Yuku free message boards

There was an intense moment of doubt, something that had been shoved aggressively away when she came to his door. In a flash, the world turned back. He remembered everything; how they had been, how she had been, how the world had been so good to him and how he had thrown everything away in the end because he knew he was dying. So they could hate him before that came so that when it happened they would be strong. Love is a painful thing. And he understood that pain and that grace by meeting her eyes, her beautiful eyes that had been like emerald and fire and a thousand different meanings all at once. If everyone could only see the way she loved him, maybe they would understand.

And that ghost, in the soul-black night of his death (perhaps morning, he had no sense of time anymore) could do nothing. He was locked into the ground like a tree, though his feet were nearly gone in the darkness, and while the wind tossed her fur and hair he was unmoved. She had begun to turn gray. Had he lived this long the red eyed male would have changed as well. He was not a true black and perhaps he never had been. Despite his past, despite the lies, despite it all, there was goodness in him. And she had been the first one to see it, truly.

Damian’s arms moved a little, and his body shifted, but he did not really move. In the darkness, his eyes were glowing. They were seeing though, and his pupils were clear against that glow. His voice was incredibly sane; saner then it had been in life. It was quieter, too, and full of all regret he had lied about abandoning. “I’m so sorry.”

Chimera was truly bound to Damian, as he was bound to the land. When he had come here, he had made that promise on the blood of his father. Syliat had bound them in her demonic scrawl, and he had etched himself into the place from then on. The triskeles on trees, on the throne, that was his mark. The inverted cross on her neck, burnt and half the thing it was, spoke bounds. He could barely fathom what had happened—he could remember nothing of the fire, or of his children. He was oblivious because all he had known was the darkness and the sleep. But he could read her, and the forest was speaking to him with a thousand years of wisdom, a million eons of eyes and bodiless knowledge. The forest was more alive then he had realized when he had been living alongside it.

When she collapsed, he did move. It was liquid, fog, wholly unnatural. The black male was at her side without thinking, hunched so that what had once been back-long hair fell towards her, fell but never touched. His faintly glowing eyes were concerned, but when she spoke he settled to sit, though he did not need to. But it was a natural reaction, and so he let it come. The former alpha, former madman, spoke on. “I don’t know why…I was…I was sleeping, I think. It was something like that. But then…” He trailed off, face confused. He could barely recall. It seemed like it had been an eternity ago. “Something woke me.” On the date of his death? Oh what more could there be then fate and love and all that lives and breathes in the world?

Damian did not know all those old lore’s. He had died too soon to hear many of those stories; the ones he knew were stories of the west. Dragons and gangsters, a walking goliath that took the shape of a bear, a man, and perhaps even a tree. Native stories from the lips of elders in the packs he had made stops in before moving on. Once he had heard a story about a black wolf with red eyes who came from the dusk and walked to the grave. It had been over before he realized it was about him; at that he had laughed, and he had laughed as he confirmed their story and left before dawn. He was always walking and perhaps that was how his daughter came to know the beast known as The Walkin’ Dude. That was her father, that it was. Walking with that chagrin and loathing, walking on and on until he had been struck by the one that got away. And she, like an angel, led him here. Led him to his father. Led him to a thousand other things that would come. If he could, Damian would thank Thavardo (Maria, her name is Maria) for all she had done.

He was silent at her words, stilled. For a long time he stared blankly ahead, as if the answer would come in the rock face of his den, in the darkness, in the sound of the wind which said nothing more then it had before. The answer did come, however vague it was. Patience. His eyes turned back to her face and he found the words almost as timid as her voice. “I don’t know.”

The oblivion was bliss, but he believed in truth as so much as the rest of the world. Not so much as his son, as Damian blinded himself to certain truths. Ahren had never done that, even when his father had exiled him for it. The only salvation for Ahren was that he had been born out of sanity. His mother had been sane. Damian half mad. Misery half mad. They led to the madness of their brood, who now lay dead in the ground. And in some small, insignificant way, Damian had known. Because he wasn’t totally blind. He had known, just never accepted it.

“I know.” Quiet, sorry. She had changed before he left. Changed just enough so he knew something was wrong. And he knew because he had seen it before. Once, a long time ago. When Ahren was still a boy, and when he had not yet torn himself from those demons he had tempted, tried, and used. “You acted differently towards the end. We both did.” He shifted, uncomfortably, and turned his eyes up to her. “They died, didn’t they?”

There was a blow, somewhat like a shot to the head, and it made him blink. The names were distant, unknown. He had not been awake for all of this, nor able to fathom what he was hearing. Lifting a hand in a motion to be quiet, he rose and looked to the black forest. The moonlight split out from the clouds and lit the tree-line like fae fire. Even though he had no fur, no form, what had been his guard hair glowed ethereally in the light. He did not extend his hand—he could not bear to be unable to touch her, as he knew would be true. Instead, he spoke. “Come. We must talk elsewhere.”