but I’ve pushed myself down so far—
I couldn’t come back if I tried
‘
Are you hurt?’
Even as your chest swells with that whispering inkling of a maybe hidden beneath the tenor of his tone, the way it quakes with something that is so familiar to you, so foreign to him, and the young wolf shifts, glancing at him with guarded apprehension from between the two of you, and that maybe turns to ash beneath the scorch of your anger, still too potent to allow forgiveness even with the way your heart sings in relief to know that he is safe, to know that he had not been devoured by the darkness or his life spilled into nothing but dust, you do not look to him. As he reaches for you, his breath all too warm against your cheek, too familiar in the way that your chest heaves with your own shaky breath, in the way that it leaves the weakest parts of you longing even still, you only turn from him, look to the wolf and then the living shadows in the creases of the trees.
“Does it matter?” You finally give, the words flat, caught within all your bitterness for him, for his wanderlust and his careless ways (for yourself, because you always knew, knew and believed you could one day be enough), within the sorrow harbored deep in your weeping soul for all the rest. For the that were lost and the ones that remain sewn in among the chaos of this new world, too many ripped from their families, from everything they have known.
For the boy who is too much like his father (you had been angry when Rohan had said it, angry because he had left, forfeited the right to know his son and yet still guessed, grasping at notions he believed correct because of how he had been—and even angrier because he was right—), the grave nestled beneath a tree, secret to you, only you and men you used to know, unmarked by the flowers you would bring her on her birthday, robbed of any company, of being reminded that she matters.
“I lost them again.”
It comes a sudden whisper, your ears tilting back as your eyes squeeze shut, swollen and raw, your body shuddering though no more tears come, too tired to cry any longer.
“Had I known what was coming, what Kisamoa truly was, I—” would have gone to her, would have stayed and added to the bones under that tree, would not have chosen this. Your lips press closed as the wolf whines pitifully, as you usher apologies and assurances before your head finally lifts towards him, seeking the relative comfort of his familiarity, of him being the only one to have been there for too much of your life.
The color of red catches you off-guard, brows knitting together as you lean closer to the wound, nose pressing gently against the skin above it. The feeling of helplessness that crept along your bones begins to abate as only
heat takes its place, your eyes widening as light arcs along his cut, growing to colorless flame even as you pull away. There is no smoke, no heat from the sparking fire, no smell of burning flesh, and as it fades to the nothing it came from, only the drying blood remains.
You blink in disbelief, unable to fully grasp the how or why, an uncertain smile creasing along your lips as they rest once more against his leg. The sounds of another forces you to move from him, your head swiveling in the direction of the stranger, a soft whine emitting from you as just enough light bleeds onto his features, your soul lurching as you scramble to your feet, oblivious to the distance etched into his face, the way he stands, laced heavy in his words.
“Erebos,” you breathe only his name and nothing more, the rest of the words, the sentiments heavy on your tongue, melding into the coils of your heart, drowning in bliss. Your body moves to collide with his without hesitation, your face burying into the muscle of his shoulder with need, the sandstone man and his little hawkling forgotten as you breathe in the faint smell of
home, of mountains and valleys and tall, tall pines that are no longer, of a boy you’ve built a castle in your heart for.
Moments pass before you pull yourself from him, reaching to tenderly touch his boney cheek as you do. It is impossible to hide the grin, the way your skin trembles with quiet excitement, eyes moving over him, to the fox at his feet, searching for the spotted feline with the stygian wings, instead finding
nothing where she should be. Your face drops as you look back to him, stomach twisting uncomfortably with all the possibilities of what
could be, knowing that she would not leave willingly, knowing that he wouldn’t just let her go.
“Enyo?”
The Portal
