Everything wears heavy on the stallion now. Even the weight of things left behind are just burdens. He is commanded to steal, and so he obeys. But he has no need for things; all he has ever wanted is gone. Those things, those real, breathing, important things, are dead.

And though his son still breathes, Knox does not know if in Milo he has what he needs--what he wanted. Manhattan has begged him, in dreams and on her deathbed, to care for the boy. But what is there to care for but a mute thing, a lost thing? Milo's silence is intolerable, just one more moment after another in which the dark hunter must hear his own thoughts echoing, growing louder, growing louder.

Though it has been some time, the hunter surrenders his body to another form. The ancestors are softer now with their bridle gone, but their presence still lingers, still bothers. Cloaked in ancient white, very much an old wizard with whiskers dripping from his nose. His old eyes are turned blind with magic, his appearance dulled to the innocence of an old man. If nothing else he will not be suspected; if nothing else, this gift can be made beneath the shroud of anonymity.

Not knowing the names of the herd's crafters, the smoky-eyed shapeshifter merely circles old herd crafts and waits, hoping for someone to find him at the site. At his brother's command he steals. At his brother's command he appeals to others. Eventually, this craft will be given to another.

Let him have as little a part in it as possible.

—

The mare that comes (somehow, perhaps out of sheer luck) is either unknown or unrecognized. At the sight of her the stolen trinket drops from his grip, landing softly and bringing with it a small trail of spittle. Knox does not take the time to search his memories for a trace of this mare, for fear that thinking to the past at all will do nothing but hurt. It is true, after all, that nowadays there are few happy memories not tainted by the present, the loss, the death of his only friend.

Even thoughts of Aylin are mired in the fear of abandonment, perhaps the rage at her for leaving him (as a father, no less) with no more love in his life than he had before. He had counted on her, prayed to her in his own way that their child would mean love. Knox had hoped beyond all hope that Milo would bring peace to this earth and his torn apart life.

But hopes are so rarely realities. Desires such as undying affection become unattainable before they are even spoken.

The mare's question, one seeking his identity, feels pointless to the hunter but something within him reminds him that to many, such queries are commonplace. Still, he will not deign to answer it either in the shape of a truth or a lie. Her second wondering he can speak to, her first will die in the wind.

"I've been sent by the Dauntless, I'm meant to request that a weapon be made of this fang," the dark one cloaked in white says without kindness, without wheedling or further remarks. He stands tall before her, unmoving as if carved in marble, and the weight of an old body well cared for does little to affect him. He only has a request, or perhaps it should be said that his brother does. "So if you happen to be the herd's mason, then yes, you might be able to help."

—

Good, so this is all business. The white deathmask snortS near silently, considering her straightforward reply. It is a fair question, one that the hunter doesn't have enough knowledge to answer on his own. Lazily he searches through ancient memories, minds belonging to ancestors and more, but there is nothing to be found but war and theft. In the entire history of his family's being, not one has lent their lives to the modest art of craftmaking.

But Zsoka, at least, has a child's creativity. And Knox has an understanding, though rudimentary, of the material at the Falls' disposal. They have stone, don't they? Enough to build huts and prisons, though perhaps not so utilized as that. He turns his head, examining the fang without much care, before looking back to the silver mare. He is thankful she did not press on the matter of his identity. She's smart.

"I'll admit a lack of depth of understanding to your power, but perhaps a handle could be forged? Thus the fang could serve as a blade, and a mighty one at that," the hunter suggests with an elderly sort of shrug. What the actual thing looks like doesn't much matter to him--whether it's comfortable to hold isn't much of a concern. He's not exactly a fighter, and he doesn't see himself making use of something as unnatural and awkward as a dagger anytime soon.

But who knows, things change. Knox has no knowledge of his future, only too much of the past.


—

The hunter's impatience begins to appear. First it is a faint flickering, a disturbance of Cem's eerie stillness. Then comes a snort, a soft and unnerving sound as it comes from such old nostrils. His teeth grind, his hooves shuffle along the earth. Somehow, the mare is still talking.

