FATE ALWAYS LOSES HOPE [P]

[grey]

The first time he ever kissed Nycole was the first time he had let her go. The Imperium instructed Nycole to leave on a mission without him and his protection. Stark had been forced to let her leave, unfortunately, and he watched her go with a mixture of emotions he did not understand completely. He hated to be so powerless to his feelings for her and he waited at the door of their apartment, stationed in Tokyo, toying endlessly with a knife. He spun it end over end for hours until she came back, bleeding from a busted nose and lip.

He had not rushed to her. He merely raised his head and met her eyes where she stood in the doorway. He could see a gleam in them, vibrant and challenging and alive, and it was what he loved about this fiery young girl. Her fighting spirit, her refusal to be broken by anything. He rose and approached her, heel-toe, heel-toe, the sound of his steps loud against the wooden floors.

Nycole returned his gaze. Unafraid. Perhaps even defying him, in a way, as she always would. It was the same look she had given him when he had taken her memory and it remained seared in his, forever associated with his Nycole, that furrowed-brow expression of independent rebellion. He tilted her face up with his hand, thumb against her chin, and he kissed her so gently that he never truly recovered from that moment.

They had never said goodbye. It was a tradition, refusing to say goodbye, believing inherently that they would soon meet again. There was no goodbye, only a consecutive stream of hellos, of welcoming kisses. He never said goodbye to her. It was a curse. An acceptance that there was a chance that there would not, in fact, be another "hello".

Grey thought of this, deeply, as he stumbled toward Carna territory. The pain was sharp but it kept his mind strangely clear despite fatigue. Pain had never subdued him; it had always kept him awake. The Imperium had learned that early on. Whenever he had been slow, too intent on taking his time to answer, a swift slap of reprimand brought his mind to focus. He worked under pressure and so now the pain kept him tethered to consciousness. It kept him tethered to each step, heel-toe, heel-toe. It hurt so badly. He was crusted in blood, both his own and Roma's, and it was true that he looked like some abhorrent thing risen from hell. A monster.

He closed his eyes, breathing sharp, stumbling through the trees near the cliffs. A monster. She had told him once, quietly, that she feared beyond else to become a monster. She feared that they would lose themselves, bit by bit, to their bloody business. "How do you know this is right? How do you believe in it? Every time we kill or capture one of them I just think of my little brothers and how it could just as easily be them. How is that right?" 

He had never had an answer for her and that was the reason he was the monster, he was always the monster, the wolf among the lambs. He did not ever ask about the right or the wrong, he merely did, he merely acted on what he felt or what he had been ordered to do. 

Grey knew he was in Carna territory. He did not want to venture farther and so he allowed himself to fall forward, onto hands and knees. It hurt so badly he wanted to retch and, with a heave, he did. He neither ate nor drank anything to retch and so the heaves were dry. He turned over sideways, the pain at last beating him, subduing him, so that the sky above him swam not only with the ruddy colors of the sunrise but instead with black spheres. He swam in and out of consciousness for a moment. 

He had tried to be better. He had tried to learn. He had wanted to stay with the Fallen... he had wanted to be loyal...

And it was there, his burned-over wound oozing, his heart a frantic thud, thud, thud in his weary chest, that he realized he was not the man he had been bred to be. He was a monster, yes, but not even a competent one. Evil ought to have had a reason, he thought. A purpose. Yet he had no purpose here, with his heart split in so many directions, finally a beast caged for the pleasures of his spectators. 

[JOCELYN]

