Monsters Calling Home

 He slipped into the narrow strip of rock, shoving his bulk through the divide, leaving tufts of fur and rubble in his wake.

 Callanwolde knew where Arya’s den was. He’d been here before.

 The cavern dipped, giving way to a small opening with a skylight view of the stars thanks to a crack he’d put in the wall.

 He loomed over her sleeping form now, a delicate ivory body meant to be stained.

 Dipping, he caressed the edge of her ear with his teeth. “Wake up, little dove. We’re leaving.”

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He eclipsed the stars above like her own blood moon, teeth hedging her skin like a receding tide.

She woke; her fur prickled. This was the inevitability about the Bull - where he would go, she would follow. Arya rose, white tangled into red, nosing his fur to answer her tired curiosity. “Are they dead?”

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 “No.”

 Not for any lack of desire or sense of lasting loyalty. But there wasn’t time, and even if he could take most of the unbalanced inbreeds, Callanwolde was a man of singular priorities.

 He led her from the cavern, and then from the Hollow itself, turning to gaze at the moon-saturated mountain meadows, now dead from the cold.

 Let Harkon come find him. The Bull would no longer bend and bow to lesser kings. “We need to fly now, little dove.”

 It was then he started to run.

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She flitted along his side as they stole away from the valley. Each stolen stride wove their futures together, one that, in hers, his, or theirs, would be a weeping red ledger.

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