And the myth goes like this:
Oh before humans, before you conformed and molded, there were your parents. Then your grandparents. Great-grandparents. Then what about previously? Ancestors, the loss of connection entangled by an entirely new word proposed by proclaimed historians and behavioral scientists to fill the blank of time unwind. Long, for the first to clench their hands, were Adam and Eve. Giants, equal to the size of mountains, the planet could only be filled by so many. Of course, procreations change the vast living space into one sea of gigantic crowds. Can you imagine how nosy the bunch were? Elated, THEY shrunk the sizes for laugh and whimsy. It was too nosy, then. Now? Still nosy, but the predecessors are tinier and more frail, opposed to danger and psychotic swirl of joy.
“Of course not,” replied the other.
Soil and humus, ever so generously, co-willingly, preserves the remains of what was thriving: breaking, eating, devouring, consuming, gluttonously and ceremoniously dissecting down the components of carcasses and rot. And it feasts. Living and coordinating funguses to rejoice in rapture. What was left on the platter are bones, coprolites, teeths; all in white and brown and everything in between. Take it all and leave nothing left except what you cannot consume for what comes after us will still take the remains for granted!; said the haughty hearth.
Greedy, the pit of Mammon is.
Maybe the titans of their age were hunted or got hit by a meteor, none could ever tell how it disappeared and became extinct in a flick. THEY is question and THEY is answer. But the traces of nomadic odyssey they hushed was a mine of gold. The mutants, people say, were lost and consumed by griefing the loss of caregivers they used to have.
Wailing, whining, shrieking. Every night and day becomes a contest of . Entertained, THEY must be.
“Pain, pleasure! Oh, Aeons! Just do whatever is easiest to shut them up!”
So they took out their frustrations on those mutants.
Ashveil sneered at the graphic drawings the title didn’t warn, lump of papers thrown to the corner of the room to rot from the flies’ persistent bugging, ears flicked in irritation and imaginary stone lodged snugly in his throat from discomfort anew. “And that’s how hybrids began to exist? Blasphemy!”
“Mr. Ashveil.” The monkey wrapped its tail on the windowsill, dangling in familiarity of being upside down, coming down from his high from watching the sunset on the rooftop. “Humanity has always been strange. But believable, wouldn’t you say? Zorse imagenae was a crossover of horse and zebra ones.”
Ashveil’s sight was never there. “If only hybrids never existed.”
The monkey knows. Always will. “Mr. Ashveil ….”
His voice was but coherent mumble. “What if hybrids are also imagenae?”
Mr. Narrator’s eyes drop, tone also doing the same, loud and bold in the dingy room. “Only a few are able to live for Amber Eras. You'd long cease to breathe,” the monkey sighs, conversation inhaled by the building pressure. “and I hate that thought of yours. Selfish me.”
The detective bit his bottom lip, nails digging his blackened arm as the pain soothes him from his overactive thoughts. Mr. N notices, of course, yet said nothing when the man straightened his back and leaped from his chair, instinctively withdrawing his white beloved hat before slamming the door shut, legs being led by the restless pounding in his head.
Just somewhere, Ashveil grinds his teeth, feet striding the forming thickened layer of snow, kicking the formed water under the watchful moon. Somewhere warm.
Hybrids are a genuine rarity, often bought and auctioned as pets by the IPC employees and wealthy executives, feeding their bottomless ego by shackles and pumps of intersectional blood. He’d been handed over time and time again, and none of his caregivers actually cared. The heat and pooling desire were merely brushed off, taken advantage of as he cried blood, or milked semen sold to forcibly create another flawed generation of hybrids.
He remembered the ophthalmic speculum shoved between his lids and the jougs and the garrote on his skin he was never able to peel raw his skin tissues. Mortifying. Watched it live when the clinking of glass and mockery never drowned the moans of torture and pleas he witnessed and heard, nearly ripped off his ears and tails and wished he died in their stead.
Everything else is history. That’s the only memory he hasn't been able to forget yet because the phantoms still linger unwelcomed all eras long and he isn't able to tear off of his physical body, hiding the ears under the hat’s safety.
Ashveil feels like he’s burning, his body heat melting the harsh winter as he conquers the empty streets, lamps flickering to warn him out of the dark forest he’s heading into on the outskirts of town, brain not synchronized with his body, each region fighting with itself and another. Trudging deeper and becoming one with the dark. Oh, dark. His eyesight is clearer now the barrier of blinding light is gone, branches of trees black and spike like the ones he saw before. Leafless.
From the corner of his eyes, he can see a pack of wolves coming from their hideout. Under the tree lodge. From the highest trunk. More and more pouring to welcome their vulnerable and easy prey right into their nests. Pairs of eyes intensifying the pounding in his head and heart, knees buckled as sweat bathed him in the cold. Then it rings. More than the mishap he solved. More than the error audio broadcast. Stop. Stop! Oh they’re gonna eat me! Oh my body isn’t my own! Who’s in control here, really? Aeons! It reeks of blood, trickling to the white ground. Is it his? And the clear— Tears. And it stings. Blood. Blood. I’m going to die pathetically. In the jaws of my kin without their humanity and full form. Augh! Ah—!
The wolves howled. One by one. Long. Outracing each other. A greeting. A parting.