THREAD IS PRE-ALPHA

The night had been cool; quiet. Jocelyn lived for her ventures in the nocturnal depths, and more often than not chose to hunt when the world slept. She felt more alive during these hours, at peace within herself in a way that she found too few could settle into unless behind closed doors. The moon was a mere sliver tonight, and as the hours passed it drifted across the silky ebon sky until the pale grey-pink light of dawn swallowed it into the horizon. As the sun breeched the edge of the landscape, a red light filled the air. Jocelyn’s feline eyes squinted against the light sourly, her pupils shrinking in sensitivity. The rich blue of her irises seemed to glitter as movement caught her attention further ahead. The long wings the Keepers had given her pressed against her back, hugging her form as she moved across the terrain with easy silence. Her jaws opened in a pant, her tiger sized teeth a startling contrast to the forty-pound clouded leopard her form took. The tufts of feathers that tipped her ears flickered in the warming breeze, and her nose lifted to scent someone vaguely familiar. Approaching from the south, the wind held her favor and as she reached the edge of a rise it gusted his heady, bloody scent to her more clearly. She’d heard his labored steps, and now that she saw him did not wonder why he had not bothered to be quieter. He couldn’t have been if he’d had too – he was too injured. Hunkering down in the foliage she watched him for a long time, though she couldn’t have said why. In the span of a quarter hour or so he made pathetic, diligent progress a crawling baby could have matched. She lay quietly, watching each painful movement as she thought about what she knew of him. Grey. She knew little about him except that he was a tenderfoot, and had been recently MIA – though no one had seen him in a week or more. He smelled of Carna, blood, sweat, fear, anger, rouge, and that rouge’s blood. She did not muse as to why this was. Instead, her head tilted as she saw his badly bleeding and possibly infected wound, the hitch in his step, the labor of his breaths, the exhaustion in his shoulders … but what was curious to her was his countenance; his cadence as he struggled: He was utterly consumed. She did not know him well, but Jocelyn knew guilt and anger and pain when she saw it and these three plagued him in rounds as if three bullies ganging up on a child in a never ending assault. The flashed changes were in his eyes, in his reactions when his steps faltered, in the rhythm as his heart as he drew near. When guilt wilted over him his steps became weary and almost hesitant as he or, whatever it was he thought on, chastised him. However, before it took him completely he would grow angry, his steps gaining strength as he stumbled forward almost blindly and his breathing became sharper. Then, agony subdued him until he was rasping with the effort to continue, and the guilt settled over him once more. His was not an obvious cycle; he was no cartoon that pantomimed this tumultuous sequence. Jocelyn was quite sure that, had anyone else watched his progress they would see an exhausted, bloody Carna that looked like he’d been dragged through the underbellies of a war. His demons spoke to her as they only could to someone that had already felt their seductive and filthy touch. She watched without pity, for this was not a man that might feel the weight of those demons for no reason; undeserving. He was no victim. Victims did not grow angry with their own guilt to justify the means. It was all there, and Jocelyn surveyed this man as an owl watched a wolf; neither prey nor quarry - in a dull interest of the sheer curiosity that they shared the same territory. When he fell, she threaded through the trees on silent paws until she was quite near – clearly visible if he were only to glace to his right. Only then did she shift into the form a tall, black-clad young woman. Her long, almost silver blonde hair was tossed over one shoulder as she stepped forward, her balance allowing for quick movement if he decided to attack. She stood whilst he heaved naught but bile and pain, and when he began to sway – stubbornly refusing to go down – her booted toe lifted to touch his shoulder with an almost gentle force … and he crumbled. He lay on his back, his light eyes hazy with pain and memories, not quite focusing on the here and now, but all at once it was as if he saw her at the end of a tunnel. His eyes cleared a moment, his brow knit and he blinked rapidly to focus. She stood above him silently. The breeze picked up, carrying a tendril of pale hair across an alabaster face that held the placid expression of a winter lake. Black encroached her rich blue eyes that gazed down at him without judgment, charge, or pity.

[grey]

It was not like him to be caught unawares. Grey, who slept so lightly the scratch of wind would wake him in the dark, was not the sort of man who was ever found to be oblivious. In that moment, he was. He did not see her. He did not hear her. He was consumed, utterly, by a plethora of demons. It was as though his personal Pandora's box had been opened and now those devils and ghouls flooded every corner of his conscience. He was filled to the brim only of memories. It was not until she shifted that Grey became aware of Jocelyn at all and, when he did see her, it was under a thick shroud of ennui.

Grey had always thought of himself as a mountain until she reached out, almost delicately, to place a soft pressure against him. He fell like a stack of cards, sprawled out in disarray. It was then that he saw her. He discovered a woman of almost unearthly beauty although her face spoke only of dispassion. He did not think her to be real at first and so he said or did nothing. It was ethereal, a scene from an eerie movie back in the old world. She was unreal, with her pale hair and face and her eyes that peered so steadily into him. In the night, they seemed black, a drastic contrast to the starkness of her skin. He tightened his mouth in a grimace; even that expression was darkened by smears of blood from cracked lips. A silence seeped to his bones.

If he did not hurt with each beat of his heart and each stir of his lung, Grey would have believed that this was the Angel of Death come to take him home.