Her magic is all that is of interest to the ancient being, and he watches with narrowed eyes as it begins its work. She speaks of filing the blade and he nods--asks if she may begin and he answers quietly, vaguely, with a "fine, fine, all very well." This is not of importance to Knox--nothing is, anymore.

As the mare across from him begins, her vines moving to the fang from where it rests, Knox finds his mind wandering. His brother has commanded him well enough to take the fang in the first place, to make of it a more useful weapon, but what to do next? Yes, he could be rid of it, make a gift of it, but would it be of any use to himself? Maybe temporarily, at least, the hunter could hold onto the thing...

His eyes snap more fully open and he looks back at the mare, waiting to see how her work will take place. Knox knows nothing of this process, but despite his impatience he will do his best to learn. Isn't it his role to observe and gather intelligence, after all? Who knows when such skills as these could benefit him later.

Doubtful, but who knows.


—

{Zsoka:} Is she done yet? I want to play with it.

Knox snaps his head back as she works, as if looking for the voice. But what a foolish thing to do, what an idiotic reflex.

{Cem:} Have you forgotten we're a part of you, boy?

He turns back slowly, trying his best to act casual, as if he were merely paying attention to a snapping in the wood. If Manhattan were here, she could have covered it up for him well by barking at something out there in the shadows. Only she isn't.

He blinks slowly in his ancestor's strong but ancient body, watching the process with narrowed eyes. The stone forms like clay before her, the vines wrap like rain. Where did she get such skill? Could she have earned it with time or is it simply a gift of her rank?

Why doesn't he have anything like that?

{Roanne:} Yuh have uthur talunts, sun.

But... Why don't I have anything like that? Anything that heals or creates, anything that truly, honestly helps?

Can he or anyone else say that he did? So maybe this dagger is to be a gift, but even then he won't give it easily. Even then, he can't just be kind with it.

Before anyone in his haunted head could answer, the mare's voice breaks through his thoughts. Cem's expression flickers away from rare and distracted concern, and his voice rumbles in his throat like striking flint before he speaks.

"Very impressive," Knox lies through his ancestor's bitter teeth. It's not that it isn't but he hasn't taken the time to even look. His tail swishes dismissively.

"The Falls thanks you for your service," he adds with a rolling of his shoulders that reads as a shrug before pawing the earth between the mare and the dagger, scraping it along the ground carelessly and closer to his protection. "I trust that I can come to you for tasks like this again?"

After all, her discretion and apparent lack of curiousity is valuable to the stallion. She's useful and talented but doesn't ask questions—his favorite kind of company to keep.

—

What is it in the air that always makes him so impatient? Cem's ancient body begins to move before Knox can command him to stay. It is only with sudden insistence, a grabbing of the reins, that Knox can regain himself.

He stops short, snakes his neck back to look at the mare with an eeriness that suggests a possession, an involuntary act. The old wrinkles on the neck of a white monster seem to be wide crevasses in a bleached cliffside.

"I..." an uncharacteristic pause, a flicker of hesitation that does not sit well with the commander's age, passes over his features. He feels, briefly, that he is young again.

Suddenly he feels the wind, smells the wood and water around him. It comes to him in delicate movements, stirrings of strings on the wind in a larger symphony of being. He thinks he hears Manhattan whisper his name, a love song sort of call in the forest:

{Manhattan:} I'm here

He doesn't realize it isn't her. He doesn't remember the nightmares of his childhood, the voices he thinks he has banished. Could it really be, could it really...?

No. Knox snaps back to reality and the world feels dark again--empty. He looks down at the earth. A minute ago he might have asked this mare's name, but suddenly he can't bring himself to care. He just needs to leave, to be rid of this day's tedium.

"Should you ever need the services of a thief or illusor, consider it a favor in return for this," he says by way of parting before bending down to grip the dagger in his teeth, turning, and walking into shadows once more.


—