Chapter Text
“The foxes are getting antsy,” Isepo notes as Gaeric lingers at the threshold.
The curtains of the yurt’s entrance rumble and growl under Gaeric's fingertips, despite the morning sunlight. It's windy outside. It's always windy these days. Howling. Almost enough for Gaeric to feel the cold, but only almost.
Gaeric huffs out a sigh. “You ever gonna say goodbye like a normal person?” he snarks. “You always have one more thing the exact moment I'm about to leave.”
“They're getting antsy,” Isepo repeats with too much certainty. “Stamping at the dirt. Digging.”
Gaeric lets out a half-conceding grunt. “They’re still pissy about the turnout last ghost season. Can't blame them. They got cucked out of the feast of their afterlives.”
“You think Ingo could wrangle them to help with our hunting parties?” Isepo wonders.
“Don't even joke,” Gaeric uneasily demands. “The way things are going, we might actually need something like that. Gods knows if we've even got enough to tide us over as is.”
Isepo pokes at the fire. “The clans will live,” he decides. “We always have.” He scoffs. “You and your fucking heretics nonwithstanding.”
“Who are you calling a heretic, heretic?” Gaeric jokingly challenges.
“Bastard.”
“Whoreson.”
“Dog fucker.”
Gaeric snorts, parting the curtain. “Alright, alright, I'll be seeing you.”
Isepo waves his hand flippantly. “And check the rift rods on your way back!” he shouts after Gaeric. “The blasted things might be falling over while the winds are throwing their damn tantrums.”
Gaeric lets out a flat hum as he leaves Isepo's yurt. His Froslass and Glalie are waiting for him outside, and the frigid fog of his breath mixes with theirs in the cold, cold air. “Right, then,” he mutters to himself, rolling his shoulders and hopping in place. He lets out a harsh puff of air and claps his hands together. “Come on! Let's go!”
Gaeric's boots mutedly crunch against the snow smothered underbrush of Heart’s Crag as he jogs through the sparse forest. Wormadams sway in their treeside perches as he passes, nostrils quivering in cloaks of dead leaves, shed furs. His hand thunks dully against the crackling hollow of a dead log when he swings his legs over it, and soil-covered Snorunts cling to themselves as they scuttle out of the underside. A dull-coated Raichu, still fat with the lingering bounty of autumn, startles at his presence, the fleeing kick of its powerful legs digging up the dirt at its feet. The sudden smell of petrichor is sharp in Gaeric's lungs, clinging to his nostrils with the cold.
A whisper forms in the back of his mind, and Gaeric's arm hooks around a tree, skidding his pace to a harsh stop. His eyes dart towards his Froslass. Noko places a delicate white finger to her hooked, jagged beak, hooded blue eyes shrewd as her gaze flicks behind him. Gaeric's body stills, then swivels in place, as he sinks down to a crouch, hand held out at his side in a motion for his Glalie to do the same. Slackjaw’s eyes burrow into his back as he turns his head towards Noko’s cue. A gaggle of Ralts, white as the snow around them save for their green and pink crests, the long tufts on their legs trailing into the ground like a child’s dress. An alpha Gardevoir kneels in the middle, her feathery skirt pooling at her feet as if she were a bride awaiting her husband. Her round head lolls, doll-like, flaming eyes peering languidly towards his hiding spot.
The alpha’s gaze is heavy, heady, impossible to escape. As she lingers in his direction, a pressure starts building in the back of Gaeric's eyes, and he stamps down the reflexive panic rising in himself and his two ghostly companions. She is only looking. It is not her fault that she has been touched. His mouth flattens as the sweeping weight of her psychic scrutiny washes over him, and he stiffly bows his head in deference. The Gardevoir’s long lashes flutter shut and she turns away.
Gaeric lets out a wheezing breath. He tries not to be seen running away from the scene too quickly, lest she be interested enough to take chase. (Speed but not haste, as Ingo always says.)
