Musings

Wolfwood Castle

"...It's raining again. Deep, soaking rain, not the kind that's soft or just on the surface, but the kind that leaves everything wet for days. Even the air. Which makes it damn hard to smoke, by the way. Not that it matters anymore…I quit smoking long ago.

I'm gnawing at a ragged nail. I need a damned file…should have brought one with me. These nails are so brittle, just like this whole body. Human bodies are, you know. I need to ascend…

It's smoky in here tonight. It's smoky in this place all the time, but a wet smoky tonight. I'm smelling vanilla, so I know it's him, even without looking up. He just appears, sometimes, and then you hear him, or see him, or smell him…always vanilla. Either way he's there, that presence. That…indismissable presence.

The smoke's heavy. His smoke is heavy. Suffocating, as is so much about him…Heavy, everything's heavy. Thick. Solid. Nothing translucent, always opaque. And deep…his eyes, even through his vanilla smoke, can cut and swallow you all at once. No…they cut you, and then swallow. The brightness, the luminous spark sears and slices, and then you fall into those depths of velvet blue. Like the blade of a knife on velvet, so sharp and so sweet.

Morguline, that's his name. It's as old as he is, I imagine, and just as immortal. If names ever suited anything, his suits him. It's worn and lived in, like old boots, and they've been together forever. There's something you should know about him. He's different. He's wild.

Wild in the sense they all are, those who can shift, those with the tighter connection to Gaia. There are a few of them about here, so much different than those back home, but all much the same too. I miss them. I miss the wildness, the running and cutting and singing. There are touches of it here. Like in him. But it's never quite the same.

Here I'm around my other half, those humans, in their world of steel and glass. I feel myself pulling away from the wilderness inside me, and it frightens me each day. I need to touch the wolf against, need to run. I'm thinking of Harley now. I forgot to let him out before I left again. Damn.

So I rise and shuffle towards the door. And those eyes are on me. I feel them. Make's me feel hot and cold at once, and terribly self-aware, as they shouldn't. I shouldn't feel like this at all, especially not because of him. I'll get angry with myself later, but that's nothing new. He never stares, never. I don't think something could keep his interest for that long. Save maybe blood, but then his look would be a quiet musing, the brooding nature of his years. Those eyes have seen so much and I'm just another flicker in the slow burning fire. Not even a flicker. I wonder if he even knows my name.

It doesn't matter, I suppose. Not much matters to me, anymore. You learn apathy; you learn it alongside wisdom and fairness. It's your sword and your shield, too. Especially when you live alone. You forget the doting, absent-minded tendencies of co-dependence, the simple pleasures of love. And I do mean simple. That's how everyone is in “love”. They're simple. It's much to weakening to be desirable, I'm afraid, and I've those who meddle with it tend to be just a weak and varying as the emotion itself.

And those leeches, and their “love”? I really don't understand how anything so cold can love. I'm just as sadistically and masochistically inclined as the next demented soul, but their constant drama ceases to amuse me. They're so far away from everything, from the earth, from life…from anything that resembles the wonderful, fragile feeling of a warm heartbeat. So cold, not matter what they do. And why would “we” ever want to be like that?

But now I'm losing track of things. I need to get home.

It's raining. Constantly…”


	Wolfwood Castle "...It's raining again. Deep, soaking rain, not the kind that's soft or just on the surface, but the kind that leaves everything wet for days. Even the air. Which makes it damn hard to smoke, by the way. Not that it matters anymore…I quit smoking long ago. I'm gnawing at a ragged nail. I need a damned file…should have brought one with me. These nails are so brittle, just like this whole body. Human bodies are, you know. I need to ascend… It's smoky in here tonight. It's smoky in this place all the time, but a wet smoky tonight. I'm smelling vanilla, so I know it's him, even without looking up. He just appears, sometimes, and then you hear him, or see him, or smell him…always vanilla. Either way he's there, that presence. That…indismissable presence. The smoke's heavy. His smoke is heavy. Suffocating, as is so much about him…Heavy, everything's heavy. Thick. Solid. Nothing translucent, always opaque. And deep…his eyes, even through his vanilla smoke, can cut and swallow you all at once. No…they cut you, and then swallow. The brightness, the luminous spark sears and slices, and then you fall into those depths of velvet blue. Like the blade of a knife on velvet, so sharp and so sweet. Morguline, that's his name. It's as old as he is, I imagine, and just as immortal. If names ever suited anything, his suits him. It's worn and lived in, like old boots, and they've been together forever. There's something you should know about him. He's different. He's wild. Wild in the sense they all are, those who can shift, those with the tighter connection to Gaia. There are a few of them about here, so much different than those back home, but all much the same too. I miss them. I miss the wildness, the running and cutting and singing. There are touches of it here. Like in him. But it's never quite the same. Here I'm around my other half, those humans, in their world of steel and glass. I feel myself pulling away from the wilderness inside me, and it frightens me each day. I need to touch the wolf against, need to run. I'm thinking of Harley now. I forgot to let him out before I left again. Damn. So I rise and shuffle towards the door. And those eyes are on me. I feel them. Make's me feel hot and cold at once, and terribly self-aware, as they shouldn't. I shouldn't feel like this at all, especially not because of him. I'll get angry with myself later, but that's nothing new. He never stares, never. I don't think something could keep his interest for that long. Save maybe blood, but then his look would be a quiet musing, the brooding nature of his years. Those eyes have seen so much and I'm just another flicker in the slow burning fire. Not even a flicker. I wonder if he even knows my name. It doesn't matter, I suppose. Not much matters to me, anymore. You learn apathy; you learn it alongside wisdom and fairness. It's your sword and your shield, too. Especially when you live alone. You forget the doting, absent-minded tendencies of co-dependence, the simple pleasures of love. And I do mean simple. That's how everyone is in “love”. They're simple. It's much to weakening to be desirable, I'm afraid, and I've those who meddle with it tend to be just a weak and varying as the emotion itself. And those leeches, and their “love”? I really don't understand how anything so cold can love. I'm just as sadistically and masochistically inclined as the next demented soul, but their constant drama ceases to amuse me. They're so far away from everything, from the earth, from life…from anything that resembles the wonderful, fragile feeling of a warm heartbeat. So cold, not matter what they do. And why would “we” ever want to be like that? But now I'm losing track of things. I need to get home. It's raining. Constantly…”