(no subject)
the hunter's tale, Nine/Rose - AU, PG
They say the forest isn’t safe., 855
They say the forest isn’t safe.
That its shadows distort the mind,
the mist playing with the light,
curling into the senses, and snuffing out reason,
making otherwise brave men turn tail and run
from unseen ghosts.
But he is not.
Afraid, that is.
Then, (oh so long ago now)
he was a scientist, a soldier, a man
who stole a grey-blue horse with a mane that matched his eyes
because he longed for the unknown dangers and adventures of the world.
Wanted to right wrongs like a hero, like a saint,
like a doctor who patches up the weak, making them better and stronger and fantastic.
Now, (a soul that feels every year of 900)
he is a hunter, a seeker, a man
who braves the dark without hesitation
because it is not out there in the wild wood but inside him as well.
Trapped in his chest like a knot, like a rock,
like a second heart dead and cold and waiting.
And so he goes, deep into the weald
following only the bend of the path and a tendril of moonlight
dipping down from the sky, turned to a sleepy bruise with the setting of the sun.
He hunts her.
He seeks her.
He needs her.
The girl, the witch, the wolf
of his dreams and nightmares,
the one whose hand fits his,
curving over his palm,
wrapping around his wrist,
intimately familiar with every callous and crease, tendon and bone.
His eyes narrow, his nose flares, his jaw tenses,
rangy muscles at the ready, energy trapped in his lean frame,
waiting and waiting.
Just there -
To his left
a dash of red cutting the stygian air.
To his right
a streak of blonde whipping in the wind.
Ahead the warm glow that heralds his salvation.
He runs.
The sharp branches, the gnarled roots, the swirling mist,
reach for him, clawing and scraping at his skin, always trying to keep them apart
but he pays them no mind, the pain of their torments only a fraction of that he would feel if he could not have her.
He runs.
Swift and fast, like a storm rushing the horizon, sweeping through the valley,
destruction in his wake that he abides only because it carries him onward to her.
The screams of the fallen are washed out by the thrum of his pulse in his ears,
so rapid and resonant
it is as if his forgotten second heart had awakened
for the promise of her skin.
The forest breaks into a wash of starry light and there,
in the center, is a house in blue. Light spills from the door
she has left open for him.
Inside her smiling face, her tongue pressed just so, teasing.
Her hand beckons him in. And she need not ask more than once.
My love, my hero, my doctor.
He hears the words in his head and sees them in her laughing eyes.
The fire glows behind her, within her, wrapping around him and holding him to her as if he were the fragile one
and she the protector.
Then, (so long)
he was a father, a brother, a man
who forsook his family and his kind
because they were not for him, not really and truly, not in the way that she is.
He lit the fire. He let them burn. He listened as they screamed.
Then he ran as the buildings fell around him, embers singeing his skin.
The only thing left behind were his footprints in the ash.
Now, (forever)
he is a friend, a lover, a man
who embraces her, loves the brilliant and beautiful woman she is
He undresses her. He touches her. He listens as she sighs his name.
Then he lays her down, moving in a tangle of limbs and lips and love.
There is nothing in his world but her.
She is a creature of the Earth,
tongue playing over her teeth as she grins down at him.
She is feral and wild in his hands,
shining and alight with passion.
His head spins with a brush of her fingers, the Earth too perhaps.
Sixty seven thousand miles an hour
and he doesn't know how he knows, but he does.
And they fall, fall through space and time,
though they have not left each other’s skin,
and he prays to gods he doesn't believe in anymore
that if he could just slow it all down,
the turning and the spinning, then it would be enough.
But it won't.
There can never be enough time.
He wakes with the dawn and she is gone.
The remains of the fire smolder in the hearth
and the chill of the forest seeps in through all the cracks in their ramshackle house.
He steps out into the morning light and smiles, at the trail she has left him.
A scattering of rose petals,
a discarded basket,
a swatch of her red cloak snagged on the brambles.
Messages to lead him to her.
In the distance, he can hear her laughter,
feel her eyes on him
watching,
waiting.
