AN: So I finally find my muse again...to write this? I'm really sorry, I don't even know what this is.
In truth, he isn't sure when exactly it happens. Over time he becomes aware of heightened senses: of being able to smell an open wound from miles away; of counting humans in a crowd by their heartbeats; of spotting her walking towards him over the fields in the darkest part of the night.
There's an itch in the back of his throat, dry and painful, so irritating that he wants to rend and tear; then pauses, blinking, because the neck he imagines clawing out is not his own.
He wonders vaguely in his pain-addled mind whether he should be alarmed by the changes within him, after all, none of the others can climb walls like a spider or wrap darkness around their bodies like a cloak. The newfound violent tendencies scare him somewhat, until the itch returns and all he can think of is soothing –quenching- the ache.
He feels the chill wind when it breathes across his face, whispering nonsense syllables in his ears as his gaze remains unwaveringly focused on the fast approaching figure. There's a flash of light, a reflection of the weak moonlight glinting off the metal she carries.
She has a knife. He's seen her coming since she first appeared over the hill, but until now he hadn't noticed the dagger held loosely in her right hand, or the self-satisfied smirk stretching across porcelain skin turned silver by starlight.
A flick of the fingers, and soft flesh splits like a ripe fruit, blood seeping from pulsing capillaries and tracing the delicate line of bone.
He sinks to his knees before her, face beseeching for answers that he is certain she holds. She smiles gently down at him, understanding and comfort etched on millennia-old features, a hand caressing his cheek with a feather-light touch as his eyes shut in acceptance.
England presses her bleeding wrist to his lips.