Chapter Text
Silent.
Still.
Untouched.
The forest and mountains as vast and wild as the beasts that dwell within, the abyss of yellow and orange leaves; of stark grey and white mountains too great to ever be tamed by man.
The time was fall, deep into harvest. The silence only ever giving way to the crunch of leaves beneath predator and prey's feet. Snow had already begun to blanket further and further down the rocky plains of the mountain side. The snow caps creeping slowly out, as they do every year, to the forest of pines, soon to reach the dying garden of poplar and elm Knives occupied now.
The wintertide was coming and with the brutal frosts and winds the prey would disappear into brumal depths. The need to hunt was at its peak. It was a fight for survival ingrained into mankind from birth. A fact of life which Knives resonated well with.
Harvest was his favorite season. So full of life and death, beautiful and fading. Vibrant for a moment, trees alight like a flame in the darkness and then gone the next. Every creature in its cruel grasp struggled to prepare for the coming frost and Knives was no different.
On leafy trails, past babbling brooks, Knives followed his prey. The kaleidoscope of reds and browns, a confusing mass to most, but not to him. He was a solitary hunter, alone in nature as he tracked his kill.
It was nearing mid-day, the sky a collage of pale grays and powdered blues, clouds so thin and light they looked like plumes of steam, so unlike the plagued skies and streets of Paris. The French Alps were pure, clean of the pestilence of disease that rampaged the nation. Nestled high above the humans who reject its untamed call.
And it was that same quiet, unstilled call of nature that had pale, blue eyes like those of ice piercing through the brush, arm steady and practiced as he knocked his arrow with calloused hands. There, emerging from the flora was a plump rabbit, nose pink and twitching as it approached a stream to drink. Upon further inspection Knives could see that its tan, woodsy fur had already begun the transformation into stark white, glossy black eyes and long, fluffy ears unseeing and unhearing of the threat hidden across the water.
This scenario was all too familiar to him; it brought an odd comft to his chest as he breathed deeply, allowing all his focus to settle on his prey. He gripped the bow tight and let his arrow fly, hitting the young hare right through its doll-like eyes. He was quick and efficient, making sure none of its meat or fur would go to waste. Swiftly dispatched like an unknown enemy, two ships passing in the night.
And then it was over. The rush and thrill of the hunt ended as quickly as a bolt of light amidst a storm, Knives crouching down amidst the stream before collecting his prey. His sharp eyes surveyed the woodland maze for any lone foxes or wolves that might want to steal the rabbit as he collected water in his flask. It was silent, except for the gurgle of the stream amidst the miniscule sprints of squirrels and marmots among the fallen leaves.
Releasing a sigh, Knives rose from where he was crouched, bones creaking in protest as he patted himself down of the dirt and leaves he'd accumulated during his hunt, yellows and reds falling to join the flow of the shallow spring. Approaching the rabbit, Knives retrieved the arrow from its eye, unaffected by the spillage of blood that followed the harsh tug, a glassy bulb clinging to the end of the arrow head, the fleshy mass quickly being discarded to the ground with a flick of the wrist.
It was as if he were on autopilot, pulling the rope he kept under his cloak to create a small noose placed securely around the rabbit’s neck for easier travel. The routine of the hunt was a balm for his daily life. A dream of vast forests with no end that he was rudely awakened from every month; visited by two of the strangest people he'd had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting in his youth.
Zazie and Conrad were... odd, to say the least. Well, more so Zazie than Conrad. They were a doctor of sorts trained under Conrad and recruited to work in ports and ships stuffed full of past enemies during the last years of the Cambrai War. The French and Duchy were none too kind to newly allied Venice soldiers. Yet Zazie seemed to flourish around bad attitudes and foul words, unbiased and uncaring of who they cured under scalpel and herb.
It never lasted long anway. One couldn't afford to be picky at sea. The Atlantic was cold and unforgiving, a vast wasteland of undrinkable water that sent most men to their graves while the Mediterranean only offered death by cannon fire. By the time Knives had met Zazie, he'd already been at sea for four long years, working his way up to the rank of Captain through the blood and viscera of his fellow sailors. Names and families and lives indiscriminately snuffed out by nature or man just the same as the rabbit he held in his hand.