"Jeder Engel ist schrecklich." He spat the words, a sudden exhalation of air and fury. Briefly, he felt nothing aside from a sort of disconnection. He did not care. There was nothing left to care for, his mind alight with memories of Cole and also the Imperium. He could recall his first promotion, the joy he had felt. Will she take me back to that place? With the new uniform, the new brass, the smiles of his brothers in arms.

He had never known their real names. They had never known his.

The fight had gone out of him but it was that thought, the thought that his name was lost, which drew Grey into clarity.

They drove through the desert somewhere out in the Middle East, where the tires kicked up plumes of dust so high they kissed the sky and then drifted behind them thoughtfully for miles. They sat in the back of the vehicle, knocked and bounced as it rolled over uneven terrain. Their hands were held lightly between them and Stark drew circles on the inside of her hand with his thumb. When they passed through a village of people, stricken by poverty, Nycole sucked on her lower lip thoughtfully. Stark looked at her, not the tragedy, and he could find neither passion nor dispassion in her gaze. He said nothing and neither did she, not for miles and miles.

When she did speak, he knew he would never forget the way she said it. A hard fact, like a mathematical truth. "I could ever just lay down and die."

Several more villages followed, each in the same condition, and after Stark had heard that he watched as they passed them. He watched the starved people, already more skeletons than they were men. He saw a young man with a face that was handsome even starved. He sat in the shade of a makeshift hut, shirtless, his eyes like dark hollows of a skull. He followed the vehicle with his eyes as they passed, slowly, and it was clear that he was already dead.

Grey coughed, loudly, and his eyes gained focus. He felt as though he must say something more, although he did not know what. That, in and of itself, was a lie. He knew what to say. He did not know if he was humble enough to do it.

"Will you help me?" He recognized her now. He knew that she was Carna, although her name slipped from his mind. It went against every instinct for him to reach out, even in such a vulnerable position. The wolf inside of Grey was curled submissively, ears and tail tucked, lips drawn in nervous discomfort. That was how he felt as a man but he could not express it as well as his lupine counterpart would have been able to. His eyes held a fire, regardless, a fire that bespoke of life.

He would never just lay down and die.


ooc: Jeder Engel ist schrecklich - every angel is terrifying

[JOCELYN]

Her lashes lowered as his face contracted in a wince. Jocelyn observed him silently, her sharp eyes roving over every inch of his bloodied body. Violence spoke in every exhausted muscle, trail of blood, and sweat streak. His breaths were labored, and, stealing himself ground out Rilke of all things. Jocelyn froze. Even her breath was held in stillness with surprise. Hearing her mother tongue from the lips of another was more unexpected than if he’d leapt up to attack her. For a long moment she watched him and when he coughed she breathed once more, as if coming back to life. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth opened to say … Will you help me? he asked, cutting her off. Her lips closed and after a moment, she squatted, resting her elbows on her knees. It was in easy, ready posture, echoing the liquid movement of the feline her animal form took. “Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang die wir kaum in der Lage zu ertragen, und es erstaunt uns so, weil es gelassen verschmäht, uns zu zerstören," she said in a grave, quiet tone into the early morning. Rilke had been one of her favorite poets when she and Uther were in classes in Catskill. She watched him for another endless moment. Without warning, her hand reached out and snagged his hand, hauling back for counter balance as he struggled to his feet. Once they were both aright, she ducked beneath his elbow to lend support. She couldn’t carry him, he was far too heavy for her – but she could help him to a small pond that had collected rain water and clean him up a bit and let him rest before they made the trip all the way back home. “Bare your weight on me. There's a safe place close by and we can regroup from there,” she said with a light grunt and turned them East, toward the small pond. Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang die wir kaum in der Lage zu ertragen, und es erstaunt uns so, weil es gelassen verschmäht, uns zu zerstören. – “For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us.”

[grey]

Grey, too old, felt no surprise. The Angel of Death knew Rilke.

Of course she knew Rilke. The continuation of the poem was delivered precisely in his mother's tongue and it made him feel young and old all at once. He was a child, standing erect and alert, being asked to recite the First Elegy. The nature of the words seemed a macabre mockery of the situation itself. Grey wore the colors of death, a far cry from beauty. Those thoughtful eyes were on him, heavier than Atlas' burden. She all at once hauled him upward and Grey went like liquid, too numb to feel the pain that he should have and so he stood almost jauntily. He proffered shoulder helped immensely in steadying him. For a moment Grey believed that this was all he had needed, a slight crutch. Then he took a step and he was a white star gone supernova, an entire body of searing heat. The cry he released was sharp and subconscious. He did not even hear his scream taper off into silence, having startled the early-morning birds from their roosts.

