Kien kept the torch low so as not to light the trees ablaze. Dry leaves crunched under every cautious step. The soft organic matter of wood, soil, leaves, and other detritus[1] muffled these noises, contributing to the eerie silence of the woodland.
"Should we split up?" Kien asked after a while.
"No!" hissed Amos, "Never! What is wrong with you?"
Kien pouted, "I ju-"
A howl pierced through the silence. Deep and mournful.
Then the screams started again. "NO! PLEASE, NO! NO NO NO!"
Kien and Amos exchanged a look, then started running.
"Wolves!" panted Kien, "Probably a pack!"
Amos nodded grimly, holding the pitchfork at the ready as he ran. He spotted a splash of blood - fresh - running down the trunk of a tree. He didn't have time to inspect it thoroughly, but he thought he saw a smeared handprint in the red liquid.
Branches scratched at their faces and roots tugged at their ankles. They kicked dry leaves out of the way, causing a ruckus and marking the path they took.
Shapes ran alongside them, low to the ground. Subtle movements and quick darts in the dark. Amos could hear quiet pants, snarls, and yips keeping pace with them.
Amos and Kien broke through the trees into an empty grassed space, casting the circular clearing in the raging glow of their torch. They were bleeding with a million tiny cuts from the sprint through the underbrush, panting and sweaty. The beasts following them stayed in the darkness, hidden by the trees.
In the centre of the clearing was a single, grand tree.
Its trunk was wide. If Amos spread his arms out to their full length, there would have to be four of him to encompass the tree's circumference. The wood looked like a bundle of cords crossing over each other, or a candle that dripped melted wax and had since solidified. The branches spread out to cover the sky with desperation, providing a spotty canopy that the torchlight threw deep shadows into. Little soft, green fruits hid among the ranks of leaves in the shape of curved diamonds. Amos thought they might be figs.
The roots of the huge tree were its skeletal tendons, appearing like arched spines that dove into the earth below. They spanned over the grass in wavy lines, tall and thin, like eels frozen mid-swim.
There, under the fig tree and amongst its roots, sat a lonesome man cradling the corpse of a wolf.
He wore an oversized coat that would have covered his entire body and more, if it weren't torn to shreds. The fabric threads held onto each other valiantly, but the blood-stained cloak was ruined.
The holes revealed the dreadfully pale skin beneath, almost alabaster. Hints of intricate, spiralling tattoos peeked from beneath the cloth, covering his entire body.
He looked up at the two newcomers. His face was painted in red, twisted in despair. Tears pushed their way through the blood on his face.
"Help..." he rasped, "help me, please."
"Are you injured?" Kien asked, handing the torch to Amos and stepping forward. Amos walked around the edge of the clearing with the torch, peering into the forest.
"I didn't mean it," the man's breath hitched, "I thought... I thought we were friends."
Kien looked at Amos. Amos shrugged and indicated the direction of the farmhouse with his head; a silent request to leave this tenebrous place.
"Come on," Kien said, putting a hand on the man's bicep, "let's get somewhere safe."
The man looked up at him and pulled the corpse tighter, "I'm not leaving my friend."
Kien nodded, "Of course, we could always use the mea-"
"No!" Amos interrupted, "No, it's okay. We can bring your friend."
The man nodded. Amos handed the torch back to Kien with a stern look, then stuck his pitchfork into the ground, prongs down. He offered his hands to help the man to his feet, but he shook his head, unwilling to release the wolf from his breast.
Amos sighed, then positioned himself behind the man. He grabbed him by the armpits and heaved upwards. His eyes lingered on the spiral tattoos as he did so. Something inexplicable drew him to the swirling ink...
The man was unsteady on his feet. He looked back at the tree above him. There were blood splatters all over it, the sign of a violent struggle.
Where'd all this blood even come from? This guy doesn't look hurt...
Amos dusted off his hands, then grabbed his pitchfork again.
"There's more out there," he said, "I saw them while we were running. Keep the torch lit."
Kien nodded, "Alright, what's your name?"
The man looked behind him like there was anyone else Kien could be asking, "Me?"
"Yeah?" Kien said.