Many say the sea drives men mad with tall tales of merfolk and wrathful gods, but Knives never had tastes for such things. Why fear gods and fishfolk when ships were set aflame in front of your very eyes, walking corpses rushing to bloody shark infested waters just to be eaten by its depths? No, what drove Knives insane—”insane enough to seclude himself alone in the mountains for two years like some wildman—”as Zazie put so eloquently, was the war itself and the lifestyle it instilled in all its soldiers, yet to fade from his mind. Hence why Zazie up and left Venice the moment they could just to live in the dumb fuck middle of nowhere to study the 'demons' living in Knives head. Far from the truth if you asked him. They had become comrades at this point, bound by blood and death. Sickness was only an excuse for them. Knives knew this to be true, knew he wasn't sick of body nor mind. He was just...
Disciplined…
Reactionary.
He had to remain reactionary, swift afoot and swift of mind, body and blade fit enough to kill a man. One never knows when the next battle might occur. And through the victory balls and award ceremonies, silver lining his chest and cries of joy in his ears, Knives stayed wired, alert.
Just as Conrad had.
Until he hadn't.
Conrad too had eventually stopped. Softened his edges, slowly but surely. Conrad, who had been in the war even longer than Knives, who became his Commander, who'd lost his will to heal the sick, but by some devil's work managed to keep Zazie and Knives alive and intact until the last cannon fired. They were disbanded now, no longer Commander and Captain, yet William Conrad was a man he still respected in spite of his softening demeanor over the past two years. He was a wise man, who'd practically raised Knives on his own. Knives, a snotty, ill-tempered orphan left to die by unknown hands, for no discernable reason. A perfectly healthy four year old boy abandoned to rot in the woods a ways off from the base of the Alps. Condemned to succumb to the same elements he found himself in now.
This world—it seemed—would never tire of its cruelty.
Luckily, Knives had an affinity for living among the foliage, and although eating worms and unknown berries remained as unappealing as ever he still found himself the same as he was all those moons ago, bathing in streams and collecting fallen chestnuts like the squirrels preparing for winter were now. He'd survived, instinctually, without even a roof over his head, in those small woods just outside an even smaller village for three months, until Conrad had found him.
It almost made Knives crack a smile, remembering the expression of pure confusion and shock on the man's face gazing down upon such a feral child. Despite being half emancipated and frozen to the bone, Knives remembered putting up quite a fight. It must have taken hours for Conrad to drag him home that day, even more for him to wash all the dirt and grime from his skin and hair.
Knives recalled the water in the wooden basin he sat in, black as night like the ticks being ripped from his skin. He could still hear the hushed, worried whispers of Conrad and his father, a man of the cloth, echoing through the stone and mortar of the church, talking of diseases and orphanages until eventually, a verdict was made.
Knives, sitting silently out to dry felt so clean, perhaps the purest he's ever been, reborn from the forest, its colors illuminating from the stained glass around him, yellows, reds and greens onto pallard skin and pale, blue eyes. This is what he remembered most after becoming a part of Conrad's family. So vivid the memory was, like it was only yesterday.
Soon enough, Knives had regained himself. Created anew with knowledge, of god, of reading and writing, of hunting and living off the lands. Conrad’s father taught his passions well and far, way beyond the bible, until his passing. And like his father, Conrad committed himself to teaching as well, to healing and helping. The church slowly became less a haven for sinners and more a place of learning, a secret library of knowledge amidst the peasants and middle class.
Yet, even before the war, something was still missing. Something Knives had grasped for but a moment, living amongst the flora and fauna of the wilderness. And by the time Conrad left for the war, Knives committed himself to building his own secret. A cabin, deep into the mountains and trees above the village. Nature was his peace, having immersed himself in it as much as possible while growing up. The villagers barely knew of or saw him. He was like a ghost slipping in and out of town, breaking the mountain's siren call every few days for Conrad’s sake, as the man couldn't help but worry for someone he saw as his very own son.
Even after all these years, the same can be said of now. Conrad trekking the mountains and forest with Zazie by his side, just to wake Knives from his month long dream. They bring bread, potatoes, carrots and milk, things unable to grow in the rocky forested terrain surrounding Knives home; while he provides them with the pelts and furs of his kills. A fair trade as far as Knives is concerned. The need for money is scarce in his solitude and he never plans to marry or sire children. He'd rather Conrad and Zazie sell his furs and pocket the change themselves.
Either way, It was becoming that time again, the sun moving across pale blue and grey skies to the point when they'd be sure to start their trek.
He has to go back.