The scent hits you all at once like a ramming train. It’s extremely sweet and light, the type that makes you addicted and want more. Like a macaroon. Crisp, saccharine sweet, and perfumed you almost thought your five senses are working overtime at the same time. But it’s real. It makes you giddy, an electrifying shiver runs down your spine as your pupils dilated with need, neck craned towards the source and soon the body follows along.
But it also makes you worry. A lot. The wafted scent came out of nowhere in the middle of a snowstorm and extremely dark environment. And it belongs to someone! Lost? Certainly not; human brains function properly and they’re not stupid enough last time you checked. Sacrificed? It’s been ages since the last time it happened. Ditched? That’s the least you want to believe, but the possibility is there. You’ve seen and pitied many on the brink of demise and granted them quick, painless death before gobbling them up.
But this one is the one you’re certainly not going to gobble up just like that. You’re going to savour it as much as you can as a different kind of hunger emerges through.
You exhale in great need and chuckled, tail thumping excitedly along the pristine path. “Never thought the day would come.”
The chain of howls perk your ears up as you give chase to the target of your desire, weaving seamlessly the trees and shadows like an eel on land. Whoever it is, you don’t want to let them go. Ever. You’ll take great care of your family, safe and sound with the pocket dimension you could surge forth whenever. The scent is intoxicating as you feel yourself drool, mouth watering and eyes glossy like a lovesick fool.
And a few steps before them, you halt. The chain of howls stop as the pack of wolves depart upon your arrival, ears catching the heartbreaking whimpers and sobs of a man curled up into a ball, head pinned to the ground like he’s guilty of life, fingers sink in his hairs and tug, strands ripped forcibly as you struggle to not stagger within the shadows.
Overwhelming, you’re sure. Cloying sweetness. Iron. Pheromones. Tears. Blood. Cry. Snow. Wood. Crisp. Heat. Cold. Desire. Pity. Dizziness. Huffing and puffing. Need. Sobs. Snot. Whimpers.
Your bloodied claws from digging your fingers hard seem to snap the man out of his spiraling thoughts, head whipped to where you are as you feel yourself entranced under his spell. A hybrid. Wolf hybrid. Pretty tall for human standards. His terrified and ashamed grey eyes locked onto yours and you don’t want to break the contact, face decorated with tears and blood trickling his forehead. Such a pathetic, pitiful, gorgeous man.
He must’ve heard you as his eyes widened at your soft exclamation, the forest itself holding its breath in this sacred moment. “Lovely.”
You are larger than he is, you know. Ignoring your raging desire to pounce and ravage him, you slowly plant your heels closer to where he froze. The tearful man is wearing black turtleneck shirt under a white tailcoat with split sleeves that hides his plain, unclaimed nape you will soon have for yourself. His black pants and black knee-high boots are damp from the kneeling in the thick snow. Left, white gloved hand finding its way to clench on a dangling fang necklace. Real tooth from the looks of it.
You lower yourself down, crouching low to not frighten him more until you’re fully in his sight. You can see his eyes battling both his thoughts and fright, hoarse windpipe asking you a question in whisper. “Who are you?”
You plant yourself to the ground as he feels his wariness calming down. “I am Fenrir, a beast of the past. Your kin’s—”
At the mention of kin, the man’s hands find their way to his throat as you called out for him, carefully prying off his solid grip as his breathing became uncontrolled.
You don’t know what to do. You’re not well-informed in neither hybrid nor human behaviors. But … you can’t just leave him like this, sighing before you stalk closer to him. “Forgive me.”
With one hand, you pin both his hands down as your other hand tangle itself in his long, dark hair, massaging his scalp to relax him before licking his neck and nip your fangs to prick his skin as he jolt from the pain, combing down to the red streak and purple end, finding out he has a lock of braided hair going back into his hair clip which has the design of two interlocked crimson and silver crescent moons on the left side while you’re at it.
“Wha— I—” You feel him struggling under your close proximity. “Get off me—”
“Sssshhhh it’ll be okay.” You rub circles on the back of his hand, still brushing his luscious hair. “Trust me, please.”
“I didn’t mean to.” You purse your lips, whispering apologies and sweet nothing in his ear. “Sorry, sorry. I’m really sorry.”
And he slumped his body forward, you take his fallen hat and wear it on your head. Your soothing saliva successfully puts him to sleep, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pace of peaceful slumber. The man’s ragged breathing is steady now, body heat starting to cool down unlike his burning ember one before. This wolf hybrid, whoever he must be, seems like struggling with his pooling heat and from his eyes, you know he’s terrified of the cycle for reasons unknown, but you can help him get through his and, maybe, in return, he’ll help you with yours. Yes, you’re Fenrir, but you’re not a brute. You don’t want to force him to do things he doesn’t want to, much more terrified of. It just leaves you with a gaping hole of self-loathe.
So you carry him back with you, hike up to your nest, making sure the bridal style is comfortable for him, and take a detour from the falling avalanche, a routine habit by now. The air is thinner and the pressure is heavier, but with your ability, you ensure he’s snuggling closer to you. Safe. In front of the flat stone, you shift his weight on one hand with the other stretching out, creating a vacuum rift only you can access as time and space distorts inside.
