I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.



Howls would shatter that winter air, the red woods trembling in their disturbed stillness. Two every hour; a summons for the youth that old man had taken such an attachment to. Haunches were stiff with the spent morning yet the wait was unrelenting and his post at the borderline would not be interrupted by weather or creature alike. His obsidian pelt would be tugged stiffly by the winter breeze and dusted with ice. Hot breath billowing in a soft white smoke that snaked about his angular crown as parted jowls snapped slowly together; stained teeth coming to a close with a minute crack.

A call would ring across the lands -- a summon for none other than Basilisk Saxe. He would let it ring, not once, not twice, not even three times. But a dozen. Perhaps more. Doubting the authenticity of the call and questioning the man who sang it. What could possibly be wanted of him? What did he possess that any other, besides the few closest to him, might want? After some time -- hours, even -- his journey would draw to a close as the scent of marker borders impinged on his nostrils.

Alone and confused, he would step forth, gaze desperately seeking the man that had called for him. The boy shuddered as the cold wind whipped past in, strong and unforgiving. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the man would simply slay him here and now. Perhaps he was a mind-reader of sorts, and had seen his foul intentions when they had first met. A slight scowl would grace his unblemished features as he drew closer, dipping his head ever so slightly in greeting.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
It's dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?



It was nearly night when the frigid wind would inform the man that his harrowing call was no longer needed. Yet a final cry would part his black lips; hot breath billowing from a display of stained teeth which gleamed in a sallow light as the sun began to set. The cry no less powerful than his first, but rough and somewhat haggard as it was his twentieth. He had not shifted since he had set out that morning and his haunches were somewhat numb with cold. Yet he would not stand until Basilisk's form began to fathom it's self in the distance; his gait stiff as he sought to close the distance between them.



Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen these are it's hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.



When they did meet the man was somewhat speechless. And given the soreness of his abused throat a desert of silence could have settled between the men for the minutes that they stood in the bitter wind without speech. At last the rough clearing of a throat would broach that sterile air, an attempt to cut the roughness from his voice before he spoke. Basilisk, a deep nod following the name, I am alpha among the Redwoods. I invite you to become my ally and advisor. A dignitary among the ranks. In his staple fashion, no decoration would accompany his speech and no foreplay would come before it. The man's voice had hunted him for the entirety of a day; there was little worth in building up to an inquiry which would have an answer of yes or no.

Why the man had called him, he was utterly oblivious -- but he felt a pang of anxiety churn in his stomach and rattle him from deep within. The night was dark and foreboding, and he found himself uneasy even as he approached the man that was beginning to become so familiar to him. It was not fear that shook his bones, but something else.

The silence was thick and seemed unbreakable, but after a long moment, Deteste parted his jaws to speak. The man had taken the red forest, and was offering him a home here. No, not just a home, but a position by his side. A soft exhalation would sound in the still winter air, and he would shift his weight from one paw to the other, pondering what his offer really meant. He had changed, of that he was sure; but his need for revenge could not be fulfilled here. Not like this. "What is it that I offer to you?" he would inquire simply, wondering what good a child would be to him. A mere yearling, with little experience and a heart full of rage that only seemed to grow more powerful with each passing day.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,

Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,

Echoing, echoing.




The man would turn his cold eyes upon the youth with contemplation for the inquiry had pinned him into silence yet again. It was a question he had not asked, had not answered for himself and it was now that the clockwork of his mind would turn and weigh the forked road that lie before him. The man was not oblivious to the darkness that burned so steadily within Basilisk and should he act on it while in Tortuga the man would not be able to claim he did not know what it was he reckoned with. And should that darkness become too much to contain; the man understood it would become his responsibility to extinguish it with permanence. Yet his jowls would part and his cerulean eyes would glow like coals through the steam of his breath in that frigid air. Fire. The man would state in all honesty. It was the youth's ferocity that attracted him so; an eerie reflection of what he had been at that age.




Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?

This is rain now, this big hush.

And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.




Were you born here? He would pose his own query, his possessive stair straying from Basilisk to take in the red trunks that stood silently about them. My children were born here. And they will live here again. A blood right. I know the forest was once your home. So live here again as my children will. Contemplate what is yours and what you must take. Though hoarse the man's voice was unwavering. His crown had turned slowly from the horizon towards Basilisk again. Blood alone will not promise the red forest to my children; to you. The water of thy covenant is thicker than the blood of thy womb. It is a misconception that blood is thicker than water; for it is the relationships you form that give you power.

He had been abandoned by all who claimed to love him -- he had a right to be cautious and to question this man's intentions. It seemed few creatures were capable of an act of kindness without some kind of selfish intention lurking behind it, and he was no different. It seemed even Deteste was not sure how to answer, and he watched quietly, with only the slightest hint of a sneer on his dark lips.

Fire, he answered finally, and the boy's eyes would shimmer with interest. Fire. Always fire. Burning in the core of his being, hot and unbearable at times. Cataleya was teaching him to use it. He could only wonder if Deteste sought to extinguish it. Long ago he had condemned himself to a life full of anguish and hate -- he knew there was no changing the spiteful man he was growing to be. But he knew he was not quite like his father. The sight of Deteste before him did not make his blood boil; he was not aroused by the thoughts of killing him, by fantasies of maiming and torturing him. He was different. He would not answer, only stare silently and wonder.

"These trees were my home once," he acknowledged quietly. It had been so long ago, and he had been afraid to ever return. It was not danger that he was afraid of, but of something else -- of family. Of realizing they might still be here, never looking for him, never missing him. The unwanted Basilisk. The man spoke again; although his words were cryptic, the meaning was as loud and clear. "So long ago. And I wish to stay again." He had no other home -- he never had. And yet he wondered if Cataleya would join him; if she would allow him to stay. "I have but one stipulation."