He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. That pain, miniscule compared to the other, made him dizzy regardless. He could taste blood but somehow managed to stumble forward blindly, lead by Jocelyn, toward the pond. Once they stopped on the edge and she was no longer there to support him he stumbled forward, onto knees, and fell haphazardly into the water. He narrowly caught himself with his arms and Grey held that position for a moment. His eyes focused on the single, strangely clear detail of the water as it was polluted by the filth of his body. He watched blood and dirt and oils swirl intricately together, a rich dance of sin, and then the clouds became bulbous and brown. Beauty is but the beginning of terror. He, with some difficulty, erected himself so that he balanced on his knees.

The cool water made him feel clean. His eyes closed sharply and with a slow, shaking motion he brought his hands to his face and began to wash it of filth. Both dirt and blood ran down the length of his angular face. Slowly, a man began to take shape where before only a dark, masked creature had been. His eyes were brighter when he turned to Jocelyn. He hated to appear weak but already the memory of his weakness was fading. He clenched his jaw against a new wave of intestine-twisting pain and spoke through his teeth. "Thank you... If I just get some food in me and some rest I can mostly heal the wound myself." He did not believe he needed to elaborate on the Keeper-given gift he had, the only problem with it being that he could heal himself better than he could heal anyone else. "What... what is your name, by the way?" His strength waned again and he collapsed backward, onto his elbows, so that half of him lay on teh bank.

[JOCELYN]

Her teeth ground as step after step the man became heavier and heavier; for though the blonde had many talents – strength was not one of them. The noises he uttered so sharply were right in her sensitive ears, and she winced with each cry as they stumbled through the trees into the foothills. Luckily, the pond she knew of was not far. Despite that, it seemed each step took an eon down the slope their path lead. Even before she could see the water, her knees began to shake with effort. He was weak, more fragile than she had given him credit for and she could hold him no longer. She rallied, refusing to drop him – but when they reached the water’s edge she stopped. Despite her standstill, he continued forward into the water and crashed to his knees. Jocelyn clutched at the relief gladly. Hands to knees she gasped for air in giant pulls, panting with clear effort from the exertion she had over-strained her body into, baring the blood and mud soiled man to the water’s edge. Watching him stumble into the water, she felt no guilt – only relief. As he washed himself, Jocelyn recomposed herself swiftly, and, by the time he had recovered himself enough to ask for food, she stood in discreet reserve. It was not a high maintenance request that one might have thought Grey asked for, as if at a hotel lodger calling for room service. Rather, it was the bald faced and strained admittance of a man past his own abilities, confessing an irrefutable need. This was not a man born of comfort, and it was immediately evident that were he capable he would never have asked. Without a word, Jocelyn turned and began back up the slight incline. As his question reached her ears, she slowed to a pause, and only after several seconds without a backward glance her voice echoed back to him. “Jocelyn Edelwolfe des Schwarzwaldes,” she said in grave promise, then inexplicably vanished. It took half an hour or more, the sun rising to its zenith by the time Jocelyn returned. An adolescent deer bound and hauled by its hind ankles trailed behind her down the hill, causing a careless, mute roar through the brush and dead leaves as they traveled. At the water’s edge where Grey lay, she dropped the yearling. Not long afterwards, she had a fire going and the deer severed into reasonable parcels - struck through by sticks and roasting over the flames. There was something about him that stirred her interest, though it was not this that caused her to help a comrade. Had he been quite boring or even pathetic she would have helped a brother or sister of the Carna. In her expressionless visage and quiet manner, she somehow created an almost relaxed silence as she worked the meat into tenderness, coaxing the venison to human edibility. Now and then, their eyes met in enigmatic comfort before refocusing to something else be it in their minds or surroundings. Before long, the meat smelled delicious, causing Jocelyn’s mouth to water as she tossed Grey a portion. Without taking any herself she settled, legs splayed and knees to elbows as she drew a blood stained machete and began to clean it. Jocelyn Edelwolfe des Schwarzwaldes. - "Jocelyn Edelwolfe of The Black Forest"

[grey]

He could not explain what he felt as she watched over him. Merely that that was what she was doing. Observing. Watching. It was not the cruel watch of a predator awaiting the moment for her prey to weaken. It was not influenced by cruelty, nor could he detect kindness in her gaze. She was there, a figure that in his current state appeared omnipotent. It was only because she told him her name that Grey knew she would return to him. He felt no doubt considering she had already offered a helping hand. In her absence, he attempted to recollect why both her face and name seemed so familiar.