As he finds the river, ice moves to meet his footsteps, whistling and crackling as he skates across its surface, his body made weightless by Noko’s hands. The murky shadows of Basculin swim just beneath the surface, and he hears the wingflaps of a Braviary or two in the sky overhead. A good sign, he thinks. He might come back here some other time to fish. He could use the leather. His boys are about old enough to learn about tanning, now that he thinks of it. There's a plan. He'll take them ice fishing, the next time they come to visit, and he'll teach them how to tan leather. It's about time they start learning some proper field skills. They're picking up medical knowledge just fine, but it'd be good for them to have options. It's more practical than way.
Past the river, wind whistles lowly amidst the glacial remains of kami past, the ancient flesh and bone that makes up the landscape of Avalugg's Legacy. A bloom of Drifloons buffet about him as his path cuts through their aimless drifting. Gaeric leaps between the shallow ice peaks of the dune-like landscape, laughing with the force of the impact whenever his rolling landings collide too harshly with the ground below. Swinubs snuffle curiously through the soil, their coarsely furred bodies powdering with white as they dig for roots and seeds. He'll have to trap a new one for Mita soon, so she doesn't have to borrow Seta’s again the next time she needs to go foraging. Though Gaeric did already lend her Futon, to keep the house a little warmer through little Arnon and Amalthea's first winter. The Typhlosion does have some Swinub in him. Knowing her, Mita’s probably already put the lazy little fucker to work. Hah. He deserves it.
The Galaxy Team's outpost is within a reasonable distance of the rift rods Isepo hasn't checked yet, so Gaeric stops by there to rest. Looks like there's some new faces in the Security Corps- new to the Icelands, at least, seeing the way they gawk at his state of dress. The ones who've already been here for a while don't even blink anymore. He uses his dried provisions, and the generous fire available to him, to make a quick stew as Slackjaw helps the soldiers clear out the snow on the surrounding road. Gaeric listens in on the guard’s reports while Noko repairs the ephemeral shroud of the Aurora Veil clinging imperceptibly to him like a trick of the light.
She's fussing, of course. It could have waited until they got back to Icepeak Arena. She's just been a bit antsy ever since what happened to Ingo a few months back. Gaeric wouldn't be surprised if she nearly kidnaps the poor man next time he remembers to visit, stubbornly clinging to him until every last thread of his coat is woven with her protection. Wouldn't that be a sight? Ingo would walk away shining more than he already does and no one would know why. It'd be a little funny, at least, to watch him politely protest Noko’s loving insistence, as if Gaeric's dear partner was no different than Lady Sneasler suddenly deciding her Warden needs to be groomed.
Keaka reveals himself as one of the outpost guards, toasting dough on a stick before the fire in exchange for a share of Gaeric's stew. The man asks after the icy Vulpix he left in Gaeric's care last year, and Gaeric reports that it's grown into a strong Ninetales, a dutiful guard for Lord Avalugg's brood of Bergmites and a fine sibling for Gaeric's children. When Noko is done restitching the Aurora Veil and readjusting it invisibly over Gaeric's body, Slackjaw's smug mouth is full of fresh snow, frost clinging to his chin like a scraggly beard. Gaeric's laughter at the sight is harsh and graveled in his throat.
They set off once more to look after the rift rods that the outpost could not. As Isepo had guessed, some of them are sliding out of alignment or listing to the side due to the shifting integrity of the soil. Their wooden bases creak as he ties ropes to them, pulling them back up into place. The jarring sound startles some Murkrows out of hiding- one, two, three in a row, taking to the air and followed by a staggered fourth. Winter's too-soon sunset bleeds a red sky under paintbrushed clouds. Red sky at night- the fishermen out working today will like that. Whatever lover’s spat has been tearing across the winds today, it will be gone by morning, and leave gentleness on their sails. Even now, it’s already starting to dissipate. The howl winding down to a gentler, more melodic sound. Almost humming. Hm-mm hm-m-mm… hm mm.
