her eyes, will rip the blankets off and leave her gasping, wide awake. for now though it is only the quiet of the thicket and the scent they share. his, natural musk and hers, a mimicry. pulled tight around her shoulders like a cloak to protect against the evening breeze, like a blanket wrapped comfortably around after a nightmare.

what does it say, then, that she’s chosen his scent to soothe her?

what does it say that it’s him that she’s followed so dutifully?

his steps slow to a close and hers almost trail off too, fleeting notes of the melody she hums weaving through the trees. it travels ahead of her, breaching the distance between them like she wishes to. like she will. her steps are slow but she continues forward, until @Harou ♔ turns.

his muzzle turns and she edges forward another step, but there is something in his gaze that stops her. rather… there is nothing in his gaze. the absence of warmth gives her great pause, breath stilling in her chest — anxious surprise rendering her frozen.

delicate features twist, brows pinching together. her soft, easy lines are furrowed now, tinged with something a bit more… serious. a bit more desperate, maybe, in the way that a question lingers on the tip of her tongue. her mouth, though softly open, does not let any noise pass — but it’s clear she’s asking, regardless.

what did i do —?

postscript by aurora & lyrics by my chemical romance

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

Every fairytale needs a villain.
I'm your villain.

Phantom blood saturates his jaws. Wrath curls his upper lips. Paranoia bleeds into Harou's skull. Of the what if's and what could have been's. Here, Draven enters his mind, an involuntary thought, frantic and desperate for answers, unable to find none. His mind is static now, full of whispers and assumptions, full of screaming voices and distorted imagery. Unspeakable pain writhes in Harou's chest. Confusing pain. Unrelenting pain. Pain, Faolán will never hope to understand. Here, trust is replaced by mistrust. Tenderness, replaced by paranoia. And love.

Love, replaced by fear.

His heart feels so raw, he wants to sob. His throat constricts at the sight of Faolán, desperate and confused. But Harou does not show weakness, he does not show pain. He buries it deep, deep, deep down. He lets it poison his blood and corrupt his mind. Here, is where love dies. Love dies in the final light of his eyes. Love dies on his breath, an inaudible whisper, fading like last sunlight before the darkness sets. There is no tenderness in him now - no softness - as if every emotion for Faolán has been bled out of him. Slowly, painfully - agonizingly. Night after sleepless night, left him ravenous and starving for answers. In the wake of his snarling insanity, now rests a husk of a man, a monster, a void. A void where no light, no tenderness, no love may ever hope to fill again.

"Cunning little wolf," Harou whispers, half-mad. He does not smile, despite the tight curl of his lips. There is no emotion in him, only static noise, white noise, and a terrible, horrifying indifference, as his gaze seemed so far away.

So dead.

"Do you think I am a fool?" A fool for loving you?

His voice is so low, a strangely gentle though dark whisper on the wind. His eyes - blazing red suns - eat her up, mercilessly. As he sought to pierce her heart, too.

you must fix your heart
and you must build an
altar where it swells

love is such a cruel word.

it has no place here, between them — maiden and monster, the little wolf and the big.

fear bubbles in her chest, an foreign feeling. try as she might to tamp it down, it lingers — stubborn shoots of green, bursting through the dirt. surely she is just anxious that he might see through her plans, yes? surely she is worried that he might puzzle out the fact that she is trying to wheedle her way between them, to wrap them around her fingers so she might yank hard upon their leashes —

surely that is what she fears, and not the cold, emotionless look upon his face.

indeed, rage would have been easier to weather. but @Harou ♔ stands, lit brilliantly by the evening’s dull glow, and looks… empty. terrifying blank. it reminds her, not of the night that they’d stolen them away ( bloodied and brilliant, glowing with the savage pride of a god’s will finally delivered ) but in the days after. when that confidence of a job well done had left them and was replaced, instead, by the new concept of a foreign entirety. the world lay at their paws, but they were all alone.

here, too, she sees that same glint in his eyes.

