i'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor
your morgue and final resting—


ooc: after a few days of healing.

the weight of the universe seems to settle hungrily upon his form.

all he can feel is the numbing sensation of pain, the throbbing aches that would surround his spent muscles; the dried blood shifting along his bruised flesh. he feels the cool sensation of poultices, too, bandages wrapped across his healing ribcage - the muscles of his toned chest heaving up and down, softly sighing into the furred bed beneath him.

harou would have slept peacefully, undisturbed, until the first stirrings of sunlight would crawl towards the den's entrance. the draft of a summer breeze would enter the desolate room, too; caressing his long, dark hair and stirring the silken fur across his lean body. the pelts would rustle beneath his frame, as he shifts in his position, rising softly to a moment of wakefulness.

the army's wolf finally opens his eyes, propping himself upon an elbow.

he blinks the tiredness from his gaze.

where am i? is the first question that comes to mind, as he looks around, turning his silky head towards the den's entrance.

searching,

hunting.

but, it's empty. the den is empty. only long shadows would cast over the dusty floorboard, creeping towards the edge of the fur-lined mattress, touching his feet. only the whisper of a breeze would accompany harou, the windy current hissing through the room, gliding across his flesh like an invisible hand, stirring the proverbial bedsheets that tangled against his legs.

harou immediately tries to get up, but he is still weak. he stumbles out of bed, almost collapsing upon the floor. the intense pain would eat at him from within, as he feels the tightness around his ribs, the throbbing of his scarred throat, and the sudden stabbing sensation carving against his muscles. the noise he makes with his mouth is half-growl and half-groan, as a fleck of crimson blood dots his lips.

"fuck." he would finally hiss under his breath.

no, better stay in bed.

better let those wounds fully heal.

better rest some more.

his head hits the pillows once again, and a sigh of relief would escape his mouth. all he can think about now is the mysterious stranger - the miroslav king - the warrior who had defeated him in battle.

the warrior who gave him mercy instead of death.

@Scorpius

Dripping from the open mouth, I'll show you
What you look like from the inside

What have you done?

It isn't a question that needs to be demanded of him, yet it is asked again and again.

Why?

Scorpius gives little explanation - defending himself only as far as muttering, hoarsely, that the dead man he brought here is better left alive - healed, if possible. But their wounds are telling, there is no avoiding the obvious truth they tell. His claws match the ragged cuts in Harou’s body, and his neck and shoulder is marred by the fangs of the vampire.

What happened?

He does not explain that it had been Harou who attacked first - whilst that is the simple truth, it is Scorpius who followed him up onto the cliffs looking for death.

Why is he still alive?

That fact Scorpius is still alive is... shocking, to say the least. He'd both ached for the end and then, when it was nearly delivered, struggled against it just as furiously. Had Harou felt the same, or had he only wanted slaughter when Scorpius had bested him? Why did they both survive that night?

What have you done?

He is left with a choice now, laid before him with this strange opportunity. Stuck in a den and fussed over - and lectured, to no end - by his kin, Scorpius can do nothing else but think and plan. The usurper owes him his life - whether or not that debt would be respected is entirely unknown. His claws had torn Léonie apart, and now her brother had more than avenged that slight.

It takes a few days for his babysitters to leave him alone for more than a few moments, and as soon as the coast is clear, Scorpius hauls himself from his confinement. A few more days of rest would probably be needed until he is moving about with any semblance of speed or grace, but he has enough strength now to stagger through the gorge in search of the other male. He isn’t exactly a prisoner - for who could keep a king, no matter how ill-got his crown, in place? - but his wounds are greater than the Miroslav’s; he’s unlikely to be able to move without assistance, and no doubt Septima has kept him as drugged as Scorpius had been the last few days. The man will be lucky to get two steps before the medic is on his ass anyway.

There are few things Scorpius fears - his sisters are one of them. Miroslav women are built differently.

The scent of stale wounds, blood and sweat in a tucked-away alcove draws him in, nostrils flaring. Does he smell much better? Unlikely.

He darkens the sickbed’s door, shadow sliding over the crumpled heap on the furs, the body a mess of thick cuts, scabbed over and weeping from recent ill-advised movement. Scorpius would like to pretend he is much different, but the limp he staggers with is obvious, his shoulder is ruined and wrecked, his mane a matted mess of blood and gore, his face swollen and open. Hiding the depth of the pain from his family is as natural as breathing. Here, he does not try.