Preparing to move out, Knives scanned over the forest one last time, taking the crisp, fresh air deep into his chest until he spotted something. Muscles tensing, his body stilled completely, Iced eyes tracing a shadow in the trees.
It was his ghost.
Or should he say creature?
The wisp of its white tail, longer than anything he'd seen before, slinked past ashen bark and dark woods. Its massive paws virtually silent on the forest floor as it stalked off almost eagerly in the direction of Knives cabin.
Tutting under his breath, Knives watched the creature leave with a disapproving frown, Aqua eyes focused like daggers on its feline-esque body, so compact yet powerful. Its thick white fur dotted with dark brown clouded spots blended perfectly into the abyss with each graceful stride.
Idiot.
No matter how ethereal and unearthly this 'ghost' appeared to be, it was becoming clear to Knives that this creature, whatever it may be, was no phantom, but perhaps some sort of deformed lynx. It was the closest animal he knew of that resembled his foolish ghost. Despite logic saying a lynx could never grow to such a size, it was the only plausible answer. Either way, the feline must have been touched in the head at birth. Aside from its looks it hardly acted like any lynx, wolf or even fox he'd seen.
Yes, indeed, this creature was as dumb and uninstictual as they come. Prowling around Knives, getting closer and more brazen as the month passed. This in itself is not unusual behavior for a predator; many wolves have been killed for doing as much to the livestock and villagers at the base of the mountain. However, Knives wondered what kind of beast merely observes its prey for an entire moon? Even cubs—as young as they are—knew fresh meat when they saw it. Yet, this sorry excuse for a Lynx was completely lamentable. Stalking, yet never pouncing, gazing at Knives with such a vivid blue gaze at all hours of the day, black pupils swallowing up its big, almost curious eyes only to leave behind a ring of sapphire whenever it approached too close.
It was almost like a game. A coy back and forth, as if the creature were testing its limits, testing Knives. Almost as if it'd never seen a human before. Knives considered this as he made his way through the forest. His stalker wasn't far behind him, following at a safe distance over roots and branches. At this point, his little ghost knew his routine better than Knives did. And he wondered, not for the first time, what this creature's intentions were. At this point, he was getting curious enough to even risk asking Zazie about it… But there was no way he was going to be trapped in a lecture on animals with that weirdo for who knows how long.
No. He'd deal with this on his own. And if the foolish Lynx ever attacked him he'd just kill it. After all, its pelt looked awfully thick and would probably serve him well during the winter. It was also quite unique, almost beautiful if one were prone to using such words.
Even upon his first encounter with the creature he'd thought of such things. A blanket, a rug, a coat. Listing uses off, trying to find an excuse to slay the haunting little specter he'd spotted on the rocks above his home.
It was early morning, muted grays and whites blanketing the land, his cabin a dark blip of red oak against the rocky hills and sparse cedars. He was preparing to set out for a hunt. The days were beginning to shorten and he'd rather not deal with the hassle of walking home in the dark. Although the moonlit poplars and maple were soothing from atop his mountain home, the forest itself was as unforgiving as the seas in darkness, its depths swallowing and unleashing all manner of threats. The threat, in this case, was the creature not even twelve meters ahead of him, blending against the snow and earth like some sort of amalgamated painting of the elements. Knives would have missed the thing if not for his cautious nature, scanning the area like the eagles prowling overhead.
Needless to say, he'd been even more tense upon their meeting back then. There was something… off about the feline, sitting there high and far from his home, something fundamental that made the hair on Knives skin stand on end. Beyond its looks, Knives felt an almost otherworldly element emerge from those ocean blue eyes; so much so that he'd genuinely believed the creature to be a spirit of some sorts. And in the wake of those thoughts, Knives did what any other man in his position would...
He reciprocated.
He'd grown quite accustomed to his life of solitude, so sitting in silence, having a staring contest with a supposed ghost for the remainder of the day wasn't such a poor use of his time. In all honesty, Knives couldn't give two shits about time. The land didn't care and neither did he and it seemed his ghost felt much the same.
That day, the sun and sky moved fast. Clouds shifted and light faded, Knives eyes adjusting to the change until the specter finally rose amidst the fall of the sun. Sapphires shone through the darkness, an eerie yellow blooming from black pupils as the spirit retreated with a final glance, waltzing into the shadows of a moonless woods.
