After they were done, they came in, and wordlessly, Rey gathered up a pitcher of snow to melt and warm for their ablutions. The cabin air was warmer, but she could taste the copper tang of the deer’s blood in the air as the man stripped off his shirt, examining it.
“It’s not likely to wash out.” She said absently, watching as he looked up at her. “We’ll have to dye it to cover the stain…”
He shrugged, and used a mostly-clean portion of the back of the shirt to wipe at his mouth, grunting in frustration as his hair fell about his face.
Rey watched him, unable to keep her eyes from widening at the strangeness of him, of everything. The way he moved, the way he carried himself… he was like a stranger in his own body. Anticipating things that were not there as he moved. Like wings, perhaps. Or claws.
He looked up. “Sorry if I’ve… frightened you.”
“Oh no,” Rey said lightly. “I was just going to suggest perhaps you stick to darker colors, if you’re going to be hunting more frequently.”
The man nodded, and hung the bloody shirt up on a peg, for lack of a better place to put it. Rey closed her eyes, willing the realization back down, feeling sick, as if the air had suddenly gone out of the room. She heard the man moving about the cabin, and when she opened her eyes to look at him, he was pouring water into the basin, washing his face slowly, methodically. And she hesitated, watching the long line of his back, watching his muscles move.
“Who are you?” Rey spoke at last. Her voice was hushed, but not in reverence. Nor, she realized, was it fear. It was some other emotion, one without a name.
“Is that really the question you wish to ask?” He did not turn around, only reached for the nail brush, examining it with some curiosity before working the blood out from under his nails.
“What are you, then?” Rey bit her lips, pressed her hands down the front of her sweater, an unconscious, nervous gesture. “You stand as a man, walk and talk as one, but you cannot be what you seem.”
“No?” He turned back, smiled at her, too-wide grin in a blood-smeared mouth. “What is it that you think I am?”
“There are stories,” She shuddered. “Tales, told to frighten children. To keep them from going where they ought not to go.”
“Into the forest.” He said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, stories have a purpose, even if they aren’t entirely true.” The brush in his hands scraped rhythmically, tiny droplets of blood spattering and running down into the basin under his hands. “The forest isn’t dangerous, but what lies at its heart, perhaps, is.”
“You.” Rey glanced to her side, seeing the sunlight glint off of the dagger’s blade. It was just out of reach, just there, sitting on the little spindle-legged table beside her bed. She dared not move, dared not reach for it—
“Well, obviously not.” The man dried his hands and face on the towel, and turned around, skin clean, dark eyes murderous and full of thwarted rage. “As I am here, with you.”
His eyes followed her gaze, and yet when he saw the dagger, the man smiled faintly.
“You don’t think I can do it?” Rey said, feet rooted to the ground, fear congealing in her veins.
“The deer never even heard me approaching.” The man said, and his voice was somehow… kind. “It was a quick death, despite what you may think. I don’t take joy in suffering.”
“Somehow I find that difficult to believe.”
The man seemed surprised by this. Then, glancing down at the bloody water, he seemed to understand. “Our ways are… different, from your ways.”
“Our ways?” Rey echoed. “So there are more of you, then?”
“When dawn came over the first tips of the seedlings that would one day grow into the great woods, we were there.” He stalked closer to her, voice hushed and reverent, almost as if he was reciting a familiar prayer. “When the first snowmelt came down from the mountainside, and nourished the first flower, we were there. When the first spark razed the forest, it was our wings that fanned the flames, scattered the ashes, so that it might be purified and reborn.”
Rey swallowed, and looked up into his dark eyes. “Well, when you’re done with your soliloquy, you’re going to have to learn how to wash a shirt.”
The man’s face was all confusion; clearly his words had not had the proper effect. “What?”
“You might be some otherworldly creature, but you look human now. And if you’re staying here then you’ve got to work.” She said. “You’ve been given ample opportunity to kill me, and I you, so we might as well stop posturing and work to survive this unnatural winter.”
