[private] she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed; wilt

[sochi]

SOCHI

Her life has settled into an easy rhythm—which she finds both relaxing and distasteful all at once.

She has never particularly loved things that are easy. She has never enjoyed letting the rest of her life fall away, leaving her with nothing but the outlines of it, the steps for which she is to follow. It leaves her feeling strangely empty, all of the fight having bled out of her day to day. There is still the pack, and she knows that it is growing. There is her children, and Risk, and she takes enjoyment in them all.

But the peace is disquieting.

Sochi leaves the Cove in the evening, slipping away in her tigress form. She wonders if perhaps she will be able to quench her thirst with the hunt. It has never failed her before, and she feels something like the tendrils of excitement stir in her belly as she pads further and further from the place she rests her head.

When she is near the forest, she almost feels like herself again,

She picks up on the scent of nearby prey and nearly twists to begin following it when she catches sight of something else—something new entirely. It is enough to cause her to pause, enough for her to lift her leg and instead turn to the other side. She moves slowly, cautiously, toward it, her feline eyes narrowing.

“What are you?” she growls into the darkness, trying to figure it out for herself.

she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed

@[wilt]

[wilt]

WILT

He is entirely alone. The forest whispers to him that winter is near, that the snow will choke the life from him if he does not prepare. But his body feels so heavy in its woe. Occasionally small animals come to collect the nectar of his pitcher plants or gather the seeds from his vines. Wilt breathes a slow sigh as he grabs a rabbit by its leg, missing its throat entirely. The thorn-covered vines snap its spine so easily before stuffing the soft morsels of meat into his mouth. He hates it here.

But a sound nearby pulls him from his thoughts. Half of the small rabbit dangles limp from his jaws when he turns to look at her. He must look so strange, surrounded by his cocoon of grasses and autumn flowers. What is he? Wilt tilts his head and rises onto those slender legs to examine her for a few more moments. Slowly, the flora guarding him shrivels and wilts to the forest floor, leaving only him.

“I am Wilt. I am..alone,” he explains as he eagerly draws closer to her. She smells like others, strongly enough that he thinks she might have a family. A family means a mother. Then, she could be his mother, if he could only keep her. The boy grins excitedly and shuffles himself closer to press into her side, mindful of his thorns and the gnashing fly traps in his mane and tail.

“Or you could stay here with me! Forever!” he proclaims, grinning wide enough to display the black gums and midnight fangs lining his jaws.

@[sochi]

[sochi]

SOCHI

Sochi has seen plenty of monsters in her lifetime.

She has seen the ones that crawl along their belly on the ground. She has seen the one that have taken to the sky. She has seen the monsters of the deep and the monsters with endless rows of teeth.

She had faced off against all of them and has never once been afraid.

But this—this she has never seen before. It is not fear that she feels but she would be lying if she did not say there was some kind of trepidation. Something that skittered along the back of her neck as though telling her that there was something wrong here, that something bad was going to happen.

That she would be the one to pay the price.

He comes closer and she takes an automatic step back, more instinct than anything, her feline eyes narrowing as he rises, both equine and not. He comes closer and she tries to move away again, but he is everywhere at once, immediately, the vines and the plants pressing into her sides.

“Let me go,” she growls, trying her best to press away from the monstrous child.

She shows her teeth, hoping it will be enough to get him to back away.

she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed

@[wilt]

[wilt]

WILT

Something about the look in her eye reminds him of the way Starlust had looked down at him. He doesn’t know what disgust is, but he recognizes it well enough in this moment. To him, it is an expression that says, ‘I do not want you.’ His brows furrow and he lets all his little vines weave their way further up her legs until they find the delicate pulse there beneath the flesh of her throat. If she does not want to be like a mother to him, then she could be like the rabbit.

“Why won’t you love me? I could be so easy to love,” he whispers, his voice wavering between rage and sorrow as he watches her. The trees themselves lend their roots, erupting from the ground and flinging dirt with their might. The serpentine roots all gather, coiling their impressive mass around her torso to squeeze her tight. Could she love him now? Could he force her to? Wilt blinks and he is surprised to find angry tears trembling down his small cheeks.

“It doesn’t have to be like this!” he begs her. And then he sinks some invisible claw into her heart to bleed the hope out, replacing it with fear and dread in its place. He devours her courage readily since it feels something like the warmth of love he cannot find. Finally, Wilt steps back and the vines begin to roughly tug at her legs, testing how much strength it would take to rip her apart like his rabbit.

A small sniffle escapes him when the tree roots rip her hindleg from her with a pop. It takes mere second for the rest of her to come apart. But he leaves her head attached to her body, for now. He keeps those pitch-black eyes trained on her face as the vines bring the bits of her skin and muscle to his mouth to delicately feed him. Wilt allows the first shaking sob to rattle through him and the vines hurry to stuff his flytraps and his pitcher plants with more scraps of Sochi. If he cannot be full of love then he will be full of their meat.

“I could be so easy to love,” he mumbles gently to himself as the blood drips from his chin. The gnarled roots release what remains of her and then slither back into the ground. His vines coil over his shoulders in a sad little embrace.

@[sochi]