Immediately, nothing came to mind. He lethargically washed his bruised skin and continued to contemplate the matter at hand. He was glad to have something new to think about. It kept him occupied and did not allow his thoughts to wander back toward other things. He had seen her before, perhaps many times. Her mannerism also provoked his memories. Grey did not believe they had been on any specific assignment together during his stay in Carna but, for whatever reason, he could at last remember having seen her in the depths of the sewers one day. He had noticed her only because she had split her rations with a child, underfed and often neglected, particularly after the recent death of their caretaker. Grey had never spared more attention for the boy than he would have a sewer rat but Jocelyn had offered him something with a placid face.

With the sun having risen more fully into the sky, Jocelyn returned with her catch. Grey did not say anything although from the slight pinch of his brows and tensing of his jawline it seemed as though there were words he wished to speak but could not find the tongue to do it. It was brief. He face returned to its previous stoicism as he puzzled over this strange, quiet woman. He owed her now a tremendous debt although, yet again, that was not something he could say aloud. His heart grew warm at her kindness, something that might not have occurred if not for his exhaustion.

"Thank you." He took the meat from her and it took the remainder of his self control to refrain from eating it all at once. He could not clearly recollect the last time he had eaten and so he took smile, measured bites. The entire scene seemed mundane, almost, as though they had done this before and they would do it again. His eyes, sharp and weary, settled on her with a new-found curiosity. He felt settled with something in his stomach, and less dizzy. "Warum sind Sie auf den Schwarzwald?" He inquired, again attempting to keep his mind occupied. So long as he did that, he would not consider his demons. He could behave professionally, calmly, and he would be able to heal himself soon with the return of his endurance.

Translations: Warum sind Sie auf den Schwarzwald? - Why are you of the Black Forest?

[JOCELYN]

Winter was setting into The Dome, and Jocelyn felt it more clearly the longer she sat. Once her muscles cooled from the taxing trip and the hunt, the earth leeched the warmth from her body, making her arse and feet numb. Maybe she should bolster the fire. She’d made it to cook the meat, not to last through the night. Her blue eyes lifted to spy Grey as he ate, calculating his condition. He was not well off. He likely would sleep after eating, and she did not anticipate their departure until tomorrow morning. Her attention returned to cleaning her weapon. They needed safety, but he needed rest and healing more. Warum sind Sie auf den Schwarzwald? he asked quietly. Her eyes narrowed as she fished out a whetting stone, plunged it into the water once, and began to sharpen the already razor edge of her machete. It was an inane question, one she saw born for the purpose of getting her to speak out of his own discomfort. Why was anyone ‘of’ anything … it was where they were from. The Edelwolfe Family of The Black Forest was well known throughout northern Germany and even into parts of southern Germany. Or, at least, they once were. The Edelwolfe nobles had held their lands for hundreds of years, from when it was first known as Prussia. They had only been abolished in the last century and as far as Jocelyn knew … she was the only one left. Almost as if he’d lost points, she downgraded into shifter tongue and did not falter as the deliberate strokes of metal on stone rang out over the quiet pond. Now and then her fingers would dip into the water to trickle cold drops onto the stone. “It’s where we are from,” she said in her infuriating way of answering as rudimentary as possible. Once satisfied that the blade’s edge was well-honed, she wiped the blade on her pant-leg and sheathed the weapon behind her left shoulder, dunked the stone once to clean it, and pocked it. Only then did she stand and look directly at him. It was a long, assessing look and at its end she turned and started back up the modest incline. “Firewood,” echoed back to him and she disappeared over the hill. An hour or more later, a shadow fell across the campsite as a flying creature soared low over the hills and circled above to land. Floating scarcely above the ground was a load of dry wood and branches. It lowered some dozen feet away from the dying fire and, high above, the grey and golden-brown mottled winged creature flapped wearily, lowering itself after it. Jocelyn was exhausted. It had taken miles of walking to even find dead fall that was dry enough to sustain a fire, and even then trips back and forth were out of the question. She’d been away too long as it was. Grey was vulnerable, but if he fell asleep he’d be dinner. As a result, Jocelyn had come up with this idea. It had worked – barely. Already her feline body was not designed for flight. The wings of the Eurasian Eagle-Owl were naturally massive and larger still on her own form, but she’d barely been able to get the load off the ground. She’d had to take several rests just getting it here. The feat she executed of hovering to lower both her cargo, and then herself to the earth was a massive display of strength. However it was not for show. Tied to the logs she had no choice but to lower herself down with careful precision, or fall out of the sky completely. Soaring to land as she normally would was taken completely out of the equation. She was still tied to the logs. She’d have effectively close-lined herself straight out of the air if she’d tried. With her paws over a foot from the ground she suddenly dropped – her long tail lashing for balance as she landed heavily on her feet next to her payload. Her wings lowered to drape across the ground as the Clouded Leopard panted deeply. She fixed the man with a startling pair of rich blue eyes, and her tufted ears flickered as she paced past both Grey and the fire to the water’s edge. Her body lowered to the ground as she lapped methodically at the cool pond, not bothering yet with the rope secured painfully around her like a diabolical present.