He straightened a little, face impassive. “I couldn’t have killed you, even if I had wanted to.”
“Why not?” Rey sat down on her bed, reaching for her comb and working the wet tangles from her hair before they could set and knot.
“You saved me.” He said. “Had you left my body in the woods, I would’ve surely died. This mortal form is highly inconvenient. And you’re quite correct, by the way; every thing about this storm is unnatural.”
Rey huffed out a laugh, drawing a leather cord free from the bundle and tying her hair back. “Yes, well, assuming what you say is true, is it possible that the storm, and your… change of appearance… are connected?”
“Yes.” He eyed the leather cord she had used, and walked closer as she offered one to him. “I am sure it is. I had… displeased my Elder. He sought to teach me humility, by restraining me in this form.”
“Is it working?” Rey asked.
The man merely glared at her. He fiddled with the cord, pulling his own long hair back as she had done. With his dark hair swept back, it cast the planes of his face in even starker relief, and Rey looked down at the comb in her hands. “You said you couldn’t kill me. Not that you wouldn’t, but couldn’t. Why?”
“We are bound together now.” The man replied. “A life debt. It would violate the most sacred—“
“But assuming that, no offense, I don’t really want you indebted to me…” Rey cleared her throat. “Not that I want you killing me, either. But… couldn’t you just… go back to the forest?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
Rey looked up at him, but the man did not want to elaborate on this. And truth be told she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the rest of the story. Because the fact still remained that no matter what he said, she had no proof that he was telling her the truth. Rey had never been one to believe in the stories, or supposed magic of the forest, and a more likely, more sensible explanation was that he was mad. She watched him as he went over to the fire, crouching down before it, warming himself. He did not move as if he were insane, although, Rey amended, he had just slaughtered a deer with his bare hands and consumed its heart, so there was that.
“Well, if you’re going to be stuck here, I might as well know your name.”
The man scoffed “My name would be unpronounceable by a human tongue.”
“Which means you can’t say it either.” Rey tried not to roll her eyes. “Shall I make one up for you, then?”
“I…” His voice trailed off as he gazed into the dancing fire. “Kylo.”
FILL 4/? - The Wyrm of the Woods
“It’s not likely to wash out.” She said absently, watching as he looked up at her. “We’ll have to dye it to cover the stain…”
He shrugged, and used a mostly-clean portion of the back of the shirt to wipe at his mouth, grunting in frustration as his hair fell about his face.
Rey watched him, unable to keep her eyes from widening at the strangeness of him, of everything. The way he moved, the way he carried himself… he was like a stranger in his own body. Anticipating things that were not there as he moved. Like wings, perhaps. Or claws.
He looked up. “Sorry if I’ve… frightened you.”
“Oh no,” Rey said lightly. “I was just going to suggest perhaps you stick to darker colors, if you’re going to be hunting more frequently.”
The man nodded, and hung the bloody shirt up on a peg, for lack of a better place to put it. Rey closed her eyes, willing the realization back down, feeling sick, as if the air had suddenly gone out of the room. She heard the man moving about the cabin, and when she opened her eyes to look at him, he was pouring water into the basin, washing his face slowly, methodically. And she hesitated, watching the long line of his back, watching his muscles move.
“Who are you?” Rey spoke at last. Her voice was hushed, but not in reverence. Nor, she realized, was it fear. It was some other emotion, one without a name.
“Is that really the question you wish to ask?” He did not turn around, only reached for the nail brush, examining it with some curiosity before working the blood out from under his nails.
“What are you, then?” Rey bit her lips, pressed her hands down the front of her sweater, an unconscious, nervous gesture. “You stand as a man, walk and talk as one, but you cannot be what you seem.”
“No?” He turned back, smiled at her, too-wide grin in a blood-smeared mouth. “What is it that you think I am?”
“There are stories,” She shuddered. “Tales, told to frighten children. To keep them from going where they ought not to go.”
