OAKS

It doesn’t quite feel safe to venture into the greener lands of Beqanna again. He’s spent so much time at the edges of the living world, trying his best to avoid anything that might be affected by his volatile powers. Sulking in caves, lurking at the edges of the desert and plains, the edges of rivers – he’s seen plenty of life, sure, and watched the changing of the seasons, but his own life has been a lonely one.

He hasn’t been around others in quite some time. His head has hung low with the weight of his heavy heart.

He should have been handsome and lively, adventurous like his forebears and eager to wander.

He should have been more.

Instead he is this, lone and lorn. In truth, he is not precisely depressive, not morose as the world he knows. But he expects to find no joys or light in his surroundings. At best, he can only admire everything from afar – he dares not draw too near for fear of encouraging a speedy death to it all. He does not quite understand yet that his powers only affect things that are already set to expire.

Today though, he spies something which encourages him to break his usual practice. Much like his recent venture into the more open plains of Pangea, his curiosity urges him forward from the darker shadows of the trees and into a more amenable section of the forest. He had seen her there, a glimpse of reddish hue, nearly fantastical against the swathes of silver and burnt umber.

Something in her movements, standard as they may be, spoke of an assurance that he lacked. She is unafraid of her surroundings, well-equipped for what may come her way, and he wonders what it must feel like, to be so self-assured.

Oaks chuffs quietly to her, still a slight distance away with a tree or two between them. He shuffles the half-corporeal wings on his back and lifts his head a little, though not much. He doesn’t dare to pretend he has the right for her attention (but he’ll try to catch it anyway).

“Pardon me,” he ventures, taking one small step closer. “I couldn’t help but wonder why you’re out here alone.” Even he can recognize the pitiable attempt at conversation, but he can think of little more to say to someone who seems somehow above him. Hopefully she does not brush him off as easily as she seems to shirk all other cares.

OAKS

In Oaks there is no pride or assurance; his life so far has not been a joyful one. His birth had been difficult on his mother, already sickly before he’d arrived and worsening when he was around. She had tried and desperately wanted to love him, coddle him as she had been in her youth, but his unseen powers made that dream impossible.

In a time where illness was rampant and it seemed that nearly everything was failing and fading and falling to darkness, Oaks grew up alone. While his eyes are bright, a gentle reddish gold to accent the crimson undertones of his predecessors now reborn in his rich coat, they are recognizably haunted. A sadness lies within them – not an inward sorrow that a melancholy soul might harbor, but a sort of disappointment. He seems to look upon the world with guilt and regret, all too aware of everything’s eventual end.

Perhaps that’s why he has lately been drawn toward others who, despite the bleakness of it all, seem to thrive. In this case alone, it's a wonder to him how Citadelle’s very presence has not summoned all comers from whatever depths they must linger.

He does not see her as ragged or worn – not even the chip from her horn is imperfect. He has seen creatures at their most woeful state, with the light and life fading from them at varying speeds. He finds her captivating for different reasons, perhaps, but enchanting all the same.

When she turns to him, her green eyes vibrant amid the rosy hue of her face, his heart stirs a little. He dares not imagine those eyes growing dim, that lovely coat fading to gray; she is vibrant and he is glad. Her voice, to him, seems gentle – he cannot sense the hidden blade in it – and he finds that he wants to hear more.

“Then,” he begins as she reaches for him, tucking his chin almost apprehensively (it’s not often others willingly grow close to him) but not reluctantly, “I will try to meet your standards.” Anxious to remain in her company, he tries to shirk the awkward feeling that his words might sound like cliche flirtations, the sort of sweet promises a would-be lover would whisper to their quarry. While he is quite enraptured by her, even at so sudden an encounter, there is not yet a sense of infatuation.

“Unfortunately, most others prefer to avoid my company,” he continues, a nervy sort of tone tinging his words. His wispy wings shuffle again, tucking a little closer against his shoulders and over his back as if for self-assurance. “I would hate for you to waste your time on me, so I must wonder: what does keep your attention?”

OAKS

If only everything were as carefree as this. If only he didn't have the constant dread living like a tumor in his mind. If only it could stay this way, where the only thing he is focused on is her.

That is not, however, the sort of luxury Oaks has ever been afforded.

He wants to be closer to her, wants to share her warmth in the still air of the forest. She seems like a beacon to him, something to look for through the weighted murk of his mind. She reaches toward him and, foolishly, he begins to reach out too. She stares at him as if inviting him closer, tempting him forward. For just a moment, he succumbs.

His darkened muzzle nearly meets hers again, the pitiful reach of a child deprived, and he can feel her breath against his own. She praises him and he wants to believe her, but it's that mild stirring of the air that reawakens his caution.

Stay away, he reminds himself.

With a soft inhale that carries her scent with it, he slowly withdraws again, ears turning back as if to apologize. Her request, so sweet like rain in a desert, further taunts him.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he says in a nearly strangled sort of voice, unwilling to meet her eye. “But I…” I don't want to leave you. This puerile fascination has seized upon him with a fervor he does not or cannot recognize. All he knows is that she is pleasant and mysteriously intriguing to him and he suddenly craves her attention.

Citadelle. The name is soft and strong at the same time, invoking a sense of timelessness somewhere in his mind. He wonders what sort of impression his own, simpler name lends when he presents it. “My name is Oaks.” To him, his voice sounds so much flatter than hers, plain and mundane and not at all alluring like he wishes. He's had little chance to practice such charms in his own time alone.

“I will stay,” he assures her quietly, though even as he says it, he spies a shift in one of the plants nestled in the brush near them. A simple fern, typically evergreen and hardy even in this colder weather, has begun to fade. Several of its fronds begin to sag, a brown hue creeping up their tips like a bloodstain as they curl in protest to their hastened demise. He sighs. “But I'm afraid you'll find we will not be alone,” he advises with a slight nod toward the visibly ailing shrub, “for death has always been my companion.”