"I never got one."
"You don't have a name?"
"No, but I have many titles! I have been called Idiot, Stupid, That Thing, Shell, Vessel..."
"Alright, I get it," Kien said, "You need a name. I'll call you..."
"Ink!" Amos interrupted, "Y'know, because of the tattoos?"
The man gave an appreciative smile.
"Ink it is!" Kien said, "I'm Kien, and that's my son Amos. Let's go home, the wolves are still out."
As if on cue, another howl sounded in the night. It sounded close. Very close.
Amos shivered. Kien motioned for the others to follow him and led the way back into the depths of the woodland.
They trudged on in silence for a short while. Ink's face was somber. He kept stroking the fur of the wolf and whispering apologies to it. Its snout was a mangled mess, like it had run full speed into a concrete wall or tried to bite an iron bar with all its strength. The rest of its body was strangely uninjured - it seemed to have died from the wound on its face.
Suddenly, Kien stopped dead in his tracks.
Two pinpricks opened from the shadows in front of them. The creature blinked slowly, the orange light of their safety reflecting in its eyes. A wolf stepped forward, slinking through the bracken and undergrowth, into the light.
It was all ribs and fearful eyes, though larger than any wolf Amos had seen. Its gaze was focussed squarely on one person: Ink.
The frightened trio stood still. The wolf approached slowly, low to the ground. Its tail was still.
Then, in a rush, Kien stepped forward. He raised his shovel over his head. The metal glinted against the torchlight. He didn't give the creature a chance to react, bringing the sharp edge down in a barbaric overhead swing.
It cleaved into the wolf's skull, almost splitting it in two. Kien grimaced against the spurt of gore it released. The wolf fell limp in an instant.
"Good," Kien panted, smearing blood across his face with the back of his hand, "Amos, pick it up. We'll take it home."
Amos was shocked at the sudden display of violence. His knuckles were white on the wooden handle of his pitchfork.
"I..." he said.
Ink screamed again. Kien and Amos turned to look at him.
"Why?" he sobbed, "It wasn't going to hurt us! Why did you kill it?"
"Are you stupid? Did you see its eyes?" Kien shot back, "That thing was starving! It was going to hurt us, no, it was going to eat us!"
"Kien..." Amos said.
"Don't start with that shit," Kien whirled around to him, eyes wide, "You dragged us out here. I'm here to protect you!"
"It wanted to be my friend!" Ink cried. He ran over to the wolf, dropping the corpse already in his arms. He tried to push its leaking brains back into its head. "Please, please, please."
Kien shook his head and pulled Amos aside, "This guy's unstable. We need to get home."
"We can't leave him here," Amos said, his heart pounding.
"We can and we will. Leave the meat, we need to go now."
"No, there's..." Amos began, "Something's not right here."
Is this why Shanty told me to stay away? Is Ink that dangerous?
Ink looked up at Kien and Amos with their heads bent, discussing abandoning him. His face fell.
"This is my fault, isn't it?" he sobbed, "I should have stopped you. Should have said something, done something... Anything..."
"No, Ink," Amos said.
"My friend is dead again!" Ink held his head in his hands and began rocking in the foetal position. He started producing a keening noise - a funeral wail. Blood pulsed from the wolf's wound, soaking the underbrush and reaching out to Ink in a slow puddle.
Kien rolled his eyes and rested the shovel over his shoulder. Amos shot him a silencing look, then knelt down next to Ink. He started rubbing his back, feeling the skin where the cloak had holes.
It was thin and stretched tight, too tight, over his bones. Amos' fingertips trailed over the bumps of his spine. Where it crossed the tattoos, he felt subtle bumps in the flesh. There was a certain electricity to them, like a static shock. Ink's body shook with sadness
"Hey," he whispered, "I'm really sorry for your friend."
Ink just cried. It was a sound that pulled Amos' empathy from his gut and left it in his throat. He lifted his head slightly, and skewered Kien with an accusatory eye.
The single tear in the corner of Ink's eye provided a contrast to the furrowed brow and barely concealed hatred in his dilated pupils. He looked exactly like the fallen angel[2].
