said their nevers, they slept their dream

On days that Olive felt cooped up and stagnant, she often absconded to the lake. The pack that situated itself there had since relocated, which meant that this particular shoreline was available to explore and revel in. It hadn't been that long ago since she had been here and had been unwelcome, so the little witch took no small amount of pleasure from attending to their former claim and exploring it in the way she hadn't before.

In fact, Olive had been by this lakeside for almost a day and a night, since the night of the turn of the moon. It was her monthly routine; she would relinquish her bed within The Hireath and forage for a ceremony, then spend the night engaged in prayer, prostrate and receptive. The night's ceremony had left her more depleted than most, and the sylph chose to recoup her energy. It had been a lovely autumnal day, and Olive appreciated it more than most, allowing herself a day of laziness amongst the heathered grasses and weak sunlight. At present, she lay basking amongst the beach, her legs and nose outstretched so that they barely grazed the water's edge, and she allowed the slow, methodical pulse of the lakeshore providing a metronome for her being.

There was nothing else to do here, than simply lay and mull over the sights and the words that had come to her some nights before.

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The plains were empty and flat.

Rolling, with gentle hills. Stretching grasslands.

He didn’t know if he liked it.

If he even cared.

Instead, he just walked.

His posture low. Loose, rolling, slouching shoulders. Back paws falling in step with the tracks of his front paws. Tail limp.

There was water nearby. A girl laying on the shore’s edge.

Her ignored her—

And took a drink.

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Olive was too bright a woman to believe that she had any sort of authority or dominion over this lakebed, even though she lived nearby and currently resided on its shores. It was likely, at any moment, that she might be happened upon by another. It mattered naught the fest she had amongst the shores merely a day or do prior, or that travelers were few and far between. If there was another who sought to share her space, she would do nothing to dissuade them, though she didn't particularly feel sociable at this very moment.

This theory would soon enough be tested. A man, wordless and with an irreverent energy, approached the waters edge and began to drink without a look in her direction. At first, Olive had watched him approach from where she lay upon the sandy shore, fully expecting him to say a word in greeting; and when he did not, the sylph shifted to prop herself up on a feathered elbow, regarding the blonde creature with renewed curiosity. With something resembling a simper upon her lips, Olive moved to stand. It was all, so suddenly clear. "You..." the woman sung under her breath, as if she recognized him. In a way, she did.
"What do you know of fate?"

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The bitch spoke—

And he drank deeply, at the water’s edge.

A lapping tongue.

The only sign he had heard her the twitch of his right ear.

And he took his time, pulling back from the water. Letting the water drip down his chin. Droplets rolling and falling down to the fur of his chest. He licked his lips. Smacked noisily and loudly.

If he had hands, he would have used them.

Would have been slow and drawn out and purposeful, in wiping his mouth.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he grunted.

Raised his back leg to scratch just behind his ear.

Carefully created apathy.

And—

“Fuck all.”

He knew fuck all, about fate.

Nothing beyond it being a tool for the weak. The worthless. For the pebbles at the bottom of the riverbed, letting themselves be rounded and smoothed and softened instead of being the river, cutting and carving through mountain and stone.

She probably believed in it, the former.

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Olive wasn't entirely certain what response she would receive from such a loaded question, so his abruptness and callous demeanor was within the realm of acceptable responses, especially given all the qualities that Olive could already glean from his aura, his voice, and his intentions alone. It was almost as if his gruff response elicited more interest in her, from deep within, as she usually experienced with broken things, in need of tending. It was the self-sacrificial healer in her soul that made her do these things.

This (as well as the vision she had seen of this man the night prior), drove her to continue. Otherwise, she would have rather left this place, and cast the lake as a place where demons and devils gathered. There was something larger going on here, so much so that the Gods had called upon their most humble servant to promulgate their meaning. "You know more than you say," Olive stated with finality, after a moment spent in silent regard, dove-like head cocked to the side. Her gilded eyes flashed as she continue to assess him.

"Fate brought you here, no?"

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‘Fate brought you here, no?’

And—

“Fuck no.” He spat.

Bitch was fucking crazy.

He had brought himself fucking there, you know, using his fucking legs.

None of that fucking fate or destined to be type shit. He had picked a random direction—after getting himself out of the maze the smug bastard had set him up in—and now here he fucking was.

Nothing fucking magical about it.

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The typical response, which she had expected. If these questions hadn't been rhetorical, she might have been offended by his curtness. However, she knew the truth more than he, and it was not fair to expect simple wolves to understand such concepts as fate and karma. It was almost as unfair, as it would be to expect a waifish thing such as she to be successful in a brawl. If one expected such things, they were bound to experience constant, repeated disappointment.