He will find her again.
He is the hunter.
They say the forest isn’t safe., 855
They say the forest isn’t safe.
That its shadows distort the mind,
the mist playing with the light,
curling into the senses, and snuffing out reason,
making otherwise brave men turn tail and run
from unseen ghosts.
But he is not.
Afraid, that is.
Then, (oh so long ago now)
he was a scientist, a soldier, a man
who stole a grey-blue horse with a mane that matched his eyes
because he longed for the unknown dangers and adventures of the world.
Wanted to right wrongs like a hero, like a saint,
like a doctor who patches up the weak, making them better and stronger and fantastic.
Now, (a soul that feels every year of 900)
he is a hunter, a seeker, a man
who braves the dark without hesitation
because it is not out there in the wild wood but inside him as well.
Trapped in his chest like a knot, like a rock,
like a second heart dead and cold and waiting.
And so he goes, deep into the weald
following only the bend of the path and a tendril of moonlight
dipping down from the sky, turned to a sleepy bruise with the setting of the sun.
He hunts her.
He seeks her.
He needs her.
The girl, the witch, the wolf
of his dreams and nightmares,
the one whose hand fits his,
curving over his palm,
wrapping around his wrist,
intimately familiar with every callous and crease, tendon and bone.
His eyes narrow, his nose flares, his jaw tenses,
rangy muscles at the ready, energy trapped in his lean frame,
waiting and waiting.
Just there -
To his left
a dash of red cutting the stygian air.
To his right
a streak of blonde whipping in the wind.
Ahead the warm glow that heralds his salvation.
He runs.
The sharp branches, the gnarled roots, the swirling mist,
reach for him, clawing and scraping at his skin, always trying to keep them apart
but he pays them no mind, the pain of their torments only a fraction of that he would feel if he could not have her.
He runs.
Swift and fast, like a storm rushing the horizon, sweeping through the valley,
destruction in his wake that he abides only because it carries him onward to her.
The screams of the fallen are washed out by the thrum of his pulse in his ears,
so rapid and resonant
it is as if his forgotten second heart had awakened
for the promise of her skin.
The forest breaks into a wash of starry light and there,
in the center, is a house in blue. Light spills from the door
she has left open for him.
Inside her smiling face, her tongue pressed just so, teasing.
Her hand beckons him in. And she need not ask more than once.
My love, my hero, my doctor.
He hears the words in his head and sees them in her laughing eyes.
The fire glows behind her, within her, wrapping around him and holding him to her as if he were the fragile one
and she the protector.
Then, (so long)
he was a father, a brother, a man
who forsook his family and his kind
because they were not for him, not really and truly, not in the way that she is.
He lit the fire. He let them burn. He listened as they screamed.
Then he ran as the buildings fell around him, embers singeing his skin.
The only thing left behind were his footprints in the ash.
Now, (forever)
he is a friend, a lover, a man
who embraces her, loves the brilliant and beautiful woman she is
He undresses her. He touches her. He listens as she sighs his name.
Then he lays her down, moving in a tangle of limbs and lips and love.
There is nothing in his world but her.
She is a creature of the Earth,
tongue playing over her teeth as she grins down at him.
She is feral and wild in his hands,
shining and alight with passion.
His head spins with a brush of her fingers, the Earth too perhaps.
Sixty seven thousand miles an hour
and he doesn't know how he knows, but he does.
And they fall, fall through space and time,
though they have not left each other’s skin,
and he prays to gods he doesn't believe in anymore
that if he could just slow it all down,
the turning and the spinning, then it would be enough.
But it won't.
There can never be enough time.
He wakes with the dawn and she is gone.
The remains of the fire smolder in the hearth
and the chill of the forest seeps in through all the cracks in their ramshackle house.
He steps out into the morning light and smiles, at the trail she has left him.
A scattering of rose petals,
a discarded basket,
a swatch of her red cloak snagged on the brambles.
Messages to lead him to her.
In the distance, he can hear her laughter,
feel her eyes on him
watching,
waiting.
He will find her again.
He is the hunter.