⚠️ warning: mature content, including gore, abuse, mental illness( small scale),sexual relations, and some beastial play between protagonist and the wendigo
"Heed this child of thorn,
From whence they came,
'Twas the darkness born.
Unite with beast...
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Fakir's hand holding mine as he drags me through the cottage, has my full attention. I can't bring myself to even take in the architecture and design in more detail. My eyes are solely focused on how his long lean fingers completely envelop my own. He's paler than I. The skin almost glowing when the sun flickers across it through the windows we pass. It's such a startling contrast to my lightly tanned skin that's colored with hints of the orient.
Mom's half Japanese. Unlike me, she actually looks it. The only thing she didn't get from her dad is his eyes. She has her mom's blue green eyes, and until yesterday, were my eyes as well. It's my grandma that I feel I look like the most.
Dad's right. I don't really look like him, but I also don't really look like Mom either. Her hair is like black silk and she's tall with a willowy body. My skin tone is kinda like hers and we have the same nose, but I personally feel like grandma is who I take after.
I remember visiting my grandparents in the summer as a child. They lived on the west coast far, far away. Grandpa was a very serious man and liked to stay in his study. Grandma though loved to spend time with me. She use to bake with me and taught me how to crochet. They both died within months of each other when I was seven. I never knew Dad's parents. He never talks about them.
Fakir walks in front of me, his dark silky hair ruffled. His yellow eyes gleam with a pinch of life and a dash of excitement. When he looks back at me briefly before we turn around a corner downstairs, those glimmering eyes melt down to a simmer. Worry seeps into his expression and he gives me a twitch of a smile as if to say 'it'll all be okay'.
I smile back as best I can. The last thing I want to do is put off my worries on him. I feel so useless. Nothing new really. What am I really good at? Dreaming? What can I actually do with that?
Around the corner and down the short hallway to the last door on the right before the back door, is an interesting scene. First and foremost, I'm blinded by sunshine. The three windows inside the kitchen are wide open, letting in the morning sun in all its glory.
When the light fades to a more tolerable setting, I'm met with an incredibly domestic scene that kind of throws me off. Indigo is sitting at the kitchen table, a old rectangular relic that has a stack of rat nibbled novels under one leg, reading a newspaper. The table is a little crooked as the stack of books are just a touch too high. Indigo himself, though, is magnificent to behold. His horns gleam in the sunlight, his bone glowing like he's some magical demigod.
Christian is standing by the stove in black slacks and sans shirt, with a frilly pink apron on. All the counter space is cluttered and messy. Stacks of books, cauldrons of clotting concoctions, cooking utensils, dissecting utensils...a dead rat.
