#serpentcalling2

He holds my gaze. Firmly. Takes me in. There’s a glint in his eye that says, 'That’s right, I’m Robin Goodfellow, shrewd and knavish sprite.' Like a dare.

-Kaene(about Eryn)

"I wouldn't call my orphanhood a tragedy; My parents are not dead, and they are not cruel--they just didn't know what do with me. That's alright. I learned to do without them."

"[He's]A mess of a man begging for me to piece him together[...]I will do it...[I will] rebuild him even more beautiful than before. I will make him mine and devour him whole."

My eyes follow Doc as he fusses with Corin’s bandages. I can tell from this distance that she is trying to turn down the help. She and I aren't that different, after all; same story, different manifestations. She is softer. Quieter.

Doc is insistent. Not with words, but, he doesn't really offer a chance to tell him no when he is decided he is needed.

I watch his face. It's like stone.

The wind turns and blows a stream of tobacco smoke in my face.

I glance to the side, and catch Kaene’s blood-red gaze.

I flinch.

“Jesus Christ!” I curse. “Are you all like that?”

Kaene let's the quiet linger. Takes another puff of the cigarette. “Hmm. Just the ones you know.”

He looks away. I follow his eyes. He’s also watching Eryn.

“You two go way back, huh?” I take a deep inhale from my joint. Adjust my wings against the wagon frame.

“We’re--.”

“--Cousins.” I finish.

“Hmm. So you’ve heard of me.” There's humor in his tone.

I scoff, breathe out the smoke. “I've known you longer than I've known him.”

“Not like that, though.” Kaene taps some ash from the end of the cigarette, and crosses his ankles.

“No,” I admit. I’m not sure what exactly he means by that. But, I’ve never had a friendship that was remotely close enough to know details like that.

He sighs. “I knew him before he was tame. Still a punk with something to prove.”

I laughed. “No way. I would have called it the other way around.”

“He’s the wild one, if you're comparing us.”

I straighten. Incline an ear. Take another puff of my joint. “Is that so?”

“Let me paint you a picture. When we met, I was pulling him off some kids who took him for easy bait.” He smirked at the memory. “Knuckles bleeding, face muddy, I swear someone lost a fang. He was 12, I was 9.”

My wings drop a little, as I strain to picture a young and feral Eryn Hearthkeeper. I really can't.

“Guess he and I aren't so different,” I admit.

“Just different battlefields.”

My brow shoots up. “literally? Or figuratively?”

He smirks, as he lets out a stream of smoke. “Depemds in your angle. But both.”

“Oh?”

“Eryn spent his life making himself digestible. But there's nothing digestible about thorns.”

I cross my arms. “I don't know if I can see it. He's so. I don't know. Unassuming.”

“That's the point. But if you remain in his parameters…you will. Eventually.” he flicks away more ash. The embers crumble in the sand.

I shiver. “Is that…a good thing? Or a bad thing?”

He tilts his head. Rolls a strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger. Considering his answer.

“Depends on if you're on his good side or not.”

“Say that I am.” I stiffen.

“If you're not afraid for your life, I think you're safe.”

Safe. Safe? I don't know what that feels like.

“And…if I'm not?”

He takes a deliberately long inhale of the cigarette. Lets it sit in his lungs a few seconds longer. “You would know for as long as it takes him to kill you.”

He drops the butt, stomps on it, and with the same heel, disappears.

I scoff. “Kaene! You can't just-”

He's already out of earshot. Cloak billowing in the wind.

Asshole.

I turn to glance to Eryn again. He’s staring my way with an amused smirk. He’s handing Corin another blanket. She is rambling about something.

Kaene just told me Doc is both dangerous and safe in one breath. Is he one or the other?

I shudder, and turn my collar to the wind. Breathe in the joint like it's a lifeline.

I don't like when I can't put people in meat boxes. Doc doesn't fit into any box.

For a man so adept at killing, my eyes are remarkably soft.

It’s something people notice when they look at me long enough. Not at the scars, or the size of me, or the way my hands know what they’re for. They notice it later, almost by accident, like realizing the blade you feared has been set down carefully beside you.

I don’t blame them for the confusion. I’m confused too.

I was trained to end things. Efficiently. Cleanly, when possible. I learned early how much pressure it takes to stop a heart, how fast blood leaves the body when it has nowhere else to go. Those lessons don’t fade. They live in the muscles. In reflex.

And yet.

I have spent just as long learning how to keep people here.