This behavior continued, a daily battle of eyes, Knives unsure if what he was gazing at was even real to this world, or a making of his own mind. Unable to decide whether or not to hunt, he spent the better part of their first days together completely motionless, chewing duly on the dried meats he'd store away for when the snow or rain impeded his hunts. If this ghost was indeed real and not of his own making, then how real was it? He'd never seen it do anything but stare. Was this one of the demons Zazie spoke of? If it was, it was pretty lackluster so far. With these thoughts in mind, Knives eventually decided to continue hunting despite his unwelcome guest. Unsurprisingly, the foolish ghost began to follow him on said hunts. The distance between them was still far, however as days began to pass to weeks his ghost continued to follow him, his own personal shadow drawing closer with each kill.
Recently, it was on one of these shared expeditions that Knives discovered the truth. He'd been tracking a red deer for a few kilometers. Normally, Knives would stick to hunting the smaller prey in the forest such as rabbits, squirrels and the occasional wild boar. He'd only killed bigger creatures—as well as predators like wolves and foxes—if provoked. That was part of the reason he'd restrained from skinning his stalker to shreds upon their first meeting.
He'd only take what he needed, nothing more, nothing less. Another reason he preferred the forest and mountains to the village below it. Unfortunately for this deer, Knives had eaten a lot more of his stores playing googly eyes than he’d intended. He needed more meat and this buck was an easy fix. Its pelt, which was a brownish red, would make for a warm blanket, its large protruding antlers and dense bones carved into arrowheads. He had plenty of iron or even steel weapons, but one never knew when a crack would appear and he didn't fancy leaving his seclusion to repair them often. Bones worked well enough. Plus, the deer wouldn't go to waste. If he could give use to it, why not repurpose it all? In the midst of all these thoughts, Knives spotted the deer, its large, brown antlers scraping against the stark white bark of a birch tree, heavy bones digging into the dark grey and black cuts of the trunk as it snorted roughly.
The young buck was almost liable to knock the whole tree down at this point, too distracted to notice Knives pointing an arrow right at its head. The distance was fair, but nothing too unmanageable. Conrad, who had gone hunting with him in his boyhood a handful of times, had always been impressed by Knives accuracy and power with the bow. Zazie later in life compared him to those horrid wheellock guns the nobility liked to flaunt around.
Apparently, it wasn't easy to kill a deer with a headshot, an accomplishment which Knives had achieved many times over. Unblinking, Knives inhaled deeply. His shoulders set, relaxed, yet taut as he released the arrow like a bolt of light, sailing fast and firmly through his prey's skull. It was quick. No cries of pain, no chase, just the dull thump of its hide against the forest floor, the collapse causing nearby prey to scatter the vicinity in a cacophony of panic for but a single second and then, silence.
It was painless, a clean kill. A kill he'd be sure to benefit off for many moons. Brutally beautiful in its honest simplicity. A life for a life. No politics or soldiers to worry about, no villagers muddying up the natural flow. Just Knives.
Until it wasn't.
Suddenly, the forest was alive again. A lethal body of white springing through the birch, massive fangs and claws ripping into thick hide and gamey flesh. Soft gurgling growls emanated from the creature's mouth, bubbles of spit and blood forming around fine white whiskers and dark pink nose, as blood, thick and red began to gush from between its jaws.
Oh. He'd almost forgotten. Or he'd deluded himself into believing this creature, with its ears pinned to it's skull, paws hooking and pulling into tender skin, was a figment of his imagination. A ghost or demon Zazie insisted he had living in his head. A specter unable to affect the world. A thought which now seemed like the single dumbest thing to ever enter his brain.
Fuck him. Fuck the demons. Zazie was gonna be meeting a real one if he made it out of this. He'd kill Zazie and then hunt down this thing if it doesn't get him first; because this creature, looking at him with massive blue eyes, pupils so contracted they looked like black needles, was incredibly real.
The air was tense. The silence, aside from the rip and tear of flesh, was deafening. Apparently, this creature would never tire of looking at him even as it feasted. Their staring contest continued, with Knives unsure of whether he'd be able to draw his bow in time. This was the closest he'd been with his stalker, its body tense with power, ready to spring tight like a coil upon a single move. If it came to close-combat, he had a hunting knife on hand long enough to pierce through the creature's chest if need be. But it seemed like the ghost was content to watch him and on further inspection Knives noticed it wasn’t feasting, but securing a hold of the deers hide. Suddenly, its back legs began to shuffle, slowly but surely dragging Knives prey down the path to his home.
Was this thing an idiot?
