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Day 20

Midday

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I can feel something growing between us the more time we spend together. It's really too early to tell if it's true or just burgeoning attachment, but I like being near him. A little bit of the fear remains, but I'm coming to recognize him as a friend and companion and, sometimes, a little bit more. That much I cannot deny.

_ _

Breaking through this odd block in his spirit is like exercising a long-unused muscle. It's difficult and slow going and I can feel the effects afterwards, and I can't go too hard at it in too short a span. It takes a toll on both of us, and deep down I worry that I may be hurting him further.

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~ ~ ~

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Day 22

Evening

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I spent most of today sitting down and reading through the books I brought with me, them being most of the information and research on Spirit magic that the Archmage had given me. It is not an expansive library. Most of it is secondhand witness accounts and rumors, and though there is one journal entry from an actual practitioner of the magic, it is not relevant to my interest.

_ _

I have one document regarding the binding of Lucius. Formal name Lucius Kalla ef Leyo Alenar: wolf of middling-noble birth from the barony of Leyo in the far south of Alenar. I never knew him myself: he became King of Maldeth and was later deposed by his predecessor Scheherazade both while I was hardly, if at all, lucid. It is quite an interesting historical anomaly, however.

_ _

He was a Spirit mage. This is known. I have commented on it before. Not a particularly powerful Spirit mage, but still more than myself: his talent was enough that his eyes took on the characteristic bluish-white color representing the magic, while mine have not and will not. This capability in Spirit magic played into the binding ritual that cemented him as his queen's adviser and which later played into his downfall.

_ _

Another note: I have stated that I began training to perform this same ceremony for a later queen and adviser. I am legally bound to share none of the exact processes, but I am not restricted on terms of theory.

_ _

It is based on a much older ritual the origins of which, predictably, are lost to time and the ages before written history. Rumors and ancient records tell of rituals binding spirit to spirit, soul to soul, to tie two individuals together nearly as one. Some of this is still visible and evident in the rituals used for Maldeth royalty: this is why Lucius and Scheherazade could identify each other's presence and, to a certain degree, their thoughts, when in close proximity.

_ _

The important difference, however, lay in the actual binding itself. The Maldeth ritual does indeed bind adviser to queen, but more importantly, centrally, it binds the adviser to himself. His spirit is restricted and locked, in a way, restricting him to his self-professed and proclaimed tasks and goals. Lucius gave two: "never to speak a lie", and "to hold my queen, Scheherazade Sylvia vai Solm va Maldeth, of the highest priority and importance in all decisions I make while standing as her adviser". Two very specifically worded tenets.

_ _

Unrelated note: every day I thank whatever gods are willing to listen for giving me a good birth without it being a noble one. I cannot stand all of these formal titles and naming conventions.

_ _

It is also well known that Lucius's wife, Azura, later served as his Voice: he could not speak a lie, but she could. While he stood as King, no more than a handful of his subjects ever heard Lucius's voice. His second tenet provided a bit more restriction, though this was resolved as soon as he claimed the throne for his own.

_ _

But how does the binding work? The beginnings of it are known to me, the restriction of the spirit, the laying of the net, the tying of the threads. How does this differ from the cage wrapped around Sulla's soul? This is not a net but a casing of sorts, a prison. A geode, bound in ugly stone with the lovely, pristine crystal growth hidden somewhere inside. How do I break that surface layer and chip it away, while the core remains untouched?

_ _

Again, I shall not write it down here as per my promise, but I am incorporating some aspects of the Maldeth ritual into my own formula, in the back of this journal. I am relatively inexperienced when it comes to ritual magic, and I wish I had some way to practice the formula while working on it, but there is nothing I can do other than hope and wish it will work.

_ _

I have seen the result of failed or improperly executed magic. This time, at least, I figure the result cannot be any worse than Sulla has already experienced. As for myself? A charred limb, malformed bones, molten innards, a complete separation of mind and body and spirit... I think I might be willing to shoulder the risk, for his sake.

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Final note: will visit the village tomorrow for more soap. Going to get a few bars.

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~ ~ ~

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Day 25

Midday

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We have our routine. I wake up, I do my stretches, and I head down to the river to bathe. I've started waiting for him before I go in, and even if I sleep in a little bit late or get there early, soon enough he shows up. His ears perk and his tail wags and he comes towards me, and I reach forward and take his paw and lead him into the water. I focus on him first, since he's just got so much more surface area and fur than I do, and even after washing it's still a bit rough and whittles away at the soap.

_ _

It has become easier and easier, now that his pelt is becoming accustomed to the attention. I still have to stand on my tiptoes with him crouching down to reach his head and his shoulders, but we make do. I sing to him while we wash, and in those moments it's hard not to just lean forward and melt against him, monster as he is.

_ _

This development is not simply a consequence of him being my only companionship out here in the forest. It's a consequence of Sulla himself, of the man within the beast. He has thoughts, and feelings, and memories, just as he has wants and fears. Many times I have seen him reaching out for me, only to stop at the last moment and drop his paw. I've seen his mouth work and try to form a word, only for him to give up a moment later. I want to help him. I so, so desire to make things better for him, to fix whatever has happened to him and return him to his natural body.

