The Will and the Wilds

Monsters are only ever fascinating from afar.

What is a soul if not an extension of the heart?

You and I, we'll always be different. There will always be something wild in us. Others will see what they want. It's always been that way.

Without a soul, she doesn’t have a will.

She turns to ice in his arms. Maekallus wrenches back from her as the new piece of soul collides with him, fueling the passion, and need devouring his insides, lacing them with something sour, frosted, and heavy. He knows the sensation, knows it in an almost nostalgic way, and hates it instantly. Guilt.

But even beautiful things must end, for even most of a soul cannot change what Maekallus is.

Time is the best healer, my grandmother used to say, but it is a cruel master that takes pleasure in my torment and withholds its salve.

I pay no attention to the folk, for I’ve learned, mostly, not to care for the opinion of others, as they have never cared for mine.

I kiss him, and another piece of myself breaks. In its wake, I'm left cold and hollow.

Maekallus is always there, lurking in my thoughts. I think of him in the half seconds between my father’s breaths, in the spaces between sentences in my books, and in the silence between footfalls when I walk to and from the house.

Some of the intelligent species of mysting are tricksters--these are creatures more interested in toying with mortals than feasting upon them.