i’ve been both a saint & a viper

Darkness burns deep in his bones; hatred plumes from his very nostrils, fueled by rage deep within his chest.

He comes to the forest in the middle of the night, brandishing the wounds of the Alliance along his blue mottled body - he had failed (part of him knew he would, of course, just like he had failed in the caves what seems like eons ago; when the demons crawled across his flesh and he murdered them one by one, he had failed. The way he tore Faulkor into pieces: he had failed). He almost wishes he had died there in the arena, with Jamie’s sad yellow eyes looking down at him helplessly, offering him as somber tsk as he gave into the nothingness.

But nothing of the sort happened. He had been sent on his way, revived somehow and without injury that would cause death at all. Balto could hear them trapezing through the wood beside him, high off his battles and filled with fury for not spilling enough blood. They swarm him viciously, tearing at his skin with sharp teeth (but so gently, because they care about him so), reminding him of their presence and the fact that he would never die.

Never die, they whisper hauntingly in his ears, like a lover in the night.

The stallion whinnies hoarsely and loudly; they disperse into the shadows, writhing somewhere beyond the trunks of the redwoods and watching him with beady, lustful eyes. He calls for her, the Queen, with that obvious red mark that grabs at his throat like bloodied hands, branded by the faeries themselves.

“Sabra,” he chokes into the night, his voice grisly and tough. He is not himself at the moment - something lingers that is far heavier than his own demons, something that stretches and grows within him, something like hunger. He is not himself and when he is far from who he remembers to be (who is he, even?), it is her he seeks.

He does not notice the eclipse; not at first. It is hard to look to the sky when the darkness and the shadow already hug him so closely, intimately. His head is throbbing, pounding in a way that is worse than after his recent battles and there is an audible groan of pain that leaves the onyx of his lips.

Somehow, within the darkness, her eyes fall on him easily.

The stallion steps forth, though in the slight opening of trees there is no real light to reveal his presence. The darkness of his legs melt into the shadow, his face appearing more black and less mottled blue than perhaps the last time she had seen him. He hardly notices the child. Balto’s black lips ripple unpleasantly, uncertain if the tone in which she addresses him is her way of telling him that she had missed him, or if she truly thought he had failed her.

For a moment, he has nothing to say.

Then, finally, almost desperately, he speaks in a tone that is garbled and dry: “What do you wish from me, my Queen?”

Balto

i’ve been both a saint & a viper

He feels it - the dark is alive with shadows and monsters, which is nothing knew to the near soulless stallion that stands expressionlessly before her. The movement in the darkness is typical along the peripherie of his haunting stare. His own voices that mock and motivate him are nearly always just that - voices - but they often would take shape of shadow and demons when they decide to crawl along his spine and wrap their talons around the delicate bones against his legs. Balto, of course, does not realize that their presence his now known by others - no longer only seen by him (and perhaps Sabra) alone.

Though he is tired, battle-worn, and terribly hungry, there is comfort in seeing Sabra. She is sharp and curt in a way he is not shocked by - her electric eyes are looking past him, no doubt feeling the same eyes on them that he is aware of. Even in the dim light of the eerie ring that hangs above the forest, she is bright compared to him. She understands his burden, his darkness, his demons. She accepts it fully without question and in the midst of the chaos in his mind, she is a guiding light. She illuminates the scene around them in an instant and Balto finally allows his eyes to fall to the girl that is beside her, uncertain and searching for comfort, but not finding much in their presence.

You won?

It feels like an accusation across her lips, as if she already knew the answer. He snorts sharply, his gaze clicking back to her as his black ears fall into the equally black color of his tangled mane. He lifts his chin abruptly as the chittering of voices arises in a chorus behind him (he assumes no one can hear them as always, but perhaps the eclipse has changed that). The movement reveals the blood-red V that cups his throat harshly, their whispers dancing around his ears. All that rage and you still failed. Weakling.

“No.” His reply is curt and without emotion, but there is no mistaking the way his jaw clenches tightly and how the muscle in his cheek jumps with the tension.

Balto follows her without question, waiting for the girl to turn to follow what he believes to be her mother. It could easily be some filly that Sabra found abandoned in the forest, but the wolf does not care for the reason she is here. He only notices, he realizes, how terrible his hunger is as he falls into step strides behind him, his terribly blue eyes now nearly black with how large his pupils have become.

Swallow them whole, a voice whispers into his ears, hot and putrid. He grimaces, ears pressed firmly into his neck, remaining silent and following Sabra dutifully further into the forest.

Balto

i’ve been both a saint & a viper

Following Sabra proves easy, but he cannot help but notice that the near-blinding pain in his head only intensifies with each pulse of her light, her figure staggered as the illumination plays tricks on his eyes, making time appear to move slower.

The sounds in the forest are much more alive with the coming of the eclipse and its endless night. It does not occur to him yet that others can actually hear the movements of the creatures within the shadows and when a cry echoes through the forest, there is a soft recognition in his nearly-black face as Sabra turns her head towards it, as well as the filly. The sound is dismissed, however, whether it is real or induced by the demons of his (or her) mind.

He had put his failure in the Alliance solely on himself, let it fester in his chest as rage and it now blooms in the darkness that crawls across him, the hunger that ravages him. At Sabra’s comment, however, he becomes thoughtful.  It seems promising and he finds his mouth watering at the mention of sacrifices and the idea of more. Something in him balks at the idea, finding it grotesque that it would please him in such a vile way. But something else, something darker and stronger, presses into the idea without a thought.

Balto’s crystalline eyes click to the girl at Sabra’s side, hungry and nearly black.

The intense stare is broken when Sabra’s mouth finds his cheek, drawing him from the girl and bringing his attention to her lovely opaline face. The scent of her is illuminating - rich and intoxicating, far more so than the young child he had been eyeing. The stallion swallows hard the incessant hunger, trying to focus on anything but the temptation to slice their skin to drink straight from their veins.

“Jamie, the victor.” comes Balto’s breathless reply, his voice tight; rigid as his body as Sabra keeps close to him. He pauses, remembering the brief time after their battle they spent in the forest, before returning to Sylva and its Queen. “He wields the power of a magician now, in Pangea.” Her touch makes his skin tremble, but his voice remains unwavering. “And a woman,” he says, suddenly thoughtful, “from Tephra. A fair opponent, but useless - just as any of her offspring will be.”

His gaze flickers down to the child, appearing emotionless but inwardly fighting the urge to lunge at her to tear at her throat. The thought makes his stomach churn for a moment, but then it is replaced by such a blind hunger that he does not find himself repulsed by the idea of the action. Hesitantly, as if unsure, his weight shifts towards her - still close to Sabra where their embrace does not break.

Balto