So Olive would explain it again, although she could not outright divulge her meaning immediately. There was an art to these things; known to oracles and prophecy-seers, a manner of speaking, which served to build trust and curiosity. What good were the tellings of the Gods if no one believed the words that were spoken? In this way, oratory was powerful in ways that battle and brawn never could be. "I have seen you..." the woman cooed, narrowing her gaze and ghosting a footfall forward. It was as if she had seen him from behind a veil; but he was immediately familiar. The memory, immediately available. Her voice drifted away, almost distractedly as she searched his visage for clues; more familiarity. "I have seen your eyes..."

The shrouded sylph paused to assess his reaction, wondering if he was in any way receptive, or if he only had to offer her Gods more expletives.

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“Yeah?” He asked her.

Quiet.

Rhetorical.

Mean.

Stepping forward—away from the water’s edge completely—and towards her. His posture low. Slouched. Tail hanging straight, in the air behind him. Hackles raised and bristling. Body tense.

“When?” He sneered.

When did she see his fucking eyes.

And she better, she better have fucking seen them.

Bitch was looking right fucking at him.

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He was challenging her, but that was okay, because Olive was used to dealing with challenging individuals. Under his bristling gaze, Olive felt herself grow more expansive, if only with the slight rise to the fur that crested her shoulder blades. The dove, facing affront the auric wraith, pressed her paws against the earth as he sneered and questioned. She simpered, smiled, and answered his inquiry as if it was asked seriously.

"The night of the dark moon," the woman answered, her voice held above a whisper, almost challenging his aggression in its softness. Her tail belied her confident composure and gentleness of voice, as it twitched behind her restlessly, tracing irregular circles in the sand. "The Gods danced, and sang, and spoke—" The jade of her eyes held his attention, but in the theater of her mind, a picture was being painted. Trance-energy began to trill through her veins, as it had done that night. "They showed me a man with your face..." The witch blinked, refocusing on the nameless face before her. "They showed me his fate."

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“What was it?” He demanded.

What was his fucking so called fate.

Because the only fucking ‘fate’ he saw was him using his to end hers.

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Olive didn't need her practices of magic and divination to understand what was going through the wraith's mind. He seemed restless and agitated, willing to take his aggressions out on whoever was closest. This was not the first time she had experienced a soul such as this, as it often was the result of trauma, and unfortunately there were far too many traumatized individuals in this world. If it was not trauma, a less-common explanation would be a lack of understanding, or inability to understand. This, the nursemaid found most often in pups and growing children, but if ones' intelligence wasn't carefully nurtured and groomed, this ignorance could continue into adulthood and create spiteful, close-minded adults.

Not saying this man was either of those, but Olive had her guesses. Beyond that, Olive didn't know much about him. Her vision had been cryptic, at best — the only part of it that she, personally, understood was his face... and she hadn't even understood it until the man approach her exhausted form at the water's edge. "The Gods do not speak to souls who are so wholly ungrateful," Olive could not help the biting tone that manage to slip in to color the words wholly ungrateful, but often times this work was dirty, and it was not her place to right such wrongs in the world. She was simply a messenger here, and this was her task. "Perhaps this is why they sent me a message, meant for you."

Now that the sylph had captured his attention, she took a brazen step towards him, simply trusting he would not harm her. "Look into my eyes and do not turn away," she instructed, taking another step, waiting for his eyes to lock with hers and allow her more deeply into his presence.

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More words—more bullshit—and he snarled at her fucking instructions.

Stepping forward, into her space, her face.

Daring her, to fucking try something.

Hackles raised and bristling. Teeth bared. Muscle stretched and taut. Crackling electricity and the static before the storm.

Waiting—waiting—for her message from her so-called Gods.

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It was almost as if she didn't perceive the snarl, or see the disdain upon his face. Those things mattered so little, and only served as barriers for the work to be done, so Olive rooted herself to the earth and focused only on the man's eyes. The periphery of her vision became clouded and darkened, and all she could see was red. The witch almost forgot that she was looking at a pair of eyes, for her consciousness was so enveloped in the minutiae of clouds and swirls, so lost amongst them it was as if she was swimming amongst the red sea, flowing along with the hot, fiery flow of his own energy. The woman, nameless, identity-less, a shell with a soul moving it, had unknowingly strode forward several paces, daringly close to the man who threatened.

It was here, that the ceremonial dream flowed back into her. "I saw you—" she gasped, now staring hollowly at the scene within her mind's eyes. "Not a man, but a Lord," she couldn't describe how she knew this, for he had their the crown nor the stature of a regal king. "There were three eagle, sat atop your spine, one — two — three," she counted in a ghostly whisper, pointing aimlessly with her nose as she counted, showing off a series of bird that didn't truly exist. "There was nothingness, all of it, white like snow;" Nothing except the golden man, and his eagle-stewards. "The lord of the void, but with a milkiness to his gaze," even his eyes, which had been the cause of her recognition, had been painted over and dulled by white. "and eagle claws dug so deep that down your belly ran rivulets of blood," she spoke, and then her ears pressed back firm against her skull, and her expression fell entirely, into something that resembled faint horror.

