Halyven
Our recent adventures had been frightening, often treacherous in regards to unpredictable weather and companionship, but this…this was… Stinging, lighting quick missiles of pain are launched erratically down the slender length of all four legs. The weapon which plagues us is savage, merciless, emotionless. An unseen force, a furious gale in constant, erratic motion; it continuously slams those icy, steel coated knuckles into my thinning body with inhumane severity…it drums and rattles within these bones and aching muscles. Pale, blue tinted lips steady their line against the biting air and rearward daggers seize to prevent chatter…tired, sunken lines run the length of my expression, proving that our wayward exploration/travel had begun to erode my psychological and physical stamina. Just when I’d (we’d) unwillingly grown accustomed to the constant dredge - the absence of sunlight and humid, miserable evenings… Everything changed; and not for our benefit. And not subtly either. As it were, the overcast sky seemed incapable of surrender. Those foredooming clouds of drench couldn’t simply vanish into something blue, sunlit…something to warm/dry our bruised, weary husks. No…winter came quietly, like sleep or death -- the eye of ill fortune. Blanketing everything in ice; starvation and desperation. There wasn't time for disbelief, not when the evidence of our dwindling fate was falling upon our island hideaway like tidewater. Plants, streams…the very tears solidifying below these bewildered, terrified eyes. Nothing could escape. Another round of crippling spasms…another inhale of cold, painful air. Shutters pinch, their frost tinged lashes blinking rapidly. As the shock-waves float into the back of my throat and these lips clench into their firm, unyielding line -- their effort is weak and fails to silence that audible groan of pure misery. Her rumbling voice fills the empty spaces in my head, 'we have to hunt…and soon,' the undertow of that voice is stiff, borderline agitated (certainly disapproving,) but not entirely desperate. Not urgent yet. I said nothing in reply; but our (my) betraying stomach turns restlessly in agreement. The she-wolf resents our equine pulse… and how stubbornly it was set against her manner of foraging. 'Hunting,' she corrects mildly. When the blankets of snow were light, compact -- I spent our traveling hours as the she-wolf. Her fur is dense, far warmer than a thin, delicate equine coat. But I'd (we'd) never killed anything...partly because of repulsion, but mostly (though never admitted) because Noah couldn't alter his form into one who'd digest meat. “Which way do you prefer, sweet?” Frosty ears turn his way, absorbing the calm noise of his inquiry. Sensing the uncertainty...the harbinger dining on us both. I lean forward, pressing this cool cheek against his milk/honey shoulder, eager for connection, for warmth. My gaze tilts, narrowing toward that dark, northern skyline, "maybe there..." these dual painted orbs rest on the rigid, silhouetted pinnacles. "The wind is strong here," as if delighted by my notice -- a torrent blew upward and brought with it...a sharp, hungry cry from somewhere in the darkness. Audits flick rearward as these forelimbs draw closer -- inching my feathered waist into his longer, wider plumage. |