( it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. spirits help her, it does. )

cunning little wolf, he says with a voice that’s more suited for her throat. a half-whisper against the quiet of the thicket, and it’s as if the insects themselves grow quiet. everything hangs precarious in the balance, the world holding its breath, as the heart continues. no longer does he beat, passionate and beautiful for her —

the heart is silent,

cold,

dead.

of all the things she might have expected, it is not this. harou might be many things but he is not a fool. none of them are, as much as she wishes it were true. this would all be easier if they were bumbling idiots, but then they would not be bjorn. instead, they are devious — the only thing scarier than a wolf, of course, is a smart wolf. no, she answers easily enough, though none of this was easy. delicate paws almost tremble as she takes a fleeting step closer, lured in regardless of the way he holds himself. as if she is certain that if she were to just press close enough, he might melt and unthaw as he had before.

( does that make her the fool, then? )

postscript by aurora & lyrics by my chemical romance

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

Numb, he feels numb.

Ice sets in his blood. Freezing him, sub-zero. Pain, here, is replaced by the endless, unforgiving cold. Winter lives here. Right here, winter snarls, until the Heart is a raging, howling blizzard with no hope for an end. Violence, writhes under his skin, too. Wrath, malice, hunger, all of it comes to roost as blades of vengeful ice stab through him. Bleeding out the last of his warmth, the last of what made him feel human.

Love. Hope. Faolán.

Every ember, every candle, every sliver of hope, and whisper of love, snuffed out by the frozen cold of a still nothingness. Emptiness. Hollowness. He feels it all at once, this howling and lonely terror, speaking like dark religion through him. Everything dark and frozen writhes within him, twisting his mind into something grotesque and hungry. Here, for all his silence, he looks horrifying. Bloodthirsty. Wretched. He looks dead. Stiff. Not warm or animated.

A dead god.

A breathing corpse.

Here, love is not a dream. Not a fairytale.

But a martyr.

A gun.

Bang, bang, bang.

He says nothing. Harou is quiet. Tall, powerful, he stands in the moonlight, looking for all his feverish savagery like a winter God - but inside, oh, inside, he feels so weak without love. He feels depraved. Broken. Empty. He feels lost. Like he's buried under the earth, desperate for air. Oh, and it's cold underground. But it feels familiar here. It feels strange. It feels like belonging. Here, atleast here, underneath the earth, he can feel whole in his deadness.

Not torn apart, bleeding warmly in Faolán's arms.

And is that not frightening? To feel all this emotion, all this hunger, all this rage, and to not fight for love? To not fight for Faolán?

To surrender.

To die.

Here, his physique stands erect in the moonlight. His features do not come to life with warmth, but glistens like pale marble against the chill of the autumnal cold. Death tolls, every ringing bell sounding with dead religion. The silence settles around them, and it feels almost holy. Cold eyes watch as Faolán takes a step closer. Harou does not move, does not react, as if he were severed from reality. Severed completely from Faolán. He is somewhere else. And she, she is not here.

She is just a figment of his imagination.

Another vision.

Another corpse.

"Another dream," He whispers back to her, not moving, allowing the breeze to rake through his wild, dark hair. Madness has consumed him fully, now. He's surrendered to it. He's gone.

The Heart is dead.

His pulse fades.

In his shell, rises something darker, hungrier -

Something completely evil.

"A lie."

you must fix your heart
and you must build an
altar where it swells

he is an abandoned house — once well-loved but now gone to rot, eroded by time. there might have been candles in the windows once but now there is nothing but the creeping dark, too-long shadows swallowing up whole hallways. she sees it and feels it as she looks at him now, bracketed by the lush vegetation of the thicket. even here, with green grass beneath her paws, she feels the chill in the air — the ice in his eyes now matching that of his brothers, when once there was nothing but soft fondness.

a dream washed away by the blinding light of day, but it’s night now.

it’s night now and she wants, nothing more, than to wipe that look off of his face.

it’s not anger that pulses through her, white-hot and quick. it’s not quite fear, either, but that’s closer. another dream, he says as if that’s answer enough. as if that’s any sort of explanation. the wind shifts through his mane, ruffling it; she wants to replace it, she wants to be the one to card her fingers through, but she doesn’t. she does, however, take another step towards him. slowly, carefully — using the same sort of care you’d use when approaching a wild animal, faolán still does not understand why.

a lie?

surely there are no lies between them.