"You're awake."

Tell me I made the right choice.

TO WATCH YOU CRAWL OUT OF YOUR CHANGING SHAPE

the surge of violence settles within the core of him. he will always be a man of violence and hunger. even here, caught between the mused bedsheets and the fur-lined mattress, harou appears outwardly calm, but inwardly, he is feeling restless. rest is not for the wicked, even if he is forced to rest here, today; bandanged by the careful hands of attentive nurses, the nurturing touches of a medic's intimate care. he can smell the herbal balms that were applied to his bruised skin, the scent of lavender and chamomile tea weaving through the dusty air. a comforting thing - mingled with the coppery taste of days' old blood, and smoky earthen poultices.

he can feel the throbbing sensation of his wounds scoring down his athletic frame, the jagged marks and puncture wounds steadily, slowly, healing; closing up like a mouth made up of convulsing shadow and shedding skin. everywhere hurts, everywhere aches. but atleast, he is still alive. atleast, he is still breathing;

even so, the wendigo cannot help but feel the heavy emotions rising like flames to his chest. the suffocating veil of humilation and shame settling tiredly across his weary eyes, darkening his hellish-red gaze into something wicked, howling and animalistic. he tries to recall what had happened on that stormy cliff, envisioning the face of @Scorpius twisting and contorting into something dark and hungry; a primal savagery only another warrior of death would understand. scorpius' lips had been soaked in blood. his mouth foaming around thick lines of crimson rivulets. he imagines the tall stature of scorpius, covered in sand and gore. how the faint traces of rain and blood would have soaked into the miroslav' swarthy skin; gripping into those sweat-laden muscles.

harou closes his eyes. he feels the tremble of heat and wrath, shadowing his lips. it's not fear. it's more intimate than fear. it was an awakening, a reckoning. harou is convinced he had died on that cliff that day. died, but returned; ressurected. did the miroslav king really save him? drag him all the way here, into the strange shadowed comforts of the red gorge?

why save me?

sighing darkly into the pillows, harou's long dark hair would spill forth, rivers of glossy obsidian-merle than would descend his broad shoulders, tumbling across the length of the fur-lined bed. he blinks through the crescent haze of his long, dark lashes; the heady wash of drugs numbing his senses into a dull, yet comforting lull. his life had been spared, and while apart of him remains secretly grateful, the other half of him curses his now predicament. harou is paranoid, ofcourse. but at the same time, if they really wanted to kill him, he would have been dead by now; surely?

a shadow at the den's entrance forces harou's eyes slowly, fully, awake. he can feel the presence of another entering the desolate room, the steady cadence of a tempered breeze flowing sweetly through the open, fur-lined bedroom. the winter titan turns his head towards the source. he can see the broad outline of a masculine shadow. the firm lines of rugged masculinity draped in sable, leonine hues and the low, male voice that deliciously accompanied it. it's a familiar voice by now, one that almost sends a chill down harou's spine. whether desire or hate, harou cannot tell.

this is different. this feels primal.

raw.

involuntarily, harou would reach under his pillow; as if searching for his hunting knife. but it's an involutarily thing, a compulsive defensive reaction, and he remembers with a low, breathy laugh that he's not in the palace of andal. not sleeping in his royal bedroom chambers, surrounded by guard dogs, guns and knives. when he finally turns towards scorpius' to meet that same blood-red gaze, harou would hold the miroslav within his line of vision.

harou once more props himself up upon an elbow. for a moment, there is only tension. only intense staring. harou tries to feel wrathful, tries to feel hate for this man - and yet - he cannot. he cannot feel anything but a strange sense of admiration and awe for the warrior who had spared his life.

"yes, i am awake." breathes harou, atlast. and softer, quieter this time; his breath low and husky, almost a laugh. "you look like shit, miroslav."

Dripping from the open mouth, I'll show you
What you look like from the inside

The silence - ignoring the rasping, laboured breathing of the pair - stretches. Eyes lock amidst the shadows of the sickroom and Scorpius recalls there’s silver somewhere in all that red, but from this distance it’s impossible to tell. Harou’s sweat-streaked face is gaunt, hollow. Yet he holds himself up on a leg that should shake under strain, refusing to bow even now.

"You look like shit, miroslav."