[grey]

It's where we are from.

The simplicity of it. Grey offered a begrudging smile and shake of his head. As though it could be so easy! It was clear to him in that instant that she was not a woman of a thousand names. She had no understanding of what it meant to be from nowhere. He may have been German but he did not align himself with any nationality. He had no cultural background to pay homage toward. He did not wear pride in his family name for, in essence, his family name no longer existed. He was Grey, from a thousand places, from nowhere at once.

"As a kid I would pretend to be from all over the world... I would pretend to be from all these different places. My mom worked as a journalist. She wrote all kinds of obscure stories about the Cultural Restoration Acts. My dad was a photographer. As a kid they would show me all these really amazing things and I would think about how amazing it would be to be from those places... and now we go to them and we see these amazing things there and I think about how nice it would be to have a home again."

Cole's voice rushed in without permission. By the time he wrangled the memory Jocelyn had already begun to walk away and Grey was left with the sense that he had made a fool of himself through his silence. He was no longer making a good impression--and at that thought he could not help but scoff at himself. It would have been infinitely difficult to make anything aside from a negative impression, considering the circumstances. He would not have blamed her if she did not return to him... His eyes remained trained in the direction that she had walked toward. The forest seemed darker than it ought to have. The trees were ominous, if one were sensitive to such things.

Grey was not. He was emotionally and physically spent. It took the remainder of his energy to drag his body toward a nearby tree. He propped himself against it and, with some difficulty, drew one of his knives out. He lowered his chin against his chest and gripped the blade tightly.

He knew that it would be bad to fall asleep but, despite his better instincts, he could no longer resist. He had not slept well for so long and he did not care, particularly, if he woke up or not...

- - - -

It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. Grey jerked awake more violently than he should have and immediately cringed. His eyes settled on the strange creature that was Jocelyn. He could not make sense of it, at first. He saw the wood and he saw the rope but he did not understand.

And then the leopard almost waddled toward the water. He craned his neck to watch her go and thought of rising to pursue her... but if he were to cut the rope now it would leave the wood farther from the fire and, ultimately, result in extra work for the both of them. "When you're finished drinking I can cut the rope from you." He waited patiently for her to return in the same ambling fashion. He grimaced at the sight. The creature, which may have been inexplicably graceful, seemed so painfully burdened by the load. He felt a swell of appreciation for this comrade of his. They were of the same Ring, the same brotherhood, and he knew that her endeavor had not been a simple task.

When she was near enough he reached out and thought better of cutting the rope. Supplies were short in the dome. Grey found the knot and after a few moments he succeeded in untying it. The wood fell in a clatter when it was no longer bound.

"Thank you," Grey said. His eyes, although red and sunken, shone with a light of sentiment. He was not often emotional; nor was he often the sort to give appreciation. That may have been due to the fact that he usually took painstaking measures to avoid situations such as this, in which he became dependent upon someone else. "I am truly in your debt, Jocelyn Edelwolfe des Schwarzwaldes." And he meant it.