“Into the forest.” He said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, stories have a purpose, even if they aren’t entirely true.” The brush in his hands scraped rhythmically, tiny droplets of blood spattering and running down into the basin under his hands. “The forest isn’t dangerous, but what lies at its heart, perhaps, is.”
“You.” Rey glanced to her side, seeing the sunlight glint off of the dagger’s blade. It was just out of reach, just there, sitting on the little spindle-legged table beside her bed. She dared not move, dared not reach for it—
“Well, obviously not.” The man dried his hands and face on the towel, and turned around, skin clean, dark eyes murderous and full of thwarted rage. “As I am here, with you.”
His eyes followed her gaze, and yet when he saw the dagger, the man smiled faintly.
“You don’t think I can do it?” Rey said, feet rooted to the ground, fear congealing in her veins.
“The deer never even heard me approaching.” The man said, and his voice was somehow… kind. “It was a quick death, despite what you may think. I don’t take joy in suffering.”
“Somehow I find that difficult to believe.”
The man seemed surprised by this. Then, glancing down at the bloody water, he seemed to understand. “Our ways are… different, from your ways.”
“Our ways?” Rey echoed. “So there are more of you, then?”
“When dawn came over the first tips of the seedlings that would one day grow into the great woods, we were there.” He stalked closer to her, voice hushed and reverent, almost as if he was reciting a familiar prayer. “When the first snowmelt came down from the mountainside, and nourished the first flower, we were there. When the first spark razed the forest, it was our wings that fanned the flames, scattered the ashes, so that it might be purified and reborn.”
Rey swallowed, and looked up into his dark eyes. “Well, when you’re done with your soliloquy, you’re going to have to learn how to wash a shirt.”
The man’s face was all confusion; clearly his words had not had the proper effect. “What?”
“You might be some otherworldly creature, but you look human now. And if you’re staying here then you’ve got to work.” She said. “You’ve been given ample opportunity to kill me, and I you, so we might as well stop posturing and work to survive this unnatural winter.”
He straightened a little, face impassive. “I couldn’t have killed you, even if I had wanted to.”
“Why not?” Rey sat down on her bed, reaching for her comb and working the wet tangles from her hair before they could set and knot.
“You saved me.” He said. “Had you left my body in the woods, I would’ve surely died. This mortal form is highly inconvenient. And you’re quite correct, by the way; every thing about this storm is unnatural.”
Rey huffed out a laugh, drawing a leather cord free from the bundle and tying her hair back. “Yes, well, assuming what you say is true, is it possible that the storm, and your… change of appearance… are connected?”
“Yes.” He eyed the leather cord she had used, and walked closer as she offered one to him. “I am sure it is. I had… displeased my Elder. He sought to teach me humility, by restraining me in this form.”
“Is it working?” Rey asked.
The man merely glared at her. He fiddled with the cord, pulling his own long hair back as she had done. With his dark hair swept back, it cast the planes of his face in even starker relief, and Rey looked down at the comb in her hands. “You said you couldn’t kill me. Not that you wouldn’t, but couldn’t. Why?”
“We are bound together now.” The man replied. “A life debt. It would violate the most sacred—“
“But assuming that, no offense, I don’t really want you indebted to me…” Rey cleared her throat. “Not that I want you killing me, either. But… couldn’t you just… go back to the forest?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
Rey looked up at him, but the man did not want to elaborate on this. And truth be told she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the rest of the story. Because the fact still remained that no matter what he said, she had no proof that he was telling her the truth. Rey had never been one to believe in the stories, or supposed magic of the forest, and a more likely, more sensible explanation was that he was mad. She watched him as he went over to the fire, crouching down before it, warming himself. He did not move as if he were insane, although, Rey amended, he had just slaughtered a deer with his bare hands and consumed its heart, so there was that.
“Well, if you’re going to be stuck here, I might as well know your name.”
The man scoffed “My name would be unpronounceable by a human tongue.”
“Which means you can’t say it either.” Rey tried not to roll her eyes. “Shall I make one up for you, then?”
“I…” His voice trailed off as he gazed into the dancing fire. “Kylo.”