How to slow bleeding with my palms. How to listen for breath when it’s barely there. How to sit with someone who knows they are dying and not lie to them about it. How to hold a life without trying to own it.

That’s the part people don’t expect.

They think softness is ignorance. That if you’ve seen enough, you harden. That gentleness is what you have before the world teaches you better.

But softness, I’ve learned, is what remains when you’ve seen exactly how bad it can get—and decide not to add to it.

My hands remember every life I couldn’t save.

My eyes remember the ones I did.

If that makes me a contradiction, so be it.

I am still here.

Doc stiffens. Eyes dart the horizon. Like a ground squirrel at its station. He’s no longer listening to me. Something else.

“What is--”

“Sh.” It's low, short. He doesn't spare a glance or gesture.

Must be a Fheldín thing? He’s sniffing something. Tilting his head, listening.

A blur of shadow, peels from behind a garbage can in front of us. Doc catches it by the throat.

I back away. Stare at it.

It's four-legged, leather-skinned and slimey. Not any bigger than a dog. Eyes pitch black. It's squirming in Doc’s fist. He studies it too, the hint of a smile curling his lip.

He studies a little too long. Lets it struggle. He tightens his grip around it's neck.

“You didn’t think I would let you, did you?” He coos, under his breath. I barely hear it.

He stares into its eyes. It's angry. Jagged-edged claws reaching for something to skin. Screeches in protest.

He tsks. “Follet blood isn’t as tasty as you think.”

He grabs it by the head, and pulls back. In one effortless motion, it's head pops off. Black, tarry blood sprays Doc’s face and jacket. It's body limps.

He tosses the head like a tennis ball and discards the body like a used towel. He wipes his face with his sleeve. He rolls his shoulders, and turns to me, briefly.

“He would have skinned you alive,” he notes. “Flay Beast from the upper rungs.”

He rounds the corner of the building, out of sight, blood still dripping from the leather of his jacket.

I stay behind a moment to stare at the lifeless body. Who knew something could die so quickly? So quietly, yet…gruesome?

He hums under his breath. Something old. Off-key. I don’t recognize the tune, but it’s got a rhythm you could work to.

I follow him, finally, my boots crushing the gravel underfoot. It feels too loud in the charged quiet. There's blood smeared near the sole of my boot. It stinks.

He crouches near the seam in the veil, inspecting a hairline fracture in the surface like we’re back on task. Pulls a tool from his kit. Gets to work.

He looks easy. Relaxed. Relieved.

“These smaller faults are a pain,” he says lightly. “My hands are getting to old for this.”

Still humming.

I force my legs to move. Take the next bubble threatening to tear a few paces away. Clench my jaw. Try to stay on task. But there's something about Doc that feels.. different.

“Those things common?” I ask. I force a nonchalant tone.

“Flay beasts?” He shrugs. “Depends on the traffic. They get bold when they smell Follet.”

“Ah.”

He grunts. Fheldín make a lot of noises that count as words, I guess.

“So… not new,” I continue.

“Nope.”

The seal warps, then blends. It rings like a bell, satisfied with its repair.

I continue the work on mine. Bubbles are harder to repair but have better results.

Doc stands and checks the stains on his coat.

“Damn. This will have to be dry-cleaned.”

I stare at the blood spatter. At the way he breathes easier. The way his shoulders lax. Not a tremor in his hands.

He moves on to the next patch, whistling a tune, strumming imaginary strings.

I trail him, eyes never quite leaving his back.

“So does that come easy for you, then?” I ask.

He looks up, briefly. A single eyebrow lifted. “Whistling?”

“No. That.” I gesture vaguely behind us.

“Oh.” He studies my expression. He shrugs, takes a swig of water from his flask. “It’s just muscle memory now.”

“It doesn’t bother you, then?”

He tilts his head. “Yeah, it was bothering me for the hour it was stalking you.”

I scoff, return to the busy work. “That's not what I meant.”

He chuckles. “You get used to blood in my profession.”

I guess. But I didn't expect a doctor to pull a stunt like that.

Then, brighter: “Hey — after shift, you want food? I owe you for last time”

I don't know how he can have an appetite after this. He still stinks like demon blood.

I shrug. “Sure.”

He releases a long, relieved sigh. “Good. I’m starving.”

We get back into the rhythm again that we’re used to. Tools, words, calculated space. We run out of words. I listen to Eryn singing rock ballads under his breath, the good ones.

I think…this guy isn't a doctor. He's something…more. I can see it in his eyes. The way his demeanor changed up after spilling blood.