Interlude (1)
She was not what he hunted, though technically he had been hunting her all day.
Not to kill, though. Not to make suffer for crimes she had committed. No, she was simply...present, and in his woods, and that was enough for Frank (The Beast, that's what they call you and true enough too). And perhaps, perhaps it could be argued that it was not strictly necessary to follow her all day and well into the night - if he wished to drive her from the woods (his woods) he might have simple let himself be seen. One glimpse of him usually sent those unwitting wanderers running back home, but this girl carried a pistol (flint and powder and iron smell from her makeshift bag, it could be nothing else). Perhaps she was not as innocent as he'd supposed.
No matter. She had wandered and he had followed until, obviously growing weary, she'd found shelter under a large oak tree and settled for the night (the pistol in her lap shows thought, but it would not be enough to stop him if he had any real desire to harm her). Patiently, he waited for sleep to claim her; though she struggled against it valiantly, golden head nodding against her chest before jerking bolt-upright, she did eventually succumb. He waited until he could be certain she was no longer awake and took care to not disturb branch nor bush as he crept right up to her.
This close he could see the soft rise-and-fall of her breath, the flutter of her eyelashes like dark moth wings against pale skin. She slept fitfully. For a long moment he simply looked, filling his eyes with the sight of her. She was...familiar? Somehow.
You're here for the pistol, remember? The pistol.
Shaking his head, as though that would clear the fog, he reached out and gingerly began to pull the weapon from her hands. He nearly had it when some small creature made a noise nearby - rustle, twig snap - and restless in her sleep she shifted. Grazed his wrist with her delicate fingers.
If he had seen sparks leap from her skin to his, Frank would have been less stunned. For what seemed like minutes he held, as still as stone, barely breathing. His own hands (claws really, and hadn't he been careful not to touch her with them? hadn't he been good?) trembled only slightly, one braced against the tree for support. He was in dire need of it.
I know her, I know her, I know this.
More confused than he should have been at such innocent contact, he finally gathered his wits enough so that he shifted, slightly, so they were no longer touching. Waited a few moments more. Waited. When he was sure she was soundly sleeping again he made careful, but quick, work of finally removing the pistol from her lap. Sitting up into a low crouch as he prepared to move away, he found bark under the nails of his braced hand. Glancing at the tree, though he did not need to confirm it, he saw that he had gouged several long furrows into the bark and the living wood itself when she'd touched his wrist.
Careful. He must be, must be careful. Must not get too close, claws and teeth made for tearing and rending flesh. Not for...
And so he drew back and circled around. Woke her. Spoke with more confidence than he felt, postured, threw the pistol back into her lap. But she was brave, or had enough determination to fake courage, and she did not waver. Let her sleep, then. I will drive away in the light, tomorrow.
He padded through the woods then, away from the clearing, but not far enough that he could not her her last, hesitant call.
"Beast?"
Oh, that she would call me anything else.