[CLOSED] | I'll say you haven't met me,

[alankazam]

WHO: Alan + Beleth, Alistair, and Kolgrim Jr.
WHAT: Touching reunions.
WHEN: Drakonis.
WHERE: Outlying Camp Shady.
NOTES: The touching may be with fists.

 

He still isn’t certain how he’s been talked into this.

Alan would’ve been fine never meeting the man. Would never have even had to know that he was here. Through the years and a child's eyes, the faces have long since unravelled.

The facts came later, sharper: Wardens. Cousland. A Blight,

He would have been fine. He is. But Beleth was so — invested — had such faith in the idea, and if he's fine (and he is, because there's no reason not to be, no alternative,) then this is only proof.

His posture changes to approach the camp; stride lengthens, shoulders press out angular. When he arrives, his expression wears its usual distance. If you don't know him, it's difficult to notice the new tension in his jaw.

"Hello," A glance up, unblinking. "It's been a long time."

 

 

Comments

[alankazam]

Alan staggers back, wheezes, bent abruptly at the middle. His eyes are shot wide and wet; Beleth's not the only one crying.

Instinctively, he reaches for it, the shape of that other soul — but there’s nothing there, nothing but the smooth face of air, and fingers that should stretch into feathers, into claws, instead hook only with the form of their own stubborn flesh.

It’s panic, or it would be, except that Alistair’s fallen. He's fallen, there’s an opening, and you can take the wolf out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out of the increasingly strained metaphor. Alan’s preparing to dive back in on only his own stubby merits, until at once Beleth’s in the way. She’s a little thing, but really, so is he; she blocks enough of his view to force him to pause.

It’s hard to say how much of the words even land, his face contorted into something a bit beyond reason, bobbing to hunt for a way around her. But the meaning’s clear, and he isn’t so far gone yet. Alan twists suddenly, to stalk a short distance from them both, head lowered at an unnatural angle.

He says the most hurtful thing he can think of, and he can't say which one of them it's meant for:

"What did you think would happen?"

Another moment, before he huffs and takes off into the snow. It's the edge of the treeline before something cooperates, and pale skin finally spools out into rough fur. Something big and black and angry disappears into the woods beyond.

It’ll be a few days before he’s back.