#hiiii wollfff

[lunarscaled]

“ you are a dragon , are you not ? “ the word sounds so harsh in his mouth . rolled , and deepened in tone . almost as a curse . the idea conjures illustrations old & worn by age , at least , to him . saints atop steeds , templar-wrought mythos , illuminated manuscripts . “ a rarity , indeed . “

-> He speaks the title with a weight that feels like he is condemning them to a funeral they haven't planned yet, a certainty sunken into their bones like a dirge. The Jagermeister is adorned in fitted white which frees him of his violent sin, but between them, the rabbit, and he, the hunter, who could ever be more guilty of spilt blood? The dynamic of the first and the last, they who have not yet grown into their skin and scales, who could not defend themselves, were quarry for what angry purpose? ( Christian sarcasm, found in Cain: "Am I my brother's keeper?" asked his brother's murderer. ) Do they only see him with their wide, hare eyes? Their pulse racing under their ribs, a field of blood like a church and steeple; when the gun goes off their whole body would go limp in an instant. They may never even recognize they were dead, since they were already here. They wondered if from their beheaded corpse red hibiscus would bloom---if from their ribs their mother's favorite lilies, bone white, would sprout in this endless desert. In the glory and vanity of their death they would not be able to condemn him only to his pattern of behavior: they know better. There were multitudes in him like facets of a polished gem, tenderness for the one he loved. Gentleness for another.

"Yeah. I guess so. Though this is more like a curse than a true dragon. Soul Society killed the last of them years ago---or perhaps your kind did. I can't say."

-> How much harm can be done to themselves by themselves? His gaze is obscured by thick red glasses, but they are certain he is inspecting them like stock, and it makes the ridges of their spine feel more prominent under their skin---like they are already less human than beast. How many people had put hands on them for their own curiosity, asked them questions like Alice to the White Rabbit or the Cheshire Cat while they fell further and further down this rabbit hole; they were a rarity. An oddity. They wanted to dissect them, they wanted to study them, they wanted to raise them up. They wanted to consume them when they had become strong, they wanted to mount their horned head on mahogany like a trophy. Clamoring mouths for their attention and yet they are so small, so fragile compared to all other beings here, so they must be protected. They must be coddled. The last of their kind but only here. An adult but still a child---how did everyone see them? How did he see them? Did he want to hunt them, were they worthy of that yet? Had they, the only one of their kind, been bestowed the thorned crown that was the prized game? Was that also a form of care? Their thoughts stop and start again. There is a stirring in their chest that burns when they think about having to protect themselves and failing; that anticipation of pain before its happened. They think he'd crush their wrist under the heel of his boot. Is that any different from how their father loved them?

"But I'm an endangered species around here, you know. You'd have better luck in London finding something your size---besides, someone else has already tried to put their name on my head."