Katarina and I walk through the trees, following its sound. Outside the truck I can hear the lake lapping weakly at the shore. Katarina says we camped here when I was much younger, and that she had thought it would make a good burial site for my Chest, if it ever came to that. We’ve been here before, though I don’t remember it. The park entrance was closed so Katarina broke through a chain barrier and snuck the truck in, off-roading in the dark of the woods until we came to the main camp road. We’re in Arkansas, in the Lake Ouachita State Park. It’s been a day of straight driving and it’s now three in the morning. Katarina pulls the truck off the dirt road and we get out. Katarina was wrong: I have killed before. I buried the rabbit’s corpse deep beneath the snow, where even Clifford couldn’t find it. I grabbed the gentle creature’s neck with both hands and gave it a good hard twist. “I am a warrior.” My words turned to frost in the air before my face. I turned back to the rabbit, knowing in an instant what the kindest thing to do was. The only thing this creature had to look forward to was the paralysis of its own fear and a slow, cold death. It wasn’t dead now, but it was past life. Its wounds were not deep, but it would die of shock. I felt its tiny heart beating furiously, at the brink of death. I looked down at the rabbit, matted and bloody.Īll of my hardness gave way as I lifted the light, furry beast to my chest. I hissed at Clifford, and he grumpily padded off in the snow. It took shoving him forcibly from the rabbit’s body for him to give it up, and even then he snapped at me. Back in his yard, he happily nuzzled and nipped the damp fur of the rabbit. He was too content with his achievement to pay me any mind. I was equally dismayed by the end of the pursuit and by the likely end of the rabbit’s life, and I now stalked after Clifford, attempting to command the rabbit’s release. Or I was, until the chase ended.Ĭlifford caught the rabbit in his jaws and reversed course, back to his owners’ yard. My imaginary chase had become a very real one, as Clifford ran after the darting rabbit and I followed him. I picked myself up and dashed after Clifford into the woods. Seconds later, I was on my back, tossed off by Clifford. I looked up and saw a pale brown winter rabbit darting between the trees. I imagined chasing faceless enemies around the snow, hunting them down and taking them out.Ĭlifford had just run me to the edge of the woods when he stopped and growled. I took this ride with Clifford as another practice run. This sat well with me, because I had always felt like a hero, a champion. I wasn’t old enough to fully understand, but I knew it meant I was a warrior. Katarina had recently told me more about my history, and about my future. I rode him like a pony, running laps around the yard. So I climbed on top of him, clutching the warm fur of his flank. He was a huge dog and I was small then, even for my age. Bernard, came bounding over to play with me. I continued to play and race when Clifford, the neighbors’ St. It was below freezing outside, but I’ve always been tough about the cold. I hated my cumbersome jacket and waterproof pants, so once I was sure Katarina had turned from the window I shed them, stripping down to my jeans and T-shirt. I took to the yard like a demon, running circles in the snow in my baggy clothes, leaping into snowbanks and aiming snowballs at the sun. It was early winter and Katarina had released me from our studies to go play in our snowy backyard. I turn back for one last glance and lock eyes with the Mog. I get in the car and hand Katarina the keys.
#The lorien legacies lost files skin
It’s strange and wonderful to consider that none of these men know us but they came to our aid, yet frightening that they don’t understand this Mog’s true power, that if he hadn’t been instructed to keep a low profile he’d have torn the skin clean off each of their bodies by now. “We called the cops, miss,” says one of them. The Mog is kneeling on the ground now, surrounded by angry men.
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I don’t know how long the Mog will be contained by the protective mob, our saviors, but I don’t care: I race back to the room, swipe the keys off the night table, and head back out into the heat of the parking lot. “The keys.” Katarina is panicking, near tears. With a wry, bitter smile, the Mog lifts his arms in surrender.
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One of them has a shotgun raised, pointed right at him. Truckers and cowboys, ordinary American men. “I’d think twice ’bout that!” I hear a man’s voice shout, and soon I am released, falling back into the seat. I feel Katarina’s hand clutching the back of my shirt. It finds only my unbuckled seat belt, which gives easily as the Mog starts pulling me through the window. My hand scrambles, looking for something, anything to keep me in my seat.