somewhere, in tucson

Everything sucked.

Nothing mattered.

And he was fucking bored.

Bored, and restless. Tired, and sleepless.

Wandering.

Walking.

Aimless.

Broad shouldered and stomping. The sun beating down against his back. Below, his feet dragging—kicking—and the ground solid, dry. The grass too long. His tail dead weight behind him, in the stuffy, stale, heated air.

Expressionless, until he saw her.

He made a face. His ears pressed back against his head and his tongue pressing forward. His hackles raised and bristling. Body, suddenly on edge.

Promptly, turning the fuck around.

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As much as Olive wanted to say she had moved on from her verbal spars with the golden man, she hadn't. The woman had tried to process it through a lengthy trip to the tundra and the liaisons that results, but it only left her more confused about the role she played in the visions she saw. It also left her feeling more thankful for Benry, who had come to her rescue now twice in recent memory.

Now cooped up back at home, within The Hireath, Olive could not stymie the need to restlessly move her legs. It was, at times like these, that the woman found herself appreciative of the endless monotony of grasses. It was great for running, for physical expression; and it was truly non-stimulating in a mental sense, as she found no prey, nor friend, nor single plant to inspect
—but, she did find him.

Olive scoffed as she noticed him turn right around. It was at this point in their relationship that the pale fae felt very little fear of him and his big voice and rude words. In fact, she had begun to feel fascinated by him and how see seemed to crop up in her path again and again. "If you make that face too much," she called out, more in greeting than in spite. "It might just stay that way."

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‘If you make that face too much,’ she said, ‘It might just stay that way.’

He stopped.

Froze.

Standing, where he stood, back turned to her and unmoving. His shoulders hunched and curling, curling, towards his ears. Sloping—curving—angles and degrees.

Below, the grass rippled, small and slight. Tall golden blades bending in the breeze. Brushing—poking, dragging—against his legs, his sides.

His upper lip twitched.

The ghost, the beginning traces, of a sneer.

And was he supposed to laugh?

Was he supposed to smile and cheer at how funny she was, for saying that to him? How clever and unique she was for saying the same fucking shit others already had a million times over?

Was he supposed to be her friend?

He turned.

Facing her, but only by half. His head and neck moving, but not the rest.

“Gonna tell me I’m gonna drown again, false prophet?” He started, low. Looking at her, from the corner of his eye. Lips pulled back and teeth drawn.

Disgust, hatred, and annoyance.

“Or are you gonna call another fucking cat on me?” He challenged. Turning, to face her fully.

A furrowed muzzle and peeled back lip. Chin jutted forward and up. Sneering, as he looked down upon her.

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Her words seemed to hit their mark, provoking him enough to freeze and process the fact that, no, she was not going to let him just walk away. It wasn't often that she was struck by such an individual, simply because of their distasteful nature. Moreover, it perplexed the witch to so end why the gods would place his image in her mind, tell her horrible things about him, and then continually cross their paths, over and over and over again. The Gods didn't make any mistakes though, and Olive new better than to question them, or turn away opportunities to learn their lessons more deeply.

At the same time, Olive loathed to admit that she had fallen past her customary high standard. Olive, during a recent night when she tossed and turned in her sleep, realized that perhaps she had not been as open-hearted with the golden lord as she ought to have been. Even as he reproached her, blaming her for things that had been coincidence, Olive didn't want to bait him. She held her ground and pressed her lips into a thin, hard line. "No." She had neither her parole officer, nor her visions here to guide her. Just some small, biting sense of unfinished business.

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She said no—

And yet, for some fucking reason, he didn’t believe her.

He snorted.

Huffed.

His ears pressing back against his head before rolling forward again. Looking anywhere but actually at her for one long, wandering second, until, finally, staring.

Upper lip, twitching.

Shifting, his weight from one paw to the next.

His shoulders hunched.

Posture slouched.

Tail, twitching.

And—

“Why?” He asked, blunt.

Dour.

Waiting, for the bullshit she would no doubt inevitably fucking spew.



She didn’t fucking let him leave the first time.



The last thing he fucking needed was another follower.

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He seemed uncertain, this wraith who prowled in a circle that overlapped her own so greatly. Olive narrowed her gaze, observing how his shoulders rolled, and then slumped in their sockets. In her mind, this man the physical manifestation of the phrase 'all bark, and no bite.' He was spitting mad and dripped words of poison to prove to the world how mad he actually was; all to hide the lack of confidence he felt underneath. Olive swallowed her tongue, forcing herself to maintain a semblance of propriety. After all, she had no idea to know what it was like to know one's fate, as well as their next mortal death.

She might of once had sympathy for him, but that time was passed. "because I have nothing left to say to you," the sylph said, with the faintest growl riding upon her pale lips. Then, proving herself wrong, she continued to say things to him. "I do not know why the Gods continue to curse me with your presence," Olive expressed her frustration. It was not her choice to have a stare-down with an asshole every other week. "Mayhaps you stay close to this watering hole because you are afraid of the many rivers elsewhere," as the pale waif spoke, her words began to slow down, as realization blossomed. If this was the truth — then who was she to steal his sense of safety, seemingly at every turn? Need he always be reminded of the eagles, and the endless, infinite scarabs?

"No one would blame you for it—" her voice fell dramatically, and her nose pointed directly towards her toes. She wanted to address him as something not so akin to his fate, but she had no other epithets for the man. "I... don't know your name," she admitted, finding it strange to know so many things about him, yet to not know this.

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She spoke, and—

“Fuck you.” He snapped. Spat. Spoke. “You think I’m afraid of some fucking water because what? You fucking lied?”

Newsflash, bitch, he knew how to fucking swim, and had ever since he was a fucking puppy.

Tch.

And she wanted his fucking name. What fucking happened to her being able to see the future? To her being able to see his his so-called Gods-given fate?

It was a joke.

A lie.

A trick.

Blasphemous, and unholy.

A farce, like everything fucking else about her.

“Get over yourself,” he started, low, stepping forward into her personal space, threatening, menacing, his hackles raised and bristling, “And grow the fuck up.”

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Olive was soooooo over the vicissitude of emotions this particular man made her feel. The entire gamut of feelings ran through her mind each time they interacted, from anger and rage to sadness, even relief and a small, smug amount of pleasure — but Olive did not like herself around him, and how she couldn't trust her own feelings around. It had begun to dawn on her just how poisonous he was; shaded in more and more through every interaction, every single word that was uttered to her. Olive would have none of this, certain this was the work of the devil. The work of a man damned, and determined to bring the whole world down with him.

When, at long last he did not reveal his moniker, Olive had her indignant scoff already unholstered. "It is clear to me now that the Gods revealed your face as a warning," she sneered, her tail curling in between her thighs as her anxiety heightened. The sadness she felt just moments before was gone; and it was these exact emotional extremes that Olive sought to avoid. "Your aura is dark, and your future is darker." she cast a look of disdain upon him, gathering her shoulders close to the nape of her neck. She looked almost ready to attack, but attack she wouldn't — Olive turned around, making it clear she was about to leave, and before she scurried away (hopefully kicking up a fair amount of dirt in his direction) the woman twisted her head back 'round to say one last thing.

"I will now take my leave of you, hopefully for good!" and then, she was gone.

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Just like he already fucking knew—

She couldn’t fucking handle the truth.

The delusional rarely could.

He watched, solemn and stone-faced, as she made a show of leaving.

More words.

More phoney fucking bullshit.

Dirt kicking up behind her, childish and petty.



He let her go.

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