He’s nearly wandered out into the Bonechill Wastes, fitting these eccentric contraptions back into their proper places. If he doesn’t get a move on, it’ll be nightfall before he makes it back to his own bed. With song on the wind and the light of the setting sun at his left, he turns and walks to
With song on the wind and the light of the setting sun at his left, he turns and walks to
With song on the wind and the light of the setting sun at his left, he turns and walks to
With song on the wind and the light of the setting sun at his left, he turns and walks to
With song on the wind and the light of the setting sun at his left, he turns and walks to
With with with with with with
the light of , he
turns
turns
turns
turnsturnsturnsturnsturnsturnsturnsturnsturns,
There’s someone screaming. He doesn’t recognize the voice. He- he should do something. Help them. Run to them. The screaming turns to pleading
turns to begging
turns to crying
turns to bargaining
turns to
turns to
turns turns turns
Someone is holding him, and they are cold. Gaeric supposes that makes sense, it would be stranger if they weren’t cold, but this cold, he can feel it, can feel it in his ribs and his mouth and his throat and the noise, oh the noise,
He is laying on the ground, looking up. The sky is beautiful and there are twice as many stars. It should be quiet. Peaceful, he thinks, peaceful like frostbitten corpses under avalanche snow but the avalanche is beating against his ears and it won’t STOP
The screaming is back, now. No, no, this is different, a different voice- Oh, he thinks. That’s me. It’s cold. It’s so cold. I can’t even remember the last time I was this cold. Where’s Futon? Should he- ah, right, he’s with Mita. That’s good. That’s good. He hasn’t stopped screaming, but why would he be screaming? He’s safe, he’s safe, he is loved he is forever he is alive he will not die so long as I will it and
Oh. That’s why. It hurts.
What hurts? Gaeric asks himself. Nothing, he thinks.
EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP PLEASE IT HURTS IT HURTS I CAN’T THINK PLEASE PLEASE I CAN’T STAND IT MAKE IT STOP PLEASE MAKE IT STOP, he thinks, because there is ICE AND SNOW AND COLD AND PAIN AND nothing, it’s alright, everything’s okay. you’re gonna be okay, my dear, I promise it with all I am and all I ever will be and
pressure like a vice holding him in place and holding him shut so he does not slip like the meat that he is and IT HURTS LIKE WEIGHT THAT BUILDS INSIDE AND DEMANDS TO BE FREED LEST IT BURST THROUGH FLESH AND BONE AND ORGANS AND MEAT AND-
Gaeric kneels in the snow as frigid arms hold him together like twine around
MEAT, and tries to breathe, but the air is so cold, cold enough that it feels like his tongue is a raw fish left to dry until it’s hardened into jerky unrecognizable as
MEAT, cold enough that each exhale feels like it’s drilling holes in his lungs, like the little Swinub that dig-and-dig-and-dig until they are satisfied that they have found safety and protection to live another winter as a living thing and not dead
MEAT for a predator. He chokes on his own saliva as it turns to ice in the frigid air, dripping on the snow and melting through it like acid. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, like it’s swollen, and his teeth are chafing against the
MEAT of his cheeks until they break through and let the cold air in. Some distant part of him wonders if he should be scared. Another part of him is screaming in agony. Gaeric thinks he might be hungry. Perhaps Mita’s made something nice for him? They can’t be using too much, what with the cold of winter bearing down, but his dear wife has always had such a way of making the most delectable meals out of mere scraps of discarded MEAT
-the pressure won’t stop,
and it’s building,
and building,
and he thinks it will kill him and he thinks it’s already killed him but if he’s dead then why does it HURT SO MUCH-
Gaeric can’t tell if the crunching and crackling is ice or bone, or if there’s even a difference anymore, as the heat of his breath burns away his own flesh and MEAT. He places a hand on his stomach to feel his own skin stretched and distended from the pressure pressure pressure, until it SNAPS AND BURSTS, AND HE IS FLAYED AND OPENED AND BEAUTIFUL HANDS PULL HIM APART AND for
a moment, just a moment, the pressure ceases and he can breathe, and each exhale dissolves what little skin remains caked onto ice-cold ribs that flex like joints, but it returns, worse than before, in his eyes, in his gut, in his mouth, in his teeth, and if I rip them out will it stop
if I gouge out my eyes like pechas, will it stop,
if I claw my manhood to shreds, will it stop,
if I tear open my gums and tongue, will it stop,
if I pluck out my teeth one by one, will it stop,
if I-
No, says the gentlest voice. No. It will be over soon, and you will live.
Her hands cover his as he reaches for his face and thick claws (his? hers?) rip through frozen flesh to give way to nubs like infant teeth that break through an icy skull to reveal horns of black obsidian, and he screams and writhes and spasms because IT’S TOO MUCH, IT’S TOO MUCH, IT HURTS, IT HURTS, PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP, IT HURTS,
YOU WILL LIVE-YOU WILL LIVE-YOU WILL LIVE-YOU WILL LIVE
And then there is something new.
Something different.
There is hunger.
Gaeric is lifted onto wobbling feet (by himself? By them? Who is them? Who is him?) as the constant constant constant PAIN intertwines itself with with with withwithwithwith MEAT but the meat is gone and all that remains is ice and cold and bone and hunger and
Gaeric feels hot tears pour down his face, and they burn like fire, and his jaw hangs open, unhinged and crowded with tusks and fangs, salivating at the mere thought of MEAT,
bitter malice foaming white like frost. He needs to eat. He needs to eat he needs to EAT he needs to EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT,
AND THERE IS PAIN BURSTING FROM HIS ARM AS HE TEARS AT IT WITH TEETH THAT DON’T FIT,
AND WHEN GENTLE HANDS TRY TO PULL HIM AWAY HE FIGHTS, HE LURCHES, HE SLAMS THIS BODY INTO THE GROUND
AND BITES DOWN EVEN HARDER WHEN THE ARM, HIS ARM, IS PULLED FROM HIS MOUTH AND REPLACED WITH A
neck
It’s okay, she says, a crooning smile creasing her eyes. I love you.
He pulls away, but it’s too late, and there is something like meat hanging from his mouth as her loving hands card through his hair, smoothing each knot and tangle like it’s the most important thing in the world, and something in Gaeric breaks because he is HUNGRY and all he can see is MEAT AND HE IS HUNGRY AND THERE IS MEAT AND HE IS HUNGRY AND
GENTLE, TENDER SHREDS OF GHOSTFIRE, COLD AS ICE, ARE TORN ASUNDER AS OBSIDIAN TUSKS ROOT THROUGH A BODY TORN OPEN IN SEARCH OF
SOMETHING,
SOMETHING MORE THAN THE WISPS OF CLOTH HE GORGES HIMSELF ON,
SOMETHING TO SOOTHE THE PRESSURE AND THE HUNGER, AND HE IS BITING AND BITING AND BITING,
HE IS EATING AND SOMETHING EATS HIM, UNTIL HE DOES NOT KNOW WHERE ONE ENDS AND THE OTHER BEGINS, BUT IT DOES NOT MATTER BECAUSE HE IS SO SO HUNGRY AND HE CANNOT STOP UNTIL THE PRESSURE ABATES AND
and
What is this? wonders what remains of Gaeric, bloodied claws softly cupping a dripping dripping dripping glob of light and meat and
Take it. Take me. Feast, and feast, and be sated when I fill you, because I love you and I love to live
and the thought is gone before it can ever finish, because the thing is in his mouth already and
It fills his entire throat with oil, like the thickness of honey and the heaviness of broth, salt and sweet and bitter and raw. There is no comfort here, no gentleness, because even the dead will fight to live. Blood and heme pooling like a nosebleed as he chokes on the gore of something that is made of the same thing he is, like a tumor that must be excised with precision because it is made of the same flesh that surrounds it. This, too, must be met with care and caution as it threatens to bind to his lungs and nose until there is nothing left- but even as he struggles and stumbles, it goes down his throat.
It’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted, and Gaeric is laughing. He needs more. Teeth like obsidian and bones like ice give way to newfound strength as the second ghost willfully concedes to his boundless joy, his claws gouging out the soft flesh of its tongue as he fills his stomach with icy meat, as the pressure behind his eyes and teeth and skull fades in the face of a lust for life-
I am alive, he rapturously realizes, and I love to live.
Somewhere, a god wails with grief. Something wearing Warden's clothes gazes, entranced and alone, into a blanket of eternally frost, and starts walking.
Let me show you, he wordlessly sings out, as the second soul slides down his throat like blood and oil and iron and life. As his flaming eyes alight upon a lone Ralts, its white down blending into the powdery snow that coats the ground. Let me show you how happy I am.