[i]It is soft. It is heavy. It is warm. This is how it starts. 

It is night on the windswept plains. It is the end of an adventurous day. It is a rare moment alone. This is how it can’t stop.

The warmth of piled blankets is almost like the warmth of a body. Almost.

First fly the questions, whittled down to points with no space for answers. What does he think he’s doing? You were doing so well. You don’t have to do this. Why? Why come back to these thoughts, again? Is this who you want to be? Is this who you’ve wanted to be? How much longer are you going to struggle with this? When will you get your act together? 

She wanted him. She hungered for him. She bound him, and he could not move an inch, and he could only be where she wanted him. He tried to speak, and she devoured his words, and his lips, and his tongue…

Next come the knives. Surgical. Sharp. Begin with the beginning, the real beginning. A chain of mistakes led to a tragedy. The chain must be broken. The earlier, the better. Give no ground. Why did he choose wrong, when he could have chosen right? Walk me through it. Find the error. Correct it. Make new plans. Reinforce them. Correct it. Do better. Why can’t you do better? Correct it. Why are you like this? Correct it. Do better. Never again. Never again.

…would enough of her pollen stop her nails from hurting? Would he [b]feel[/b] the fear and thoughts drain, and drain, and drain away as she kissed, and kissed, and [b]kissed,[/b] no matter how hard he tried to fight it?

Questions and knives. Knives and questions. It will end, eventually. It has to. 

He’s done enough thinking. He knows what happened. He knows what he will do. It is over and done with now. Aren’t the blankets comfortable? It’s time to sleep. Breathe. You have to focus on your breath. Feel the air fill your lungs. Count the seconds. Exhale. Don’t rush it. It’s over and done with. You know what you’ll do next time. Aren’t the blankets comfortable? Turn, and wiggle, feel the knit texture brush against your skin. This is nice. You are filthy. This is a nice bed. Tomorrow will be better. Look forward to it. You’ll sleep soon. Breathe. This feeling is poison. Count the seconds. You’re rushing it. Six, then two, then five. There’s other ways to count breaths. Any of them will do. This is fine. You are fine. It’s time to sleep. This feeling is

failure

Last, always last, the flood carries him away. Sleep will end it, eventually.

In the morning, he will feel better.

In the morning, he will smile.

In the morning, he will remember. Warmth and shame. Shame and warmth.

He knows what he will do. Next time, it will be different.[/i]

*********************************

No plan survives contact with a wolfgirl’s mouth.

In his defense, there’s a lot of wolfgirl! That much wolfgirl shouldn’t be able to appear and pounce so quickly! Though, come to think of it, that’s probably really useful to do when hunting, so maybe it happens more often than you’d think. Except! This is a ball! And not a hunting!

Which is all to say, if you were to ask him later what he was thinking in this exact moment, he wouldn’t have a particularly good answer. Not only because he’d be wondering how you knew any of this happened, or why it was so important for you to know what was on his mind when Olesya was attacking his face with her face. Though those would also make answering. Difficult.

But if he had to say something? And he had enough time to get his thoughts in order?

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel [i]right.[/i] And that was probably a bad thing.

“Hey[i]mmrph![/i] Wai[i]mmmphh!!![/i] Time[i]rprrhhh![/i] Out[i]mmmmmmph!!!![/i]”

There is. So much? So much. Wolfgirl. The muffled protests of [s]her prey[/s] a deerboy can’t stop her. The frantic tap-tap-tap-taps on her…arm? Golly, her back is really far away, anyway, that can’t stop her either. And. So.

(His heartblade showed some aptitude for shifting shapes. Possibly because it was more shape than blade. And yet, it resisted the form of a bow. Not completely, mind you. And he did get close. But he never quite got the knack of it. Something about the shape was right, but too much about the shape was wrong.

That said. He learned how a bowstring longed to be gently released, allowed to fly free. He learned where to hold his arm so as not to bruise himself with every shot. He learned the height to aim, the time to breathe out, and the thrill of an arrow thudding near to the mark. 

But most importantly, he learned what a novice archer ought to shout when an arrow doesn’t go where you thought it would.)

[i]-smack!-[/i] 

rings a flailing hand against her jacket.

[b]“DOWN!”[/b]

rings the voice of the Golden Fawn.

[Spending a String on Olesya, because he wants her to stop, start over, and use her words instead of her face.]