The Wolf Of The Moon & Sun

A Dragons Fishing Lessons (69)

IRENE POV
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I was calm. He made a small fire for me though it didn't help considering there was no furniture or anything.

It was night and quiet. He had gone somewhere, not telling me exactly where to. I was glad he was gone. I was so embarrassed to have cried so hard. Maybe if I hadn't been so vulnerable when he found me, I wouldn't have even shed a tear.

My eyes kept looking at the wall with a story on it, a story I couldn't read. I stared at it, so I didn't have to look at my hand. It was a bloody, gory, site and I wanted nothing more than to ignore it.

"Here," he said as he entered the cave again. I turned to look at him. He had a bottle of some clear liquid and bandages.

He sat down across from me, putting the stuff to his side. He held out his hand for me to give it to him, to which I did. I stared more intensely at the wall, so I didn't see anything happening.

"What is your name?" I asked, trying to distract myself. I listened to him unscrew the cap from the bottle.

"Ares," he answered, and a small smile formed on my lips. That name made a lot of sense considering how he looked. He looked as if he had been through many battles in his life. There was a scar, a small one, on his lip. Another was on his jaw line, though that one was slightly bigger. His veil was off, and I could see more of his face. He was very pretty. "Your name?"

"Irene," I answered, more squeamish than I wanted my voice to be. But as his grip tightened around my hand, my heart began to race. I needed another topic to talk about, something new, "The wall." I cocked my head to it. From the corner of my eyes, I could see him look at me then to the wall, "What does it say?"

He chuckled a bit as he poured some of the liquid on a cloth and began to clean the dried blood around my hand, "You can't read it?" He asked and I glared at him.

"I was raised with witches, so no, I can't read it," I said. It was the truth to some extent, but my family did know how to read, write, and speak the language. I had never gotten a chance to learn.

He said something that sounded like gibberish to my ears. It sort of sounded like a Slavic language with the sharp pronunciation of each word. But I recognized it, faintly. I could remember my grandma and mother in the kitchen, baking whatever their heart desired, while gossiping to each other in the language so none of the little kids could hear.

"What is it?" I asked before I gasped, the liquid was poured on my wound. It didn't hurt, but it felt weird to have such cold water poured on an open wound. I tried to pull my hand away.

"It's a story," he clarified as he tightened his grip on my hand, "Of my ancestor." He gestured to the pearly white scale wall behind him.

"But what does it mean?" I asked. I wanted to know what his side of the story was. Why he had so much pride to belittle my family and laugh at their deaths.

"The summary of it is there were two best friends ruling over this land together. Wrath, the youngest, and Despair, the oldest. Despair was loved more than Wrath by the people, since Despair was older and therefore wiser. Wrath let his jealousy take hold and stole Despairs treasure and framed the mountains people for doing it," he told as they began to wrap my stinging hand with the bandages.

I didn't like this story. It wasn't how I was told it. There has been no mention of treasure or Wrath being jealous.

"Despair attacked the village under Wrath's suggestion. But the fifth night of Despairs revenge, Wrath and all the mountain people attacked him, causing him to flee from the land." He didn't even need to glance at the wall for a reminder.