Following the trail and blood and broken twigs at a safe distance, Knives began to scrutinize the creature's form. It looked nothing like any animal he'd seen, nor did it share any similarities to any mythical creatures he'd been told about by Conrad or Zazie.
He wasn't particularly swayed by folklore, but would have believed the creature in front of him to be so if it resembled any he'd heard of. The world was vast and he'd heard many stories during his time as a soldier. If he had to pull an answer out of thin air he'd liken his little ghost to a lynx. They were rare and pretty elusive, even to a man immersed in nature such as Knives; he'd only seen about two or three before.
However, this was quite a stretch considering its size and pelt and that didn't even include its mannerisms. A lynx was solitary, quick to flee with a nasty temperament, while this... thing, was just outright bizarre. He'd never seen a predator, let alone any animal, carry a hunter's prey for them. The entire walk home that day was slow as it would have been if Knives carried the deer himself. However, that wasn't the case. Knives watched the poor, dumb thing drag his prey all the way back to the flat, tree sparse grounds of his home, all the while waiting for it to turn on him.
It never did.
From the edge of the forest, Knives watched the creature drop his kill off, pink tongue peeking out to run along its chops, as it inspected him quietly. His curiosity was piqued, which was a rare event for Knives as he decidedly attempted to approach his helper. However, upon his first step, the creature's fur fluffed up to twice its size, especially around its neck, back, and tail. A fear induced defense mechanism he'd seen in other predators like wolves and foxes.
Their eye contact continued for a few seconds longer until the strange thing ran off into the mountains, its quick pace dislocating some loose rocks from the hillside. A spectacularly clumsy display for what Knives used to believe was a graceful spirit.
Overall, Knives would dub this month as being… Interrupted. His normal routine, displaced by an outside force. However, he'd be hard pressed to liken the feline to the disjointment experienced when interacting with Zazie or Conrad every month, god forbid the curious villager or two wanting to see the so-called 'hermit' living atop the mountains.
Walking through the brush now, after all his encounters with the creature, Knives decided he preferred the company of beasts. His little ghost wasn't bad. Not bad at all. In fact, if it continued to remain so passive and docile, Knives might even be tempted to befriend the poor thing.
Glancing to his right, Knives caught sight of his ghost through the trees, pale coat blending seamlessly against the white band of birch trunks, squeezed between fall forested floors and branches of reds, yellows and browns. He'd learned to spot out the eyes when looking for his stalker, an endless ocean amidst a snowstorm. It always stunned him, for just a second. One second, that made him feel like he was consuming life itself, the beauty and the primal nature of it all in a single glance.
Perhaps most men would feel fear looking into this beast's eyes, yet, Knives felt connected in a strange sense of freedom. His mind and body were calm, and the slight anxiety he felt upon their first meeting quickly began to fade into obscurity.
Only for it to all be taken away by the grating vibrations of speech. The sound of two very distinctive voices permeated into the shallow depths of the forest where Knives was emerging. The call of humans must have frightened his little stalker, its fur fluffing up like two weeks prior, staring at him as if in panic before noisily sprinting off deeper inside the forest towards the mountainside. Such a meek thing his ghost turned out to be. Dumb lynx only gets cheeky around him it seems. Of course that's probably confirmation enough that the creature has never seen or heard humans before, especially considering Knives had yet to speak in front of it. Walking up to his home, he wondered how his brave little tabby cat would react to his own voice and smiled slightly.
"Whoa, Knives, what's with that crazy look on your face!?"
"Be quiet." His voice was hoarse, rough and deep, falling unused having spent most of the month staring at ghosts. Knives wondered what Zazie would say to that if he told them. They'd probably say it was the demons and insist on cracking his skull open with whatever was in that medical bag they always dragged around.
"No, I'm being completely serious over here! I didn't think you knew how to make that expression! Wait a moment, have you been possessed by the demons? Oh, please say yes!" At this point Zazie was practically drooling, pointing at Knives as he walked up to the front door of his cabin.
"Good afternoon, Knives." Conrad was standing next to the front door, a large wicker basket resting upon his hand, a wide amicable smile plastered on his face.
"Hm," Knives grunted in response as he opened the door to his cabin, Zazie peeking in behind him like they'd never seen his house before as he began to collect his furs for the month. The quicker their exchange, the faster they'd leave.