"and with those claws, they drove you straight into a river. You walked right in, totally submerged, even the birds, no one fought it..." Olive remembered too vividly, how she had watched helplessly as the man blindly walked to his death. She had wanted to call out, but the Gods had silenced her voice. She was simply the audience to their show. "and then the river, it was..." she spoke with sadness in her voice, "it whirled together, a vortex, and I could then see it was all encapsulated in an egg, a cosmic egg, which contained the void and the four beings which had disappeared inside of it." For a moment, Olive came back to herself and she ascertained the degree to which these images were affecting her subject. It wasn't, after all, a happy portend. "The egg cracked, and sand spilled out," the shrouded sylph admitted. "At first, only sand— piles of sand, a veritable desert," the timbre of her voice rose as the memory uncovered itself in her mind. "Then, beetles, cockroaches, vile things — infinite scarabs —" Olive gritted her teeth. "They poured out and they covered everything, and too the nothingness," She could feel her skin crawl as it had when the blanket of bugs overtook everything. Her, too. "and then.... it was all a moving, creeping blackness."

The witch was silent for a moment longer before her body visibly slumped. Accessing these experiences required energy; and afterwards, Olive often found herself depleted and light-headed. "I know naught what it means, bloodwraith, but you may ask questions, if you must. " There was a slight pant to her voice and it was clear that the trance-memory was over. Esra had gone, and Olive had returned.

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All that waiting, posturing, posing—

And for what?

Fucking nothing?

She said some fancy words. Painted a pretty picture. Big fucking deal.

Anyone could do that.

“So what,” he snapped, challenging, pressing, “I fucking drown?”

That was his fucking Gods-given fate? Thrown into a river by three fucking eagles? A lord, blind as shit?

Fucking laughable, seeing he knew how to fucking swim. And like he’d ever let himself get taken so easy.

And—

He was already a lord. The lord of fuck-all and nothing. Banished from the pack he was meant to inherit because his hag of a mother couldn’t stand the idea of competition.

She was a phoney, like everyone else.

A fake.

A nobody.

Making things up, because she had nothing fucking better to do.

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This portend, as Olive had anticipated, neglected to make the man happy. The images she described had shocked herself, as she had lived them (and then again now as she re-lived them) but, unfortunately, this was the way of such things. The good, happy things rarely carried a warning attached to them.

He snapped and snarled, but Olive felt far too depleted to recognize any sensation of fear. Instead, her posture continued to slacken, so much so that eventually it was easier to just sit her haunches on the earth and recline upon them. "Likely not," the white witch clarified for him, glimpsing the minute glimmer of belief that belied his question. If he didn't believe in some part, in some way, he likely wouldn't have entertained her for this long. "The Gods speak solely in metaphor." What they said, was never what they meant. Too often, prophecies were impossible to unravel until the foretold events had already come to pass.

That didn't mean there wasn't hope for a better future, though. "Truth be told, prophecies are usually self-fulfilling," she managed to say, though her voice was soft and her gaze lifted from the earth beneath her feet back towards those red, red eyes — no hint of milkiness. "It means whatever you want it to mean."

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Metaphor.

The Gods spoke solely in metaphor.

And it was like a scab, being pulled away. Dried blood and dead skin hiding a gaping, festering, rotting wound.

But mostly?

Mostly, it was truth, coming out from her bitter and ugly well.

And he expected it.

“You lied.” He spoke, quiet and low. Both judge, jury, and executioner. “You said you saw my fate, and you fucking lied.”

Pretty words and pointless, endless fucking drivel just for her to openly admit the whole entire thing was a fucking farce.

She was gross.

She was fucking disgusting.

A lowlife, and worthless.

A coward, liar, and weak.

Making shit up just to fucking feel better about herself.

Did it work?

Did she finally feel oh so good?

Tch.

He hated her.

“Eat shit and die.” He spat, once, before turning around to leave.

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Ah, there it was. The callous, cold, hatred of a wolf who suffered under the weight of their own disbelief. A soul so entangled in the three-dimensional that to trust in something outside of themselves was utter insanity, and with it, they lost all sense of virtue. Olive had heard it all before; had been yelled at this way before, by wolves who shunned the words of the Gods. But in the end, it was only they who truly suffered.

The golden omen turned to leave, and that was the moment pulled herself from her reclined position and summoned the last iota of strength she had. "Do not dare to look your destiny in the eye, and then claim it is not for you!" she barked, at least hoping to sear some memory of this encounter in his consciousness for eternity, so that he may live with his prophecy, and never forget it. "You cannot escape the river," she goaded, not sure if that statement alone would be enough to convince him of its eventual truth. "I urge you, stay vigilant and alert, Lord of the Void."

The waif, utterly exhausted, collapsed in nearly the same spot she had been lying before and lay in a panting heap.

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