#something that unfortunately doesn't last but nevertheless shapes him in this primitive state and will stay with him

[yeleltaan]

It began with a simple offering, a slice of fruit plucked from her ungloved palm and then pressed gingerly upon his dry mouth. The aroma of citrus heavy in the air, the juice staining his lips.

A gentle offering, a simple action that made but one demand of him:

Let me nurture you.

The Witch Knight urges it carefully past his chapped lips when they part enough to accept her.

"It may be little, but it's what I can offer you."

From @hexenjagd

The dim shelter of her tent has granted his eyes respite from blinding rays, his ears rest from deafening cacophonies. The woven wool wrapped around him shields him from the cold and the many unfamiliar surfaces that have graced his skin, giving him room to come to terms with the shape inside his warm confines, the feel of his limbs as he retreats further into himself.

It's in this mostly motionless surrounding that he can finally direct all his pained focus on her. Where once his finder bore a face of iron plate, same as the rest of the unintelligible figure of animated rock she seemed from the perspective of virgin eyes, now tender sage stares back at him, watching him just as intently. And though the little flesh that no longer waits behind her shell still confounds him, each small gesture upon it beckons the still dormant corners of his ravaged mind. A field of knowledge burnt barren, still the instincts of a being once complete emerge from the ashes. Thoughts run behind that stare, just as his. My self, meet my other.

But before he could recognize her by sight, he knew her by scent. It’s why his heavy eyelids fight to stay open, and his gaze searches aimlessly for her unseen companion. There is a distinct aroma invading his nostrils, and when he feels it press closer alongside her fingers he whines, turns away, because this isn’t her. Only when he feels the moisture on his lips and his mouth parts just enough to inhale more of that new flavor does he understand, this is what, not who.

The piece is pushed inside and his breath hitches, fangs pierce through membrane and the ensuing eruption floods his buds with the rich taste, juice dripping from the corner of his mouth. Dry throat swallows on its own, the effort of untrained muscles vocalized in his low, coarse breathing. He blinks, his eyes lost in the stunning sensation until they seek hers.

You can eat this too. Why else would you think I can? So then, why not have it yourself? Why feed me, why bring me here, why do you look and touch me, and look and hold me, and keep looking just as I look at you.

He can barely move, and nowhere feels safer than here, but he has seen her walk on her two legs and speak the same words as those whispering about him from afar, those who seem much like her but do not join her. Why me? Why you and not them? Why me.

Before she can reach for another piece, his sharp-tipped fingers hook weakly over her arm. Seeing both hands so close, it’s difficult not to see a resemblance. He’s begun to realize he possesses not one eye, but two as well. He has a mouth, he thinks there’s something like her nose at the bottom of his vision, and at times his vision is obscured by ebony strands much like the many on her head. For that reason when he looks at her he wonders: do I look like you? If I saw myself, would I mistake me for you? If the ends of his hands were shorter, maybe. If he wore the same metal caparace she does, possibly.

Using his forearm to support himself the stray leans forward and closes his loose grip, claws curling generously around. Thirsty and hungry, he turns his attention to her side for an instant before he turns his body with just enough strength to flop over her leg and sink his face teeth-first in the handful of fruit with a greedy bite.