memory

music as you read?

He stood at the edge of the birch, furious and saddened and scared stiff all at the same time. His stomach had flipped and turned to an unpleasant hunk of ice as a shadow slowly circled him, there and—now it wasn’t. It moved with the fluidity of a liquid, but yet it wore a heavy limp, and the Ram’s eyes began to narrow as it heaved away, trembling and stopping abruptly at different intervals. With a whirl it turned, sliced by rays of dying sunlight, and Vipin studied the form shrewdly, going over the scars and flesh with lasting glances. A shudder and a cringe and a wince.

“Hmm,” said the shadow solemnly, returning the glares. The skull upon his face was withered bone, mottled and rotted to the point of decay, and a black tongue flicked idly within the depths. He was pacing now, great, arching antlers jolting with every strong step, his muscles twitching beneath the thin coat of stringy fur. And Vipin matched his movements, handsome and magnificent, young and proud—The Raven sneered at him and stopped at once, flattening a lone ear.

The Ivory Stag. The Viper. The Devil Himself.

“There can only be one Raven, Sire.” A mocking jeer came from the shadow. As far as it concerned him, his son was not a Sir or a Sire. No, he merely was. There was nothing he had done to deserve such a title—no enemies slaughtered, no children born, no followers, only a mate who had left him—all he had was those bloody blue eyes and that nature of his.

Those blue eyes—those cutting blue eyes. Aspen’s were so much duller.

A porcelain skulled raised, Vipin tucked his ears firmly against bone, jaw struck proud. “I am no Raven,” said he, and paused, surveying the situation with a steady gaze. “I am a Ram or a Magpie, but no Raven. I am no Ivory Stag or Viper—I am a Sentry or a Knight. I’m not you, nor will I ever be.” And he said this with humility and confidence, with wisdom and assurance, and the Raven recoiled in distaste. The blood that lined his fangs glowed white-hot, boiling pink and crimson before he stepped closer, a certain glee in his grin as his son took a step back. For every step, there was a step returned, until Vipin held his ground and watched him with those eyes. Blue beams of a tortured past and a strangling future—of so many bloody deaths watched and so many innocent memories shattered. Of a childhood that had consisted of nothing but fear.

Of a reason he wanted no children to call his own.

“Vipin,” said Nevermore, monotonously. His voice was the droning of the bees—the screams of a dying child—a hoof raking across bone—the slow ticking of time. Tick, tick, tick. Tock, tock, tock.

And Vipin listened, ever so polite.

The shadow revolved around him, here and there and back again, only discernable by the red glittering and the huge steely antlers. He watched mildly, unafraid now, simply prepared as the earth sighed and the trees moaned underneath the weight of the autumn leaves. Yes, he was simply waiting. He had been waiting for a long while now; had it been years? No, his mother had been slaughtered before his very eyes only a while ago.

A dream, perhaps. Perhaps this had all just been a bad dream.

And he began to circle as well.

Two continents of experience and strength circled one another.

The Raven lunged and struck one single blow, shattering the Sentry’s skull into powder.

A torrent of blood sprayed from this throat.

“Vee,” came a voice, warm and comfortable as always. The spotted brown doe paused, her golden helmet gleaming in the light beneath the willows, sheltered from the heresy of rain. Vipin stirred slightly, those whimsically blue eyes bolting and beautiful, until tucking his legs against his side once more. Hercules smiled gently and nestled herself in the nape of his neck—and those vaguely azure eyes closed, and sleep once more threw them into an interior darkness.