Between Men || Lake || P

words: 699 / thoughts / voices / speech
The skies above him were in tinted October, splashed with blotches of colours that didn't seem to have or desire any order. It created it's own artwork, the sky, splattering what it had everywhere and setting the standard. It was what anyone could call beautiful, relaxing, heartwarming. As a shiver ran down Elliott's spine and a deep, thick ache ran through his chest, his golden eyes falling to a curved root emerging from a borderline tree awkwardly. It's deep chocolate wood tangled briefly in the troposphere and then collapsed back into the gritting surface of the foreground. He couldn't exactly claim that, though. That the meadow was gritty. Soft, cushiony grasses spread for miles and extent, the vibrant tones providing reasonable competition with the sky. In clashes of the battle for perfection, the two land elements writhed like wights until ceasefire was necessary, then summoning artillery upon eachother once more. Sunset was when the titans unleashed their full power, overwhelming him and anyone else who was paying attention remotely with the euphoria of seeing something so unnaturally (or, ironically, naturally) beautiful. But not quite as imminent as the other things in Elliott's constricted mind.

Elliott turned away from his reflection, a reflection that had seemed to have the glare of worry or doubt plastered, stained onto it. A reflection which was once so glowing with joy and glee, now dampened with frowns, grimaces, regrets of bad memories and darkened hopes. A reflection Elliott hated. It was the face of a criminal, of the child whose once naive demeanor was used to trick him into murder. To kill and leave for dead the most important adult figures in his life. Because that's all it was, leaving his friend. It was setting him up for murder. It was Elliott's reflection, a picture he despised, no -- if even possible -- more than just that. He hated it. If it were not for that reflection, Elliott's comrade would still exist and so would his parents. His old pack would love him again. He would be granted with the protection of their den to sleep under at night. Unlike where after the banishment from their lands, he had to sleep in an abandoned forest territory arena in the middle of no where. He would be him again, not the worried, pained, regretted mess that anxiety had spun him into. Sometimes he truly contemplated conflicting harm on himself, to exile the PTSD. However the only true thing that could keep him from snapping was the little grasps of sanity he still held onto, which were mostly complied of thinking about not becoming insane. He used these threads to hold himself together, as much of a wild goose chase as it was, and he would manage. He would make a worthy fight against the crawling hallucinations before he dared succumb. As much as sometimes he just wanted to ditch his notions of holding onto these threads, to defeat the monster, to feed it more pain, he knew that it would be utterly wrong if he did so.

Muttering incoherently under his breath, Elliott stood up to face the valley, not bothering to think at all as his glassy eyes glazed over expressionlessly, knots forming at the midst of his temple, painful flashes across his forehead as his chest moved up and down heavily, his breathing slower than usual. Looking up towards the puddle hanging against the wall of grass at his reflection, Elliott saw someone he couldn't recognize anymore. The tousled alabaster fur, bags under his eyes, paled face and clammy skin. It was as if someone was standing on front of him, a zombie, blocking the true image of the boy that was once full of life. He felt different, he was different. And this was also one of the preceding signs of a PTSD attack. His stomach clenched as his blue eyes grew dimmer. A collapse would be better than a hallucination at this point. His fangs suddenly came down hard and instinctively, breaking the charcoal skin that was his lip. He winced, but it worked. He felt normal again. With that, he continued walking, pacing. Hoping he could find something. Anything at all.

words: 367 / thoughts / voices / speech
Elliott let out a twisted sigh, gazing into the complexity waiting before him in the meadow. A gentle breeze overwhelmed his nose, tangling briefly in its wet web. The ground was prickly, he realized. Not cushioned and lush, like a meadow was expected to be. Not silk-laden or lined with beautiful flowers. In fact, the only flower he saw was a single rose, the color of his friend's blood. It was, of course, morbid, to think of it that way, but it was all Elliott could see in the dully red, glistening petals. They folded over something in the center of the flower, and that was the extent of what was supposed to be pretty about it. Beneath it fell a stem of green and brown. It looked incredibly thorny and, all in all, dangerous. The needles stuck out randomly, eager to penetrate through the very flesh of anything that foolishly came its way. Why did roses get publicity as beautiful? To Elliott, they just looked dangerous and, if anything more, average. It was not appealing in any way other than as the only thing living besides grass in the meadow. Sideways, he glanced down to the latticework of prickly weeds and continued walking. The uncomfortable ground would have to pass for now.