( except, of course, the obvious: the poison that she’s been growing just for him, just for his brothers.

the rose she keeps on her nightstand, a stark reminder.

the fact that she wears his scent, now; manufactured and taunting when the real thing stands before her. )

one more step and then she stops, head tilting slightly as she peers up at him, mismatched gaze glancing over his face as she searches it. looking for something, anything — a crack in the marble, a spark of life beneath the ice. there has to be something there, right? or else —

her heart pounds in her chest, loud in the otherwise silence, as her hand rises, intent on reaching out to him.

postscript by aurora & lyrics by my chemical romance

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

Autumnal winds whip through his dark, wild hair, lifting silken tendrils to a vehement crescendo. A breath escapes his lips. He's still alive. Alive? Breathing. Buried underneath all the frozen ice. But here, the darkness feels comforting. The frozen dirt feels comforting. Here, there is no feeling, no emotion, just a glacial stillness that holds him in place. Hunger and madness and a wealth of ruin takes root. His deranged mind howls against the darkness. An ocean with no moon. A tunnel with no light. A forest with no sound. Only stillness, only death.

It is only a finality, that rises above their heads like the blade of a guillotine thirsty for retribution. He doesn't understand it either. He can't understand it. Fear now controls the Heart. Fear, paranoia, hate. Fear. Instinct. Madness. Survival. It's enough to make him blink -

To lift the dream-haze from his eyes.

His gaze touches Faolán. Watching quietly as she steps closer. Closing in to reach out to touch him. How beautiful she looked, stepping there delicately, her nightgown fluttering against her slender legs. Apart of him still yearns for that softness. For her gentle hands to smooth above his heart; to still the ravenous and aching, thud, thud, thud that threatens to burst out of his chest. Here, he is still. So still. As if he were afraid to breathe and shatter the spell. Her hands come up to his face. His skin feels cold beneath her seeking palm. A breath - a snarl? - escapes his lips. Wild. Feral. A shiver slips down his spine.

Oh.

He wants to weep. He wants to grieve.

But no sound comes out of his mouth.

His head lowers, sinking down into all that darkness. Seeking the gentle crook of her neck, if only she could let him rest against her.

Make him feel alive again.

If only for a moment.

you must fix your heart
and you must build an
altar where it swells

it seems to take ages for her hand to lay upon his face.

he holds himself so still and tight and she follows suit, holding her breath until the moment her palm lays flush against the sharp angle of his jawline. his skin is cold beneath her hand, almost burning — or, maybe, that’s just his gaze. she holds it like she holds him, tentative but… hopeful. she might not know what she’s hoping for her… at least not consciously. there’s always a call in her chest though, a pull from his heart to hers.

a siren’s call as that red thread of fate pulls and pulls and pulls.

her thumb splays gently against the cut of his jawline, thrumming softly against the plush fur there. a gentle back and forth, intent on coaxing him back to life. something, anything, that isn’t the blank icy stare he uses now. that’s not how it’s supposed to be between them —

( isn’t it? )

— not after the dreams they’ve shared together, waking and asleep both. she holds her breath until her lungs burn and squeeze in her chest, howling with the need for oxygen, but it’s not until he leans closer does she let herself soothe. his face finds the crook of her neck and she lets out a little puff of air, relief evident in the quiet sigh. her hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, griping his nape gently — a small squeeze, just to ground him to the moment, and to ground herself to him.

this is how it’s supposed to be between them.

( i̵s̷n̷’̷t̸ ̵i̸t̶?̸ )

postscript by aurora & lyrics by my chemical romance