It wasn't as if their comradery had lessened after the war, they were still brothers in arms. A tight bond had formed through blood and pain, similar to the noose around his prey's neck. He'd set the rabbit down on the table, its white fur stark against the dark varnished wood, reminding him of the ghost prowling the trees.
Conrad had the misfortune of coming across—at least to Knives—as a very delusive person. To be brutally honest, he wasn't coming across that way, he just was. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially considering Knives grew up with him. However, after the war, the sight of certain smiles, the tone of his voice began to grate at Knives nerves. Conrad was so… Well adjusted. Or so it seemed. He could never tell what the truth was.
And Zazie... well,
"Do you see a demon in that rabbit's corpse?" Zazie was very close now, their eyes unreadable, looking over Knives shoulder at the dead rabbit. Zazie's voice was soft and inquisitive as if they were asking a child about their day, but the underlying seriousness was still there.
Knives stayed silent, meeting Zazie's eyes with his own unreadable steel.
"It's just... you were looking at it for quite some time."
Before a plethora of more unwanted questions and acustations were thrown his way, Knives got back to collecting his furs, voice gruff and low. "I was thinking about how to skin it."
Zazie paused for a second, looking between Knives and the furs in his hands. "Why would you need to do that?"
"We brought you goat’s milk today." Conrad’s voice, irritating as it ever was, cut through Zazie's questions like a blade. "Milly and Meryls' cow has gone missing."
Conrad stopped his unpacking to look at Knives. Then, as if expecting him to know the answer to—'What are their names again?'—missing sow. Funny how he could still remember the names of long dead soldiers while instantly forgetting those he'd most likely met once or twice already.
"Probably wolves." Knives said dismissively, eyes downcast as he finished packing away his pelts into a threadbare sack.
"As talkative as ever, I see." Conrad said this with a smile, looking back up at Knives as he finished emptying the basket. "Let me know if you come across its corpse anywhere."
Those words were loaded; reeking with expectations of Knives visiting the village just to talk to Conrad about what? Some dead, rotted cow.
"Sure." A half hearted, but sincere response. If Conrad wanted to see him that bad, so be it, and if he didn't find the cow, the entire thing would be a moot-point anway.
"If we're asking favors today, here!" Zazie was excited again, brown eyes wide with a manic gleam as they held out a fresh leather bound book. Taking a hold of it, Knives noticed all the pages were blank. It was a journal.
Tuning out Zazie’s babble about the rise of reading and writing comprehension, Knives spoke. "What is this for?"
Zazie looked like they were about to combust, hands restraining themselves at their sides clenching over and over so as not to invade Knives personal space.
"You have a pot of ink and a quill, right? Well, I want you to write your dreams down in this book." Zazie pointed at the journal Knives was flipping through, their head held high. "Since your communication skills need work and you're so reluctant to tell me your thoughts anyway, I figure your dreams can do the work for you!"
Knives face remained impassive, skeptical as he set down the book and responded flatly. "What, can my dreams tell you about demons?"
Conrad was already opening the front door, observing the dying sun setting below the shedding branches of the forest, reaching high into the watercolor of pink and orange, a stark black against the sunburst sky. "Who's to say, my boy? Some say that demons hide inside the dreams of men."
Conrad’s voice had a strange quality to it, deep and hollow like he'd heard him while submerged in water. Eerie beams of shade and sunlight filtered through the open door, casting the room in dim orange and blurry black outlines. Conrad’s shadow stretched far into the room, almost touching Knives and Zazie’s feet. It felt like a puppet show, a disjointed imitation of the past. The speech before battle, before blood.
The hair on the back of Knives neck stood up as Conrad spoke. "Wintertide must be approaching fast this year, the sun is already about to set. Next time," Conrad turned back to look at him with a smile, "we'll visit you earlier."
And then it was over. Conrad and Zazie departing with the dip of the sun, Knives watching them go until they were nothing but mere silhouettes among the trees, bags of skins on their backs.
In the wake of their absence, Knives felt an odd mix of relief and longing. Those days, bloody and stained as they were, fighting alongside those two, he'd felt as right then as he did in his home now. Surrounded by the bodies of fellow soldiers, filled to the brim with life and survival. He was surrounded, but now their bodies are empty, willowed and hollow, the sea departing from the shore leaving only their silhouettes in the trees, fading as they walk down the path.
Now, Knives stands alone. He lurks in the mountains and the forest, more than a shadow but less than a man. A beast in human skin. Perhaps that's what his ghost was too.