Dark fur ripples as the large feline reaches forward along the bark of a thick branch in a lazy stretch. A wide yawn reveals long white canines, quickly masked when the yawn retreats. As the panther awakens from slumber, the branch shivers beneath his shifting weight, leaves trembling at the ends of knotted twigs. Gathering himself in the lee where branch meets tree, the predator sighs, yellow gaze lifting to stare contemplatively at the canopy above him. Moments later, a small wren flutters from above, soft trill announcing its arrival.

Any observer might find it exceedingly odd to see a songbird nestling comfortably into the thick fur of a panther’s back, but to the pair, it is a familiar morning ritual. A purr rumbles deep from the panther’s chest, demonstrating his content.

For so long now, the wren has been his closest companion. His only companion, truth be told. He could have gone home. Returned to the dense, misty wood of his birth. But as grief had passed, so too had time. Time advancing, marching forward by the day even as he fails his final promise to his brother in each of them.

Promise me you will stop hiding and try living, he had said.

Tucked in the safety of this lee, with the dappled sunlight and Wren as his only companions, he had failed.

It’s easier not to think about. Not to imagine what might happen if he returned home. It’s easier to exist only in the moment, to nap and hunt in the trees.

It should be easier, at least. But the morning weighs heavy. Heavy enough to draw the dark feline from his perch. To send him leaping to the forest floor as Wren flutters nearby. For a moment, he simply breathes. Without conscious thought, he finds himself padding forward, drawn to the small pond nearby. He’d chosen this tree for it’s easy access to the water, but now, rather than drink, he simply stares at his reflection. The panther that stares back is familiar.

The transition begins, and a moment later, the panther is replaced by a tall blue roan stallion, a dark patch on one hip fading into dappled black and roan along his barrel and shoulder. But the face that peers back is not his own.

No, it is the face of the brother he had failed. The one he continues to fail. Though the grief and rage had softened over the years, he doubts the shame ever will.

ion

in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain

It is the clatter of bones he hears first, overlaying the rustling thump of steps over damp leaf-litter. As he shifts to peer at the approaching stranger, his features are a mask of languid curiosity. The whispers of anguish that have long filled his soul drift away, leaving behind an almost youthful lassitude. He had always found it easier to bury his problems in the face of strangers.

They always asked too many questions. Questions he would greatly prefer not to answer.

Wren clings closely, a faint trill of alarm fading quickly as he burrows into the tangled strands of Ion’s mane. The beast of bones rattling alongside the woman is unnerving in a way he cannot quite put a name to. He’s not certain he wishes to either.

As his gaze shifts, he’s quick to note the master of those bones is no less unnerving.

Her question stirs him, causing him to wonder just how much she had witnessed. He had not been schooling his features then as he is now. He never could when he found his reflection. So he waits for perhaps a beat too long before answering her question.

“I am speaking to you,” he replies slowly, as though it should be obvious. He suspects she would not fall for such an obvious deflection, but he has little interest in telling her the truth. He considers turning the question back on her, but ultimately, he has no particular interest in going in such a trivial circle. “I’m Ion,” he continues after a moment by way of compromise. “Who are you?”

ion

in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain

Though he does not look like a monster, he often feels like one. But not the kind of monster she lusts after. No, he is the lowest kind. One of his own making, one he can easily loathe (it’s so much easier to hate oneself than to confront the shortcomings that make it so).

It is this loathing that hides the truth of his power, at least to himself. He had never bothered learning how to harness it, because what is the point? The panther is his escape, nothing more.

Perhaps she would teach him, in whatever manner she was capable of. Or perhaps she would find his spirit too broken and realize the futility of her interest.

Of course, none of this is apparent to him. He sees only the strange woman flanked by her equally strange creation and wonders what it is that had drawn her to him. Her words, as meaningless as his own had been, tell him little. Her face tells him even less, masked by the distortion in her understanding of reality.

Her question baffles him, but he cannot seem to help the dry sarcasm slipping easily past his tongue. “My feet.”

He wasn’t quite certain how she actually wished him to respond, and in his confusion, he grows defensive even as his humor becomes more biting. But then, her humor had been no more understandable than his own. “I suppose talking to you is merely a side effect.”

Ion continues to chew on the words she had spoken, mind stuck on something. And then it clicks. Too, she had said. Why?

“You… came here to talk to me?”

ion

in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain

As she twists the conversation to assuage her boredom, her intentions grow ever more clear even as they remain shrouded. It does not take a great deal of cleverness to deduce what she can do is great indeed. She puppets the bones with an ease and broad disinterest that proclaim both proficiency and the monotony of a skill too well learned.

And for some unfathomable reason, she seemed to believe he could relieve her boredom.

The trill of his companion distracts him momentarily, Wren’s unease clear in the way he tucks himself deeper into the tangled strands of Ion’s mane. Returning his attention to the pair before him, he eyes the grotesque golem at her side as she continues, the predatory bent she had given it clear in the eyes of a fellow predator (even one who has never truly reveled in his predatory nature). He doesn’t try to interrupt, instead listening with a surprising clarity and carefulness not usually ascribed to those like Ion.

“I can hunt,” he finally agrees after she laments her own inability to do so without a body not her own. Though she twists the words, he understands almost instinctively. Even as she attempts to imitate with her puppet, she seeks those who could provide the thrill and adrenaline she so clearly craved. How, he is not certain - perhaps there is more to the power behind those bones than he yet realizes - but he is certain she is not lying. “And you believe my body would give you such joy?”

It is a probing question, one that does not make it clear whether he would find the prospect intriguing or not. In truth, he does not know himself. Though he had hunted in his feline form, he had never killed for sport. Had never felt the need to become a predator for predation’s sake alone. So he could not say he understood, nor could he say if he wished to or not.

What he does know however, is that, by its very nature, it must be fleeting. He has hunted enough to know it cannot last. And it does make him wonder. “Or could it be that you have demons of your own you’re trying to escape?”

It’s undoubtedly foolish to speculate, but he simply cannot fathom that such hunger could be borne from boredom alone. It seems that time and grief does not always fully erase naivete.

ion

in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain