Aamu
A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides
His clock is Mabel, or when she is missing, a hand stretched into the world beyond as he waits for his skin to blister. As a consequence his left hand is wrapped in bandages to keep it from further abuse as he drifts through the night. In his right is a rod with which he sweeps the ground ahead of him, moon-glazed eyes open out of habit. Despite his blindness his braid is neatly done.And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides
He moves carefully between the houses, heading for the main street were the thud of hooves has rung. Now they are silent, but not gone, so Aamu presses on.
A voice calls out into the dark, quiet to match the hour.
He doesn't know it. Doesn't respond yet. Just keeps on walking, the night punctuated by the rustling sweep of his feeling rod. It whispers of debris, clicks against stone.
Then he steps into the moonlight, washed in silver. He tries to remember from where she had called, listens for the flick of a tail, the sound of breathing, the creak of tack—anything to guide him towards the horse, until he feels close enough. Carefully he tilts his head back, seeing nothing but darkness through the white-out of his pupils. "Which one?" he asks softly of the stranger.
Gosh that beautiful opener was so wasted on my blind bat x''D
But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I
And someday that wolf would be I
