Not Just a Phase

Luka wanted to be offended--even though he knew Silas wasn't exactly wrong, given his bedraggled state--but something about the intense eye contact they shared dissolved his indignation into a dozen fluttering butterflies. Suddenly uneasy, he could only look away. Distracted by the onset of queasy nerves and a desire to melt into the ground, he nevertheless snapped to attention when Silas turned and began to walk away, bidding him to follow, beckoning with a casually assertive gesture.

He almost agreed without a thought. "Oh, um...yes, wait, let me get--" Then he shook his head; the nervousness solidified into anger once more. "--wait!" Luka called after Silas, bristling all over again. "You just come and tell me--follow why? Go where?! You...wait!" With a frustrated huff, he yanked the window shut and wheeled to look for his coat--and flinched mightily when the abused window cracked, a jagged line splintering through the glass from one edge of the frame nearly to the other. That tempered his temper in a rush. Luka clapped his hands over his mouth, sparing the damage a few seconds of abject horror. Then he snatched up a page of blank sheet music, scrawled on it hastily and propped it by the window: Sorry. I fix later.

Or rather, it would be fixed later, or at least paid for. Mr. Gainsborough--no, Titus, he'd asked to be called Titus--was very clever about these things. And as generous as ever, he thought as he tugged on the nice new overcoat his friend and pupil had given him the other day. He didn't know if Silas was waiting for him or had continued to stroll down the street, so he fastened his coat as he ran, still fumbling with the buttons as the front door banged shut behind him.

Luka didn't immediately fall into step behind Silas, still too startled by his abrupt--and yet, he believed, sincere--apology. He hung back and stared for a second, up at the man's tensed shoulders as he spun around and led the way down the street. Silas was sorry...and yet at least as upset as himself (though doing a marginally better job of internalizing it). About what, he couldn't begin to guess, but perhaps that was one of the questions Silas offered to answer. He hurried to follow without another word, jaw clamped shut to contain the irritable thoughts that kept swarming to the tip of his tongue, ducking his head a bit to avert his gaze, watching the other man's long stride lead them across cobblestones and dirt and...grass?

He stuttered to a halt and jerked his head up. The setting sun cast long shadows from the looming trees of what he'd learned was called the Knochenwalde, almost as if a dark reflection of the forest was reaching out for him, snaking across the ground to curl round his ankles. He took a step back and lifted his voice, which pitched even higher than usual. "We go there? I...n-no. No, bad place." He glanced nervously over his shoulder, scratching at his chin. His own doubts concerning the exact nature of the creatures inhabiting Knochenwalde aside, the townsfolk were more than anxious enough about it all to dissuade him from venturing into the forest again. The threat of wild beasts--such as the one that had attacked his horse the night before he'd come to Streitstadt--also helped in this regard. He suspected going in with a companion didn't significantly improve their prospects. Silas might have been strong, but he wasn't armed. "The town people, they say monsters live in forest. Maybe no monsters, but...dark soon. Not safe in night, yes? We talk, but not there."

Talk, hah. Luka was doing his best to simplify his already limited vocabulary, but he had no idea how much Silas understood of his words. Stupid, ugly German language. Animated gestures and exaggerated facial expressions helped to fill in the gaps, at least in theory, but he was finding it difficult to meet Silas's eyes even as he addressed him. I'm still mad at him, he decided, not entirely wrong.

Luka flinched and stopped advancing, shaking slightly as he stared wide-eyed at Silas, who looked almost as frantic as he felt. By the time Silas pressured his bandages into place over the ooze of sharp, coppery blood, Luka hadn’t precisely calmed down—hands clasped white-knuckled to his mouth, chewing on at least one thumbnail—but he did as he was told, and watched, and waited. He had more questions, of course. Questions (i.e., demands) and observations (i.e., very strong opinions). But whenever he started to crack his tight jaw, to peel open his lips, to unclench his teeth, the only sound that slipped out was a faint whimper, which he quickly stifled each time it threatened to escape.

His clamorous thoughts filled the silence, less a stream of consciousness than a disorienting flood. Bleeding. Blood bleeding beast. Silas had done it to himself, he’d cut himself. Go away fast? Not fast enough. Why did he do that he hurt himself go away fast when hurt when hurt go away fast. Beast, hurting, hurting the beast or beast hurting the…horse? The beast, the blood and the horse. The smell of blood and musk and terror the sound of bones crunching and sinew tearing and the gentle bite of a blade cutting into flesh. More blood, everyone hurt. His poor horse Silas’s arm his back. Hurt, blood is here. Clothes torn. You also have blood why you have blood? Because of the beast—beast moon strong fast blood flesh—steak? hungry no not now—the knife—watch close you see in moment you see go away fast go away—

“You see? Gone away.”

Luka jolted and shook his head rapidly, as if the motion would somehow capture his scattered thoughts and resettle, redistribute them. Instead, he felt nauseous, as if his churning thoughts had instead transferred to his stomach. Mostly nerves, yet more than nerves—even through his mind’s whirling dervish he’d managed to land on a few moments of disturbing clarity, but he couldn’t dwell on them at the moment. All he could do was stare, for several more dreadfully silent seconds, at the faded, healing mark on the arm Silas brandished before him. Instead of enjoying any relief at the sight, the bilious sensation afflicting him persisted.

But it made sense.

It shouldn't have.

But it made sense.

The chaotic tangle of his thoughts unwound into a clearly defined whorl, a spiral that started slow and wobbly and malformed, and then rapidly tightened into increasingly relevant and interconnected notions which could only converge on a single possible conclusion—however improbable and fantastical it happened to be.

Overpowering smells. Overwhelming sounds. Unmanageable hair. Ravenous hunger. Strange impulses. Volatile moods. Restless nights. The moon. A feeling.

Just as he could sense it in Silas, he could sense it in himself.

...It made sense.