NO LIGHT, NO LIGHT // JOINING?

[WINTERWOLF]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]And that was the trick of it, wasn't it? A voice sweet enough to draw you in and keep you. A firmness hidden by gentleness. There was a time when Winter had thought the touches gentle, assuring. Now he finds them possessive and cruel, guiding him as subtly as a slow river did for a boat. Winterwolf had done whatever they had asked of him, time and time again, simply because of the voice, the touches. In a world filled with uncertainty, they had been certain. Never a moment's hesitation with their orders and commands. It was not right, but it was all that he knew and ever would know. Or that's what he had thought, at the time. He had never been spirited the way the other was, at least not that he can remember. Quiet and intent on proving himself, taking the grating criticism with silence and going again until both his paws and chest seemed to leak red. His situation had not been entirely the same as Danyla's. While they could both claim to have been a trophy, Winterwolf was never meant to be golden. He was blood and the shade of a day-old bruise, a monument to the desirable traits of those above him.

He had listened, and because of it, he'd made a monster of himself. At least the wolf that still stood as a wolf is not a monster. Confused, unsure, and twisted through all of this servitude, but not beyond saving the way that he was.

Every thought that Danyla had would put another sharp pain of grief through him. The distrust, the fear. It hardly mattered that their situations may not have been entirely comparable, because he's starting to feel in ways that he hasn't before. The colors of the world are still a little muted, but he understands what other people see. Streaks of gold are supposed to be dazzling — all Winter can see is another color, and the way that his sides rise and fall a little too quickly. For some reason, his mind is unwillingly reminded of a spindly-legged fawn, hiding in the grass in some hope that the hunter wouldn't find it. This, however, is what he had been trained for. The lion had been too quiet in his approach, circling slowly until he was only a few feet behind him. He regrets the silence, if only because breaking it now could cause more harm than he cared to (but since when did he care?). There are no second chances in life, he knows that. No restart button, no easy way out. All he can do is move.

So he does. A few strides forward, much less quiet, and then an insistent nudge to the wolf's form. "Up," Winter says, almost commands, his tone flat. "Why are you here?"