11-17-2018, 06:04 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He’s said it before, but – he was never supposed to return. His world had a hard stop, walking into the ocean, following her to the depths. The completion of an overlong life, and a welcome one. He had not struggled when he sank. He had struggled when he woke on the same shores he’d died on, in a new-but-same body, with a head full of blurred memories and wet, orange eyes looking out at a world he should never have seen again. He’s come to terms with it, more or less, but it doesn’t mean he’s particularly happy. Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t sought solace in one of safe havens. He doesn’t seek death, but he doesn’t run from it, either. He moves in the forest, seeking nothing in particular. It still feels odd to him, at times, this new body – as his memories returned (not all of them – there are names on the tip of his tongue, faces that are blurry, indistinct) he recalled the aches and pains of his old age, how he’d been gaunt with flecks of gray in his black coat. It had hurt to move faster than a walk, and even walking had hurt, if it was damp, or about to rain. This new body, though, is that of a young man – he is sleek black again, unscarred. No gray yet mars his muzzle, the only color on him is the jack-lantern glow of his eyes. The air is cold, but his bones don’t ache. He’s almost healthy, in body if not in spirit. Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |