It is cold, and his heart is broken.

He is lost in the wake of seeing Mesec, and he wants nothing more than to lie down and die. There is a cruelty in him that he now knows he cannot control. Knox is beyond himself.

But there are memories still stirring, still breathing, of the dead. His mind will never be at rest. Knox is beginning to fear that he will never be gifted with the end of his life. At barely four years old, he is already counting down to a seemingly impossible end.

He is comprised of death. He walks through the snow with a different face, a killer's smug and hungry mask. He is Dovev, and Manhattan despises this.

She follows, cursing his name and all the names that live within his ancient breast. She is screaming into his mind, she is casting her magic upon his image moment by moment, bit by bit, but nothing can overtake such ancient and murderous desire. Knox, limp and afraid, curls inside the body of a stronger one who has never before known hesitation.

And so the snow tracks around them and the frozen stream appears, and beside it, too, is a mare.

And Dovev is Hungry.

And Dovev is unseen, beneath his descendant's cloak.

And Dovev reaches forth to place one heavy hoof on the neck of the dying, and he bends, and he lowers, and he places his heat against her body for a warm and tender moment. He is a true ghost, now. He is unnoticed, perhaps she cannot even feel him.

But he feels her. And he is hungry. And as the cloak falls away from his form, leaving only that black dog hidden, he reaches forth to try and bite the neck as Knox would have done.

Is this you, descendant? Dovev murmurs as the silver smoke flows from his eyes to seek out innocent, freezing eyes and attempt to blind.

Knox can say nothing. He has this last grip, this last instance of pity for this mare and his own self. He cannot bear to be the violent murderer once more at Dovev's will. He lies to himself.

Knox says it is to save her from a much longer suffering.

Liar, Manhattan tells him. Murderer, she spits from her hidden cloak. Addict, she calls him with particular truth.

I know, the hunter is crying. I know.

And with that, he turns his tear-stained face and the warmth of her that he had hoped to hold within his grip to crack a neck once more. And with it, his heart breaks, too.

—

[[@[Kiara]--Made sure to write it so the blinding magic was reaching out to attempt and he only tried to bite and twist her neck. Up to you if she fights back or is too weak and dies or whatever. I just know you wanted this to happen quickly. If you feel it is too unclear that you have leeway let me know and I will edit.]]

Knox is gone. He is a memory, an ephemeral desire to be something good now crushed under the weight of the unbearable need to hurt. Mother, was this you? He is thinking, he is asking, he is praying but to no Goddess now, praying that he can find an answer. He hears that horrible, dying snap: that breath crawling out of a corpse like its legs are caught between the teeth, like it's seconds away from the syndrome of the crush.

Is this crush syndrome? Has he, too, been so long compressed and overtaken that he is rushing back into himself with guilt?

No, didn't this already happen, damnit?

How many times.... Manhattan leaps as she wonders, thrusting her body against Kieran's as an invisible, cloaked force, diverting the attack from Knox where he lies a helpless killer. He had tried to make it quick, is this quick? Is it painful? He cannot stop the wondering. She can feel only the impact of her protection as the companion falls to lay across its bonded's back. How many times will I stand by you, when you kill so senselessly?

Neither of them know the answer.

Another one comes and Knox can do nothing. His body is against the body of the dead where it was before, his lips are parted and pressed to the bloodless earth. Was it better to blind her? Was it better to leave this earth unstained? Was she better off dead?

Was anything better, could it ever be again?

He listens as the exchange occurs. He moves further from the body. Knox senses now that he has defiled it, harmed it, in a way he should not have done. He doesn't remember how he got here, on the ground, beside this corpse. Dovev is gone, it is only his thoughts in an imposter body. Now that he is himself at last, he doesn't know who he is anymore.

They are screaming. Everyone is screaming. The ancestors, Manhattan, this child, this daughter of the dead. Knox knows he has done something he should not have but he doesn't know what. He hears the voices he heard as a child, creeping in, little demons, never gone. Did you think we'd ever let you go, pathetic colt?

"I'm sorry!"

He is crying. He is speaking aloud but he doesn't know to whom. Knox's young, fragile fears are breaking through the hard exterior of the steel killer. "I thought.... she was dying, I thought I..." Dark eyes stream with tears and look to the surviving one, the one with the horn in her lips and the fire in her eyes, the companion with the fire at it's back. "I was trying to end her pain.... I.... I'm sorry, oh, Gods, I'm so sorry...." every word spoken in tears, ever word spoken through hurt.

Manhattan draws to his side, moving slow from her collision with the cat, cloaked and unseen by all. She presses her black hair against Knox. She doesn't feel the hate for him, anymore. She thinks it is only pity, now.

What have I done, dear Hatta?

There isn't anything to tell him but the truth--this, she cannot say. So she presses her cheek to his, his swollen tears striking the bridge of her nose as she listens, eyes shut, to his shivering cry. It is the touch that says I love you--the touch that says I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Knox.


—

[[@[Vitani]]]