He'd come to the meadow to release his stress and to try to relax. Try not to complain. However, he'd figured out that he was subconsciously complaining about having nothing to complain about. It seemed like clearing his mind was impossible. Like when he tried to flee to a stressless topic, he'd realize that there was something he was dreading or something he was expected to do. Support himself, find herbs, catch food. All of it was raw labour. He grimaced. That was until he heard what was thought to be a splash. A loud thump, and if someone -- or something -- had gone diving in the river. Elliott froze. He'd not seen a wolf in forever, and here was one. Or not, he corrected himself. It could very well be a different species.

His relaxed his shoulders, tail falling down to a regular position. He said in a silkily polite voice, "anyone out there?"

words: 730 / thoughts / voices / speech
The journey to this meadow wasn't exactly one made alone. In fact, he'd met a particularly excited wolf who'd cheerfully volunteered to accompany him -- his lost friend, presented only by the strangling hands of PTSD. And there was one part of making the journey that Elliott remembered in much detail -- making his way across the mountains. Living in a forest his whole life, he'd noy been exposed to rocky terrains as well as gritty ones. This happy wolf, however, had not. Walking across the pointy rocks burst open their paw pads and caused them to bleed, but he kept walking with Elliott, screeching like a banshee about the pain he was going through. I was all so real, even though he knew it wasn't. It was like a childhood story that he'd never understood the fiction of; simple as that. And yet, he strained to teach himself that nothing he was seeing was real. He still remembered what he had said: Always take the journey before thinking about the destination. But what did he mean, always take the journey? There was something to it, that even months later Elliott saw deeper meaning to. Along the journey was, he guessed, when the most turmoil was experienced; where you became familiar with your own weaknesses and where you learned about others (if a companion was involved). But the destination ended it all. How could you not think about the destination? The place where you'd struggle to reach. The place that you had to have a good reason to getting to because you were taking an otherwise pointless journey. How, under any circumstances, could wasting time be more important than the destination?

Maybe because it was a disappointment.

In many tales that involved impossible travels, the characters would decide that the destination wasn't as good as they remembered it to be or thought it would be, so they ran off with their little journey buddies and became best friends for life. In real life, though, after you made an impossible journey and arrived at some place that was just as depressing as the last, there was no turning back. Because now, Elliott was trapped in a place where everything else but this destination was destroyed. And there was nothing here for him but an invisible pack of wolves. Not invisible, exactly, though. They were visible to him, just not reachable. They were right in front of his face but yet he couldn't touch them. It was all a puzzle missing the last piece. He had to reach his dream. He had to. Everything would collapse if he didn't come in. Not that he cared, though. The wolves could all die and he could remain, with the answers and the knowledge. But what an incredibly boring life. He needed disciples, allies, "friends". Though he could never understand the basics of friendship or the bonds that were supposed to develop, wolves to walk with him and to actually speak with could be nice. But that was something entirely different. He didn't need to think about whatever friendship and emotions were now. He needed to focus on this stereotypical male wolf and listen to what he had to say, no matter how boring or useless it was.

Elliott turned his head grimly to the now-soaked male, working a pelt covered in an array of normal wolf colours. The character drew himself closer to him, paws crunching flowers and body moving in a slick, robotic way, as if Elliott was a magnet and he was a pile of metal shavings. Suddenly, the air grew tense as he drew to a pause in front of him, dropping to the ground in a play-bow. Elliott blinked, nodding carefully. Games were not his expertise. Speaking was, however. In an equally playful, cheery voice, the male said, 'Hello there, I'm Lake, you?' Lake, Elliott repeated softly. In his mind. This Lake certainly wasn't one for small talk, though, hurrying to the chase with a strict demand of Elliott's name. With a blink, he nodded in silent approval. "Ah, well quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Esquire Lake. I must admit: I was certainly not expecting the appearance of a fellow wolf out here in the centre of this meadow," he paused a moment for a generous smile, "if you must call me something, refer to me as Elliott, if you will."