_ _

In this effort I have continued trying to delve into him. Practice makes better, I always say, and again, it helps that he knows what I'm doing and at least trusts me. In the few days we've been working at it there have been a few mistakes and mishaps, but nothing too dangerous or impactful. At this point I cannot tell if the memories leak out as a result of piercing through that shell, or if Sulla is intentionally showing me these pieces of his life.

_ _

I have seen him hunting as he is now, prowling through bushes and between trees, maintaining that haunting silence as though he truly is a shadow of some other creature. Everything shies away from him. Insects and birds flee at his presence, and whatever animal, fox or deer or boar or cougar, treat him with hostility and desperate fear at his passing. Many nights he has gone hungry.

_ _

I have seen him bathing in the way he did that one day when I happened upon him, muzzle and fur wet and sticky with a fresh kill, heart still pounding with the thrill of the hunt. He scoops the water in his huge, misshapen paws and lifts it to his face, but stops when he sees his reflection. All of this time, and he still doesn't fully recognize himself.

_ _

I have seen him watching me. He felt the pulse of magic I've taken to sending into the ground: he felt and watched it, and seemed just as surprised as I was when it dissipated around him, the threads unfolding, unravelling, and falling loose around him. Then the flash of the lantern, panicked blindness, terror, fear... and then he sees me, just as scared, cowering there by a tree. Still angered, still unsure, he leans in and sniffs at me, and beneath the thick soup of fear and desperation and terror he finds... something. Something unrecognizable, something vaguely familiar. It makes him pause, straighten up, and tilt his head, unseen to me as I cover my face with my arms, expecting and anticipating the kill. Something passes through his thoughts, something lost to me in the memory, and he makes a decision. He turns and disappears back into the woods, a shadow amid the night again.

_ _

I have seen him as he was before. Upper end of average height for a male wolf, straight back, body slim yet built. As skilled with a bow as he was a dagger, obsidian blade, amber pommel-stone. He walked with a feral she-wolf, a beautiful specimen with tall ears, brushy tail, smooth pelt, intelligent eyes. She looked upon him the same way that he did her: with the deepest of love and appreciation, more than I had expected from a hunter and companion pair. They hunted as an efficient, deadly unit, as though of the same mind and intent.

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He was whole, back then. Her absence is what gouged this hole in his spirit and shattered his being. I must find a way to fill that hole and mend the wound.

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I am learning ever more, every day.

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~ ~ ~

_ _

Lannon stirred slowly awake though his body deeply desired the opposite, as it always did. This morning, if it could be called that - the stirring shadows and melded, mixed colors of pre-dawn still wrapped around him, constantly shifting and changing - he had no less-than-comfortable mattress beneath his body, no beaten and abused pillow beneath his head, no heavy blanket smelling strongly of himself drawn up to his chin.

This morning, this night, whatever, he sprawled out on a cool stone floor, somewhat damp from moisture dripping overhead. Each breeze and gust of wind arced back through the cavern and howled softly, a sonorous, musical tone that had helped to lull him to sleep, when his heart had pounded in his chest and his mind swam with a thousand different threads just before. He still had a pillow of sorts, and he was still warm: he lay with his arms crossed limp over his front, head half-turned to one side, entire upper body rising and falling, rising and falling with the slow, steady, somewhat raspy breathing of the huge wolf behind and beneath him.

Outside, the rain that had driven them into shelter still fell, though a bit softer than the storm that had come in the previous night. It had been a spur of the moment thing, Lannon and Sulla prowling through the woods as had become routine, the lynx with his journal clutched beneath one arm and Sulla scouting ahead a bit. The clouds had been gathering throughout the past handful of days but had never quite broken - until about two hours before sundown when a low rumble of thunder and an uncomfortably warm burst of humid wind presaging what was soon to come. There was not enough time for Lannon to return to his hut. He looked at Sulla, and the wolf looked back at him, and then he had reached back, taken the lynx's much smaller paw in his own, and with surprising care whisked him away and through the trees, stirring and swaying around them as the winds picked up.

These few days had been full to brimming with new discoveries and investigations. Each morning began with a shared bath, slow and gentle, each learning the other's body a little more fully, a little more intimately. Lannon had run his paws up over the lines of Sulla's ribs in his chest, down over his hips and waist, up his lower back where he found a network of smaller scars; he had slid his fingers in through the thick, dense fur and along the skin underneath, feeling and finding the spots that made the wolf shiver and rumble and, once, kick one of his legs with pleasure. He had pushed his nose in against Sulla's neck, his shoulder, and his chest, drawing deep of the scent of wolf and self underneath the muddy, cloying weight of wilderness. He had felt him in his paw, sometimes just one while the other rested around his body, sometimes both at once - since gods knew the wolf was big enough for that - and sometimes with one in one spot and the other somewhere else, a little further down.

