dirt and blood;
The air sits low and stifling tonight, no room for the slightest breeze, and yet she moves through it like water – gracefully, slowly. It does feel like home, if home could ever be one place. The place one grows into their skin and understands who they are. Collecting state lines crossed couldn’t change that, not that she would want to.
Moving through the world does not mean much to someone who has this much power, but then again, it wasn’t like there wasn’t a reason for it. And despite the power, the ability, it did mean something.
It was hefty with meaning, and desire, and, regrettably, escape.
There is an undeniable comfort to find the same leaves and the same winding vines coiling at her presence. Muscle memory. She would never want to escape this, the humidity or the glowing eyes in the darkness. She is content, as she often is. The dirt under her feet is welcoming, reminding her that there isn’t a single bone in her body that isn’t unsure.
To say that she doesn’t have a fraction of dread within her would be a lie. To throw herself back in the jaws of the beast she ran from did not come from uncertainty but from precisely the opposite.
Behind her, the light of New Orleans bleeds into the sky, into the dense clouds hiding the blur of the full moon.
It is not good to be back. It isn’t bad to be back. It simply is.
Another line crossed.
The creatures of the night buzz and click in conversation – she distantly listens. Placing her hand on a tree for leverage, the bark breathes underneath her fingers. She moves deeper into the swamp, and the ground starts to give way and bleed water with each step she takes. It doesn’t swallow her.
An atlas written into the ground, seeping with direction. The waters beckon. Unhappiness hangs in the air. Misery with blood caught between its teeth.
She takes a step and the water reaches her ankles.
Unfamiliar.
A branch winds down and under, towards her. It comes quick and indelicate, a sharp swipe, but it doesn’t touch her, stopping only centimetres short of her cheek. The swamp growls at her.
But it wouldn’t do that.
It takes more effort than usual, but she feels around her, with all her senses and all the green in the swamp. Every insect and every breathing thing grazes her mind, the moss brushing against her calloused hands. The buzzing and clicking has stopped, now all she hears is the snarling discontent of…
Something.
It is not entirely one thing.
She reaches out, the vines once more twisting at her command.
Behind her, she feels resistance, the leaves shuddering and refusing to move further.
So, she turns.
A new pair of glowing eyes meet her own, a hue of crimson. Consumed by discontent. Reeking of blood.
She is not scared. Instead, the branches recoil and the vines fall away – some of the leaves seem to explode into shards, beyond her control. She raises her hand, anyway.
“Come out.”
The growling stops.
It feels like the minutes stretch into hours while she looks into the unblinking eyes of the creature, but she knows better than to push it. Impatient, she is not. Instead, she intuits what she can. Besides it being a tall, large beast of some sort, its sentience is overwhelming – enough to rival her own power and enough to consider her, stalk her, listen to her. Enough that she cannot command it.
The darkness nudges forward and the void threatens to swallow them whole – a mass of black fur emerges, moving carefully and slowly through the water. Their breathing replaces the growling. The water ripples with its stride, blood drifting into the water.
“Wolf,” she whispers to herself.
It snarls and she catches a glimmer of teeth, blindingly white even in this dark. She doesn’t move, hand still raised. She knows what this is.
“Man,” she says, louder. The word leaves her mouth, and the swamp echoes it back towards the being in front of her.
The wolf barks once – a strangled sound – and turns away, cowering so that its claws touch the water. The water ripples again, and bubbles, and bleeds.
“An offer,” she steps towards it.
Piercing eyes find hers through the darkness once more, consumed by fear and anger. It stares intently at her raised hand and the leaves of the swamp shudder even in this dead air. The silenced creatures scuttle far away.
It happens too quickly for her to even realise, but it is in front of her in one stride. The water kicks up and wets the hem of her dress, but the ground keeps her steady, still. Its snout breathes hot air into her face, her curls fluttering with every breath. Its mouth opens with a growl, dripping drool and blood into the small gap between them, and she sees her own reflection in the red of its eyes.
The flowers of the night explode, seeds falling onto the wet ground. The vines wrap tight onto any surface they can find.
Unhappiness bound up into a creature of this size. A lot of unhappiness for one man to bear, only for this creature to rip through him and hold him up in his discontent. Feeding him. Consuming him. A man caught up in a faulty equation of revenge and guilt.
Delia dares move her hand forward, into the fur on its cheek.
She feels his soul under his skin, in his breath, in the heat. In the trees and in the dirt and the water and the blood.
When the sun rises, a man shudders in her arms.