[JOCELYN]

the violence causes silence She was utterly spent. Had she the energy she would have moved away from him, shifted, and untied herself. However, she was so tired she docilely allowed him to free the knot from it's crippling bind. She didn't like the idea that he was in her debt. It was simply what needed to be done. She looked to him with intelligent and cold feline eyes and gave a tight nod in acknowledgement. The clouded leopard's jaws splayed in a pant as she ambled away from him to lay down and catch her breath. Several minutes later once she felt confident she'd be spared the tax of deep gasps in her human form, she shifted back into the solemn young woman, urbane in visage, with long blonde hair, and clear blue eyes. Those eyes watched the man as he fought through moving over a few of the logs and after a while she pushed herself to her feet and, passing him lightly pushed his shoulder to catch him off balance. Almost gracefully his butt hit the ground and she turned her back as she loaded down her tired arms with the rest of the wood, load by load, to keep it nearer the fire within easy reach. As often happened with Jocelyn, it was her actions that spoke for her; dialog needless in the wake of her gesture. You can barely stand. Don't waste your energy on anything but healing. I can manage. It showed intelligence that he did not argue. Later that night while Grey slept, the Huntress settled with her back to the fire and regarded the stars. They were different here than they were on the outside. It wasn't that she knew the patterns of the skies so well that she noticed a misplaced star, nor was she so unfamiliar that she couldn't catch sight of The Big Dipper, Cygnus the Swan, or Orion at the right times of year. They were just ... different. Clearer. More perfect and in the same moment, less beautiful because of it. Aside from that, they were free from pollution, and the pure unadulterated skies shone stars that she'd never seen before. The milky way was easily seen as a ghostly trail through the sky. In Germany, when she was a little girl, the night sky had been different too. In the forests the stars shone brightly, but the silhouettes of the trees cut outlines out of the sky and obstructed her view. Even in the garden or fields, eventually the trees stole away the whole view from her. In Catskill, when she had been in the city the skies were changed. Still in the shelter of the trees, when they would venture into the city, it was always too bright to see as many twinkling souls in the depths and only the brightest penetrated the air and light pollution. They were stray thoughts, easy for her mind to pour through as her ears kept sharp vigil over their little campsite. When Grey spoke, it was so softly that she didn't quite catch what it was. Her lashes flashed in the dark, her breath clouding the air as she leaned over to ask what it was that he'd said. He was asleep. He had spoken in sleep. Shifting back to her spot she winced as she only would when no one might see. The bruises beneath her shirt and around her body, she was sure, would be a sight to see. She pulled the collar of her shirt to one side, exposing a thick line of dark purple beneath her bra strap. The muscles of her chest ached sharply from the abuse her wings took carrying such a heavy load. It was heavier than she had thought she could carry, the weight of a small child perhaps. She knew she could never carry much, but it set her mind to wander about whether or not she should work that kind of exercise regularly. It hurt like hell, but was a great workout. She lifted an arm absently and rolled her shoulder as she massaged the muscle. Right then, her eyes darted back to Grey. The firelight caught the reflection in his light eyes as he watched her quietly. His breathing hadn't changed. He was good. Lowering her arm she stretched her neck as she released the material, checked her weapons for the dozenth time, and settled in again, back to the fire. The light would compromise her night sight and she might miss something. Long moments later, she still felt his eyes on her. "You should sleep," she said quietly. "You're useless to me tomorrow if you're not rested."

WORDS:776 | TAGS:grey | IRONCHILD@THEMENAGERIE

[grey]

He found that he could not sleep soundly with her there. He dozed, at first, falling in and out of a fitful slumber that did not last long. Despite the fact that she had saved his life, the presence of another so prevalent near him unsettled Grey deeply and inherently, the way that animals can become unsettled by the presence of strangers or new people. He did not, at first, allow her to know this. He kept his eyes closed and felt his surroundings to the best of his ability. He listened, and smelt, and touched the rich soil beneath the palms of his hands. The warmth of the fire soon thawed his bones and his eyes opened on their own accord. He assessed her out of habit and, perhaps, out of instinct. His brain had returned to a reptilian level, functioning on base instincts. He did not even think in words, simply feelings. 

