the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
The night is dark and endless when Woolf lifts his heavy head, green eyes seeing through the crowds and to the island. His mind whirls tirelessly as he remains silent, his mulberry face impassive as ears prick in the thicket of his mane. He can see it there, in his mind’s eye, nestled into the belly of the ocean, its very solitude calling to him. There is something else—something dark that hangs above it, pregnant with things that should be important to him—and he frowns as he sorts through it all. He can see them, his half-siblings, and although he has never seen them, although he has never met them, they are his.
(They are all his. These foolish children of dust and love and hate. These children who spawn and spread outward, seeping in their misery and sowing their own misfortune. They are his charges. They are his.)
For but a moment, he tilts his head, lips pressing together, as he pulls back the shadows around the island, as he dips his fingers into the cavity of it. When he finds the root of it, the swirling blackness that lashes out, that has left wounds upon his own flesh, sorrow upon the cheeks of the blood of his blood and bone of his bone, he frowns. Dovev. He finds the cave where he rests, where he dreams, where his child lies, and although anger is foreign to Woolf, protectiveness is not. They are his. All of them—his.
In one moment, heavy, feathered hooves sink into the mulch and the needle of the forest, and the next, he finds them wet with saltwater, the sand of the beach crawling up and claiming his powerful legs. A small gash, familiar as his pulse, opens up and bleeds upon his shoulder, a minor, shallow cut—one that he feels but does not notice. He is single-minded in purpose, pulse thrumming, as he steps forward, moving to where he knows he will find him, where he will find the devil who wrecks so much havoc—
He pauses, nostrils flaring.
His gaze moves to vegetation that grows upon the slopes, the heartbeat he feels there, the screaming mind that reaches and claws at his own. He is not sure whether it is irritation or curiosity that drives him, although it is certainly not compassion. Ultimately, it does not matter because the result is the same. He moves until he finds her and when he does, he does not bother to act as if he does not belong there. “Wallace,” his voice deep and echoing in his throat, dipping his head in greeting as if they had met long ago.
Woolf
