KIROTTU
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The mare was mesmerising, bewitching with her stubborn stare. It did not waver, it did not twitch, and soon, the deep harmony of her kitsune's growls seemed to fade into the background, white noise behind a sharp, focussed array of images. The deep violet eyes clung to her own cocoa pools, reaching for them like the were a life line, and he a dying man. Isn't that we was? When the Sun rose, that was all he became, a rotting corpse, his flesh strung up between his bones, orchestrating movement like a weak puppet, with a faulty puppeteer at the helm. He grasped those chocolate orbs as if they were the most precious of gems, and he wondered, did she stare into his eyes with the same ardour? Did she recognise his need, silent and unspoken by his lips, but screaming behind his indigo pools? Why did she stand before him still, fearless, unwavering, steadfast against the assault he had thrown at her, reacting only with her calm, collected manners? Surely, if she knew what afflicted him, she would turn and run - and yet, she knew there was something wrong with him - she had called him weak - and she did not run - no, instead she challenged him, questioned him, brought his affliction into sharp focus and cut at it with a sharp scalpel, watching with caring, stubborn understanding, with undying patience and an annoying willingness to put her helpful attentions into the matter. He didn't want her help, he didn't need her help - and yet everything he had done so far was yet to work. Could it be that this girl held the answer?

She challenged him again, posing a question that his ears, standing half-cast between their alert position and his skull, heard with something akin to annoyance. The belle truly did not stop trying, her determination to bring his affliction to light was neverending. And yet, that was why he could not break his gaze away from her - she did not quiver even as he metaphorically threw himself at her, baring his soul for her to read. Even as his weakness leaked through, as the sadness, the defeat, coursed over his façade, she empowered him again, telling him that he could defeat his fate, change his destiny, alter the course of this curse - but how could she know the true weight of her words? What she was saying was false, he did not leave himself to fate, fate had forced herself upon him. He was not weak, she even said it, but he had not been strong enough to deny fate's cruel hand. Truth be told, he had invited the curse upon himself by denying her, but that was not how Kirottu saw his past. No, it was an act of cruel injustice, an insult, an unwarranted assault. He had done no wrong, and been punished for it.

"Fate touched me with her accursed hand already," he breathed, his voice holding the weight of truth and anchored down with the magnitude of his hopeless sadness. "I've no desire to tempt her again." But what if that was exactly what he needed to do? Was he meant to find that witch who stroked him with her cruel curse, and defeat her?

Was Lena to be the undoing of his curse?

Caught up in his thoughts as he was, the steed barely noticed that he had voiced, once again, the fact that there truly was something wrong with him, an infirmity, an illness that prevented him from living life the way he was meant to, the way he deserved to. The cool ice of their surrounds seemed to come into focus then, the deep rumble of Imogen's growls resounded against his eardrums once more, the chilly breeze picked at the strands of quicksilver that lined his mane and tail. Still, he did not shift his gaze, though the temptation to fall into that age old habit of tracking the Moon's path gnawed at him, tugged and pulled at him - he did not waver. The shivering of his legs had stopped long ago; he was not running away, at least, not yet. He had been snared by her conviction, he had taken the bait she had laid, pulled in by her determination, her challenge, her confrontation.

"How would you undo that which has been done unto you? How would you hope to know what lays within me?" His voice had become clipped again, his gaze sharpening into harsher lines, obscuring the sadness for a moment as the thought of this mere girl being able to help him caused him to realise the ridiculousness of it all. No, he couldn't believe, wouldn't believe it, not until it had been proven true. No, it simply was not possible, for one little girl to be the key to his curse, pretty as her face may be, resolute as her attitude may be. Still, he did not let go of her chocolate gaze, even as he continued doubting, disbelieving what was being offered to him. Why should she want to help me? The thought immediately rolled into another embittered design, if she were to see me during the day, she would not stand so bravely before me. For while Kiro was formidable during the night, during the day he was a monster, a ugly, twisted, broken corpse, gifted with animation by his sheer stubborn will to live, though that will did fade in intensity as the waves of depression lapped at his silver shores. He doubted very much that she would stand so steadfast against him then.

"You know nothing of power." The words were uttered quietly, their tone flat, delivered with an even monotone. The passion in his eyes had diminished again, as they remembered the sheer domination of the witch, the loss of control as he fell to the first horrible, wretched transformation - the same transformation he would experience when the Sun rose in the approaching dawn. He hadn’t the power to beat her then, and he still didn’t have it now. And this girl insinuated that she knew the key to his curse, the cure, the power? Let her prove it to him, then - for that was the only way he would believe it. A deep sigh expanded the soft nares upon his muzzle, as melancholy settled over him upon its exhale, and the stallion's brilliant bodice seemed weighed down by an invisible force that would become anything but invisible in a few hours time.

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THE CURSED ONE