Grey almost felt her exhaustion, for example. The sight of her rubbing at her muscles made her fatigue palpable. He would have sympathized, perhaps, if he were in a different condition. The respect he felt increased as the understanding of her difficult journey strengthened. He could not imagine. Things with feathers had always seemed to him to be delicate, useless things. They could move quickly and swiftly but their size did not allow for useful combat and they were so fragile both metabolically and physically. He did not fully know the anatomical makeup of her shift form, with the added mutations, but he could scarcely believe that she had traveled a distance with a load of wood while obviously flying. He was a shifter of sturdier stuff, an animal that had been bred for countless years for endurance and resilience. For strength. And yet those light wolf-eyes could see her strength now and he thought, strangely, abstractly, that he might find family in Carna. 

It took him a moment to process her comment. He gave a gruff laugh, one that ended in a series of violent coughs. He wiped the back of his mouth with his arm and shook his head, slightly. "If you were in my position, could you sleep?" It was a light question, almost teasing. Despite the nature of the situation he allowed himself to relax against every intrinsic instinct. He settled into a more comfortable position but a KA-Bar found its way into his hand. "But because you insist, I will." He did not add that even now he would sleep as lightly as a feather, to strung up to do so more soundly. He laid back and closed his eyes. Strangely, he dreamed no more and his sleep was full of blackness.

----- 

Morning came with a haze of mist that had rolled in from the ocean. It smelt like saltwater and trees. He could smell himself much more distinctly and the first thought Grey had was one of disgust toward himself. He was usually an immaculate man who bathed regularly and kept his nails trimmed, his hair short, and his facial hair under strict control. He was very unsettled by the itch of scruff across his face and neck and the feel of cottonmouth. When had he last brushed his teeth, for Christ's sake? Grey had learned to take into account the little discomforts over the larger pains a long time ago so that, at the moment, the fact his tongue tasted like mucus and stale meat seemed like the worst thing possible. 

It was the sound of movement that had awoken him but he was already conscious of his surroundings and the presence of Jocelyn. He did not allow himself to startle, merely sat upright and rolled his shoulders. His side hurt with severity, although not to the same degree as the night prior. He felt renewed vigor from rest and food, however, and he took a moment to place his hand against the wound and use a small, precious amount of his energy to begin the healing process. It was just enough for him to remove some of the soreness around the wound and stand. 

He tongued the top of his mouth and combed a hand back through his shaggy hair, attempt to regain some control. It was to little avail. "Are you ready to go?" He may have been swaying slightly but, by God, he was upright. 

[JOCELYN]

the violence causes silence Jocelyn had watched him sharply as he readied himself then finally, if not a bit ungainly, stood. The pure exhaustion was not entirely erased from his face, but he looked a touch better. His eyes were clearer, more open, and he seemed to be in somewhat less pain. He was still stiff, but he’d made his feet and that was what she needed of him. Well he’s not going to win a beauty pageant, but he can walk. She thought to herself in rare sarcasm and nodded tightly when he asked if she was ready to leave. She had not slept, only rested her hurt body and tired mind as her sharp ears kept watch. It was going to be a rough day. They started out across the hills and trees toward their territory – which they should easily reach by noon if they kept up even this slow but steady pace. Had she not carried her burdens the day before, she might have shifted into feline form and glided over the trees to scout. However, she would not be flying for at least a day or two. Though she would have never admitted it, the pain in her shoulders and chest muscles were so bad she had to work to keep her movements fluent. She managed, but just barely. A few hours later saw Grey’s arm across her painful shoulders, bolstering to hold up some of his weight. She kept her mind from it thinking about the hours and hours of drills her Master had put her through, how inhumanly sore she had been then. Old Jack had said the best thing for sore muscles was to use them; as in life, most of the time the best thing was the hardest and most agonizing. Helping Grey yesterday was a picnic compared to now. The warm of coppery blood slowly painted her tongue as she sank her teeth into the tender slick flesh of her cheek for distraction. Little passed in the way of conversation, as they both focused all their energies into getting Grey home. When they topped a rise and reached the border she was far happier to see a group of Carna Scouts than she was comfortable with. A gust of relieved air escaped her lungs as strong hands lifted Grey’s weight from her and, with nothing left to hold her up, her knees gave. Her hands shot out to catch herself as she sank into the sand, and her fingers gripped the grit slowly to find mental purchase. Of what could be said about Jocelyn, brute strength was not one of them and she’d been forced into her weakest trait thrice over before they had gotten home. With a heavy sigh, she breathed deeply as she watched them carry Grey away. Then slowly, very slowly, she rose to her feet … and followed them home.

WORDS:776 | TAGS:grey | IRONCHILD@THEMENAGERIE

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