He pushed himself up and away from Amos.
"Stay. Away." He said, pointing at Kien. Then, he stumbled off into the forest and started running.
Amos saw him wiping his eyes, pulling the cloak tighter to his body. Ink wasn't watching where he went and bumped a tree as he ran. He shoved it with his shoulder, and Amos heard the sound of splintering wood, followed by a slow crash.
Amos felt a pulling sensation from inside of him as Ink went. A tug in his chest - physical. Magnetic. It reminded him of the Infinite Lake, of being flung through the sky on his first visit.
He showed his father a fierce expression, then gave chase.
He crashed through bushes and branches, roots and rocks, thorns and thickets. Ink was faster. Not as fast as Shanty's supernatural speed, but fast. He was still hampered by the many obstacles the wood provided, though, much the same as Amos. Kien followed behind his son at a slower pace, throwing dim light in front of him.
"Ink!" Amos called out, "Wait!"
Ink ignored him, barrelling on.
Amos began to slow, unable to keep up. He stopped for a moment, hunched over. Hands on knees. Breath coming ragged. Adrenaline coursed through his body, but his muscles were burning. His saliva had thickened, and he spat to the side. He breathed in and out, slow. Attempting to regulate.
"DON'T STOP NOW," a croaky woman's voice reverberated inside his head.
"I can't..." Amos wasn't thinking clearly.
"IT'S ESCAPING."
"What? Ink? I don't..." Amos struggled to form a sentence. His head began to ache, pressure building and building and building and building.
"Who ar-"
The pressure boiled over, like water in a pot, and his head exploded with images. Flashes, bursts of colour and shape. He began to rise off the ground, slowly floating, pulled from a central point. From the magnetic force attached to his chest.
Kien arrived to see the body of his son, limp and spasming in the air.
"AMOS!" he said, dropping the torch.
Amos saw the stars. He saw a sapphire blue planet. He saw eyes in an empty space, a gentle brown tone. He saw kindness. He saw Ink, running. He opened his eyes. He saw the pull - the red string connected to his chest, faint and ethereal - revealed to him.
"IT'S MINE. USE IT."
Kien watched Amos grip onto empty air. He reached out with an empty hand, trying to hold onto his son, to keep him close, protect him from forces he couldn't comprehend. Safe.
Amos pulled on the red string.
He shot through the air like an arrow, leaving his screaming father behind. The path designed for him weaved in between branches and trunks, dodging any obstacle. He was completely and utterly out of control; His fate was in someone else's hands.
He caught up to Ink quickly and collided directly with him. The two boys went sprawling, tumbling over each other.
"Ow," Amos said, "Sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."
"What happened? You flew?" asked Ink.
"I actually have no idea. I think someone else did that to me."
"Is your dad coming?"
"Yeah," Amos nodded, "I think so."
Ink pouted.
"Listen, he didn't know you were friends with the wolf. He wouldn't have killed it otherwise. We're both just really jumpy out here tonight."
"Why?"
"Huh?"
"Why are you scared?"
"Well, um, normally wolves eat people and other animals, so..."
"So they're not friends?"
"Not with humans, no."
"But I was playing with them!"
"Yeah, I get that Ink. I'm not saying you can't be friends with them, it's just... it's not normal."
Ink paused. "You're nice to me, Amos. Do you want to be friends?"
"Sure," Amos laughed, "We can be friends."
At that point, there was a rustling in the underbrush. Amos and Ink both turned, expecting to find Kien, muttering and grumbling his way through. Amos braced himself for the barrage of questions regarding his unexpected flight.
They did see Kien, in the distance. They spotted him easily, due to the flaming torch he held. Unfortunately, between Kien and the two boys, was a pack of hungry snarling wolves, stepping out of the darkness.
The wolf pack encircled Amos and Ink. They worked together in an imposing manner, slinking around each other like fluid. Each and every wolf had raised ears and spiked hairs. Their tails were straight and proud, their lips bared to show sharp teeth.
"Friends!" Ink exclaimed with joy.
"No, Ink," Amos said, breathing faster, "These ones are angry."
[1] Dead organic material.
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fallen_Angel_(painting)