lack of passion, leave the dumb boy alone

Set after this thread. Come look at what the cat dragged in.

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His sleep was restless and fitful.

His dreams nothing, and strange.

Nebulous.

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He awoke to the cooing—clucking—of chickens.

The sound of dirt, grass, and twigs underfoot.

He closed his eyes.

His ears pressed back.

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 The Harbinger dozed towards dawn, only settling enough when it seemed the stranger would pull through the night without complications.

 In the morning, he remained, the obstinant crow of the resident rooster rousing him from that thinly veiled state of sleep. Violet eyes blinked, taking in his sand and cream companion. 

 “How are you feeling?”

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“Fine.” He grunted. His voice hoarse. Low, with sleep.

He swallowed.

Licked his lips.

His mouth and throat dry. His stomach no longer cramping.

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 “That's good.” He replied, getting up. He indulged in a luxurious stretch and a jaw-cracking yawn. 

 “I'm going to see if I can make that crowing rooster my breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

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He watched him stretch. The line—the angles, and curves—of his white-lined spine juxtaposed with the shadows and the darkness of the surrounding stone. Branches—overgrown roots—grew. He saw the curve and swell of his ribcage beneath the black of his fur.

He heard—and he saw—the snap, crackle, pop of his jaw as he yawned.

He kept himself flat.

His stomach against the dirt.

His head—his jaw—draped over his foreleg.

His ears matted back.

He wanted to roll over onto his side, his back, belly-side up, and paw at him for attention.

He didn’t.

‘I'm going to see if I can make that crowing rooster my breakfast. Would you like to join me?’

“Whatever.” He grunted.

He stood up.

His own stretch a meager, paltry imitation of his.

He shook his coat, to follow him.

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 They set off at a leisurely pace, Madmortigan compacting his stride to prevent the weakened wolf from straining. 

 He'd established the stranger wasn't much for loquacious conversation, but he stretched, a reaching spindle of connection, sociability, and peace. “I don't believe I know your name. What is it?” Who are you? Who do you want to be?

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He was led.

And he followed.

Slow, at first, with bruised, tender ribs, muscles stiff with disuse, weak, in a post-recovery state, but then faster as he moved.

His shoulder brushed—caught, dragged—against his. Brief, accidental movement. Blond against black and against white.



He kept his distance, after that.



His shoulders—broad, sloped, and slouched—tensed.

‘I don't believe I know your name. What is it?’

His ears pressed back against his head. His tongue against his lips. His voice still hoarse with disuse, with sleep, with the phantom press of teeth and jaw around his neck.

“Daighre.” He said.

His name was Daighre.

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 Daighre was a good God's name. He offered the title up to the Wolf, whispering it in prayer before his ears flicked forward and he gave his moniker in turn. 

 “I am Madmortigan, Harbinger of the Labyrinthian order.” The pack and all its potential hung between them like a dew-soaked spider web, brimming and weighted. 

 But he said nothing more. Instead, he allowed their shoulders to bump once again, a lingering touch, then he pulled away completely and picked his way down to the bug-laden roots the chickens so loved.

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He watched him, from the corner of his eye.

His name whispered in fervent prayer. As a quiet whisper, between his teeth, against his palate, against the ridges of his mouth. The soft, quiet sound of tongue and lip and cheek and gum, all in mid-movement. A white muzzle, outlined by black.

His gaze turned outward, when he spoke.

His eyes to himself.

He grunted.

Wound tight.

His ears still pressed back, tight, against his head. His shoulders hunched and furrowed around him.



He stumbled, when he touched him.



He followed him down.

His jaw clenched. His tongue useless, in his mouth.

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 He had seen the healing injuries that were more than a filthy stream's aftermath, scabs still deciding whether or not they'll scar. The Harbinger did not comment on them. He set to hunting chickens. 

 The fowl had grown sparse with the occupation of the pack, but a few persistent stragglers remained, too settled or oblivious to know anything else. 

 Madmortigan instructed them on the details of his teeth and a deeply hidden ire. It flashed quick, extinguishing the speckled bird with a wringing pop.

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The flash and flurry of mismatched feathers, airborne in their hurry. Clucking, cooing, and crowing put to an abrupt end between sharp teeth.

He dropped to his belly.

His head on his forelegs.

His tail brought close.

He watched him. A limp broken neck, wrung between his teeth. A pink mouth, white fur, and black fur, too.

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 Daighre made no move to collect a chicken of his own. So the Harbinger dropped his catch between them so they could share, laying down across from his recovering companion. 

 He nibbled the curled, scaly toes before he started plucking feathers. 

 “Do you have any particular interests?”

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His voice was hoarse, again.

He straightened his neck. He cleared his throat.

“Not hungry.” He grunted, when he came near, the chicken dropped between them. Its head at an angle different than its body.

‘Do you have any particular interests?’

He watched him.

The crunch of little bones between teeth and jaw.

“No.”

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 “Nor do I.” He replied with an affable shake of his head that turned feral, teeth finally meeting flesh. 

 “I prefer to pepper my attention - to hone my curiosity and skill in as many areas as I can. Such practice befits the Gods we are.”

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‘Nor do I.’

He snorted.

His head rested on his paws.

His vision finally turned away.

He looked at the shadows of the looming surrounding stone. Its structure overgrown with moss. The once stone floor chipped and broken. Smashed and destroyed. Leveled dirt left in its wake. Twisted tree roots, misshapen and bent, growing down the walls.

He listened.

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 Daighre did not agree or disagree, his focus trained to the idle shapes of scenery. 

 Getting up, Madmortigan left the half-eaten chicken, licking his muzzle of sinew and blood. Should Daighre find his appetite, he would have a ready meal. 

 “I'm very glad you're still with us.” The Harbinger said, remembering how twisted and roiling ill he'd been just hours before.

 Closing the distance between himself and his prostrate companion, Madmortigan dipped his head and stroked his tongue, broad and flat, between the other male's ears.

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The drag and rasp of his tongue between his ears. His muzzle—his body—close.

He stayed still.

His body tensed.

Flat, against the earth.

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He watched him depart.

The corner of his eye.

The drag and press of his feet.

His footfalls fading.

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