Scorpius starts, mouth momentarily popping open like a sucking fish as he inhales suddenly, and then he makes a soft, single noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter. It's not loud or boisterous, but rather a subdued, genuine chuckle. He can no more stop it than stop his own heart, even as he blinks to clear the feeling and expression.

"Do you need to see your reflection?" He replies, thoroughly aware they should not be speaking, let alone joking. It is insane.

Scorpius runs his tongue along the thick cuts across his muzzle, but not even the taste of his own blood is enough to reignite the rage and fury he’d felt on the cliffside. Now there is… something else, in its place. Curiosity, perhaps a level of respect. Mutual understanding and destruction. Whatever Harou’s reasons for what happened that night, Scorpius can only guess at. He might ask if the question couldn’t be turned back on him; he’d not hidden his intentions when he approached.

Slowly, aching, the Miroslav sits. A shoulder slumps against the doorframe.

"We make a fine pair." It’s a musing, almost half-thought statement. His gaze had drifted off into the distance, and now it slides back to the other man's face. "... you are not a prisoner."

i'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor
your morgue and final resting—


his heart thuds softly in his chest. the pulse quickens beneath ivory skin. alive, alive, alive. there are a hundred things running through harou's mind right now, and each one feels strangely scary, strangely alluring. perhaps, it's the level of magnetism he feels - this soft yearning hope that he can unravel @Scorpius, like one unravels the shadows in a desolate room, by shining in a bright torch. mystery clung to the miroslav, thus: something dangerous and intense - heat and violence, too - everything saturated in depth and masculine lure. scorpius breathed it. reeked of it. masculine chivalry and courage - things that harou quietly admired, sought to be.

it would leave a holy taste in harou's mind, harou's mouth. even his heart feels dark with desperation, clinging to the last dregs of their violent memories like a lover clings to a deceased one's flesh. fore he still remembers the taste of the king's blood. he remembers the feel of scorpius' flesh battling across his own blood-splattered form, twisting with sweat and gore. it leaves the winter leviathan feeling half-tame, half-feral. he remembers the way that that blood would fill his mouth, filling the edges of him with crimson liquid so thick, he thought he would drown in their sin. he remembers every second, every moment, up until his defeat. the way he had been spared. the way scorpius stood over him victorious - but had chosen mercy, instead.

why?

why spare me?

the question echoes in harou's mind. almost a scream. something full of self-hate and self-destruction. harou has always chosen it before, the path to self demise. but he had been given life instead of death. it's more than he deserves. it makes harou close his eyes for a moment, as if swallowing down his regret. he wants to know why. he wants to ask why. but at the same time, harou feels fear.

scorpius' words fill his mind, then. the light taunt almost playfully echoed across the room in their cunning, near-boyish sentiment. it's strange to see such a fearsome warrior laugh, but harou would not break that gaze between him and scorpius.

while they exchange light words, there is a level of shyiness weighing down upon the room, aswell. there is curiosity here - a level of reverence. harou feels shame, too. unspeakable, heart-wrenching shame. whatever this is, he feels like he doesn't deserve it. he doesn't deserve scorpius' mercy. harou may claim to not feel, but in the end, he feels everything.

the man's muted laughter leaves an almost-shiver down harou's skin. he hides his anxiety behind a facade of icy calm, but inwardly, harou can sense the surge of a thousand emotions running through him at once. maybe he should go look in that mirror. did scorpius fuck up his good looks, too?

when they share eye contact again - smouldering red eyes against smouldering red eyes - there is a bright, flickering flame burning in the wolf's heart. he is reminded then, of his eternal loneliness. how he missed his own brothers, the comradarie, the fierce kinship. harou's lips would soften into a smile, his voice whispering almost softly;

"yeah. a fucked up pair, but it's something." it's almost bittersweet, the way he says it, filled with a touch of devilish humour that hides harou's internal sadness. the way the syllables leave the titan's dark mouth, silky and a little ragged. and still, without breaking that gaze, harou would straigthen up his posture some more. more up right, more firm, breaking the silence with a blunt question and more nervous humor.

"not a prisoner? oh. good. thank you, i guess." a brief flustered pause, before continuing; "have anything strong to drink? my headache is killing me."

because that's what harou needs right now. maybe it's what scorpius needs, too. a stiff drink and a nice hot bath. anything to calm his nerves, anything to silence those voices of doubt screaming in his head.