Hope.

Four letters.
A single word.

Humanity had known it, strived for it, and based their supposedly indomitable spirit upon it.

Hope that their lives will turn around. Hope that their children would grow without knowing malice or discontent. Hell, the short lived bastards even named some of their next generation that very thing.

Hope.

Four letters.
A singular lie.

Yet, despite the knowledge of this disheartening truth, it was that very meaning to which shook the foundation of green hues at the back of Mal’s vision. The color of forests turned to that of shades of oak once more, and as lips sealed themselves into a grim line, no longer were there sharp teeth to display.

Hope.

Four letters.
A single purpose.

… lasted long enough within him to take a breath, calm his mind, and take stock of the situation. No longer did that monster inside his head and body scratch at its confines, for it too wished to be free of imprisonment. That much should be clear by the infliction to which the bystander of a brave act was now suffering.

The man and monster stilled their joined body as the Lady of the Glass Towers split, and pulled apart like a childs taffy. It wasn’t with amazement, nor with awe, but with Hope… that Mal and his Wolf watched this happen.

Though they had been down this road before, and quickly that light had been quarantined and snuffed from existence as easily as said child could pull apart a sweet treat.

Hope, a singular foolish word in the dictionary.

Choices long ago had been stripped from the capture of heart and hand from Mal, and so the current circumstances meant not despair, or even doubt. For you see, forever was a word made from ink and letters just as the other one, but try as he might… the man had never been able to smudge that ink which had tattooed into his very being. It was not by drinking the blood of virgins or devouring of hearts that it scarred him. It was not with promises of power, or even idiotic claims of good deeds such as jumping in front of a car. No, it was something worse than even the trickery afoot with the word of Hope. Whereas now Mal could keep the thing inside at bay, if a death marker were placed upon him, it would be him that would be inside. It would be the monster pushing his head underneath the waves… again…and again… and again…

Death would not be the end of him, but it would be the end of his control.
Oh, how he wished that the gun could put him to rest. How the scent of that wolfsbane, which indeed would prove effective against him, smelled of promises. Though the man knew the truth, because hope was a word given up on… even if small fragments of childish belief could still be born inside of him from time to time. So no, there was no resistance. There was no wishing upon a star to be taken away to a land far away from this. Neverland had no place for him it would seem.

There was hesitation though. A moment of consideration that would take less than a fraction of a moment. Bare hand moved out, palm outward towards the edge of where that circle would permeate the air, and almost… almost touched magic once again. No, she was prepared, the gun and poison were markers of this. 

Fine. 
His mind whined in childish submission.

It was not heaven from which Mal fell, nor were there any wings upon his back to be sundered away, but fall into that hole all the same he did after a step forward. It was not with a super hero’s power stance to which he landed either, for such fairy tales just like a world of lost boys were never his birthright. Instead the abused body struck the ground, and a careless crack of leg could be heard to absorb the impact of the already damaged structure.

Perhaps it was self punishment, or flagellation as the word may be deemed to be. Though this new fracture was taken upon himself with only a soft growl of agitation. Forever was a word for him, and this too shall pass.

“Move away from her bird. Let her be.”

His voice was not worried, hurried, and seemed earnest in its tone. Now he could feel the Wolf. Could feel it riding the course of the woman’s heartbeat. Could feel it tearing apart the genetic material to make its own.

To make one understand what was happening would be a simple matter. Take a colony of ants. A single one of those little insects could bite, tear, and do damage yes … true… though it wished to serve the colony. It served a higher purpose. Without that source, it would wander and die. It would starve. It could not repopulate, nor could it nest into the earth.

A threat yes, but not an origin. Not a core. Like the man, it had no hope.
This time there was no rising to his feet, merely remaining there with that half kneeling pose, and eyes the color of bark closed behind his lids. Wolf Song. Could they hear it? Could they understand it? There was the soft knocking of a wooden hull against the pier as gentle waves lapped against nearby shores. There was the song of birds above the forest. There was the smell of pine and the chill of northern climates. It was that picture, that very one that had been drawn, and torn from the book that still remained within his breast pocket.

The man pushed the head of the beast below the line of the water.
Stared into its snapping jaws as it submerged.

Though that link, through that core, through that nest that he was in fact… the man focused. Not through magic, nor through power or such a foolish word as hope. No, through the curse. Through damnation. Through wounds. Through blood. Through bone. Through himself, for in truth drowning the beast time and time and time again… was as if drowning himself… time and time again…

A thin line of water that smelled suspiciously like salt trickled from the corner of his lips, but still did he breath. Still did he remain kneeling before the Bird and Queen.

The woman would spasm, flail, and gargle. Salt water in the flow of tides would be vomited from her mouth. They could watch it like tears as it gushed up through nasal cavities. No, this was not a pretty sight, but when ever had such a thing like drowning been a thing of beauty?

For you see, while the word Forever was etched into him, it was not so for the mundane creature that had been infected. While a fever was an indication of the body fighting off a foreign pathogen, this… well… as far as Mal knew… this was the only way to treat this particular ailment. Just as that word had been lost well before now, the little show he was putting on wasn’t the first rodeo for him either.

At last, tired, without air, and unable to struggle further,  the thing inside a much frailer body would let go to drift off… would no longer be able to hold on, and the man’s eyes opened. He could feel it… see it still like a day dream…. slowly sinking lower, lower, and lower into that black depths to which he imagined.

A ragged gasp. A breath true and clear of that which his blood could wrought, once more brought her own blood the needed oxygen. Once more the woman was clean, or at least cleaned from the toxic inhabitation of a Wolf that should not be.

“Malcome, but I prefer Mal.”

A soft grunt, lifting himself to stand once more from that pose. Though the slightly bent knee still showed it was sore, no longer was it fractured. Oak eyes turned towards the Queen and the Bird, but the true hate… the forever kind of hate… was manifested for the one that could have wings.
He hated birds.
Hated them for their freedom.
Hated them for their laughter in the trees.
Hated them for what they did to him.

And yet, from that pull of making his stance clear, the man managed a smile, and turned chest fully towards the woman who no doubt still carried the gun.

“At your service.”