Sulla had done the same as well, his huge, unsteady paws gentle and careful in their explorations, unsure at first and then gaining confidence. Lannon had felt them along his chest and belly and up over his shoulders, then further down along his lower back, the base of his nub tail, his thighs. The wolf's nose had lifted up beneath his chin and along his neck, breaths hot and rich in his thick fur; he had felt those lips against his skin through his fur, at his neck, his shoulder, his chest, once against his inner thigh. Lannon had squirmed and gasped with those touches, his body writhing, aching for more - but, still, they had gone no further than that morning by the river. They had not gone past there, and neither had they shared a kiss.

He had certainly thought about it, though. Lannon had slid his thumbs up beneath Sulla's thick, heavy lips, had peeled back the hot folds of flesh, had turned his paws to run his fingerpads in along sharp fangs, firm gums, the broad, dexterous tongue... the wolf had tilted his head and rumbled then, a noise that Lannon could now identify as more of exasperated annoyance than hostility. Even so, though, as the lynx had pushed his muzzle up and forward, eyes half-closed against the steaming breath, Sulla had shifted, straightened up, widened his jaws further, and spread them around his head, thick strands of saliva dripping down and soaking through his fur; he had lifted and turned his tongue, the dense muscle cupping underneath Lannon's chin and jaw, curling over his throat while that growl rumbled around his face and tickling his whiskers, and...

The lynx shifted where he lay, now stirring in more ways than one. A roll of his head to the other side showed that Sulla still slept soundly, soft little snores issuing from his broad nose, one tattered ear flicking with the annoyance the tickling breeze coming in through the thin sheets of rain. This close to him, Sulla's breath stirring and heartbeat thumping against his back, Lannon could feel the very same things that he had tried so hard to find in his little magical investigations. There was something there beneath the surface, something pulsing and stirring close to his own heart. There was the trust that had begun as a small, flickering spark, now grown into a steady flame; there was the hope and the desire, the simple _want_to be near him, to spend time together. And then further down, buried and sheathed within that tough shell, that scar that had so fiercely grown over the wound in his soul, something else began to stir as well. That space burned to be filled.

This close to him, Lannon could feel, could sense, all of this. Again he turned his head onto his other shoulder, adjusted how he lay, and closed his eyes again. The warmth of Sulla's body, the wolf half-curled around him, wrapped him snug and comfortable in its welcoming embrace, shielding him from the pouring rain outside the cave.

~ ~ ~

The water is warm as it courses around my legs, soft and gentle, fingers of the stream parting through and around my fur and tickling at my skin. It's a pleasant, relaxing sensation, one to which I could easily fall asleep, were I to find a spot to sit down. While I scrub at my skin and run the comb back and forth, back and forth, I cast around to see if there's a suitable spot for it. Further downstream a log has fallen, half-submerged with the lower half thickly coated in woolen moss and water plants, while the upper has taken on that rich, dark brown of constantly saturated wood.

_ _

That soft, deep brown... Sulla has a patch much like that color, across the backs of his legs. I've gotten him to lie down before while combing through his fur, always working against the years of neglect. Sitting along his upper back and facing down, his thick tail stirring and brushing against my chest, tickling my nose - it's silly, but I value the closeness. It's hard to believe that this could possibly the same creature that's harassed the border villages for so many years, the same monster who haunted children's nightmares and filled the tales of travelers warning about the woods. Evil lurks there, they say. Some vile force outside nature. Nobody knows what it wants or why it's here. We've tried to exterminate it, but we can't. At least, we haven't yet. It's almost as though it's-

_ _

"Are you proud of yourself?"

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The voice makes me jump. I spin in place and turn to look but nobody's there. Soap clenched in one paw and comb in the other, I look around again, move to begin grooming again...

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"Are you happy with how far you've come?"

_ _

Then a flash of motion, just out of the edge of my vision. I spin again, take a half step back, tilt my head, and only then see it. A reflection in the water, close to my own, twisted and distorted in the spreading ripples. Light in color, smoky white with little streaks and foggy patches of color, stone grey and earthy tan. The form slowly takes shape and solidifies there in the reflection, as though it - she - stands here next to me.

_ _

Just like myself she is naked, the touch of the water matting down and clumping some portions of her fur together. The smooth shoulders, the small, tight chest, the flat belly... looking at this reflection I notice little pinpoints of warm pink amid the cloudy fur, one along each breast of course and then two, four, six more down along that belly, slightly angled, pointing downward. Her legs have the shape of someone who spends her life on them, lines of muscle visible along the thighs, knees hidden beneath - or above? - the water. Between those legs, nestled snug and tight, a slightly protruding mound of the same warm pink; she leans down to rub at one of her calves, legs parting a bit.

_ _

Suddenly I realize what it is I'm looking at, in the reflection of a being who does not stand next to me, and I avert my eyes with a sharp, hot blush. So it's not just the males of the forest wolves, then, who are similarly "equipped" as their feral counterparts.

_ _

"Lannon." Her voice sounds the same as the last time I had heard it, also in a dream. I had nearly forgotten. Also like then she still speaks in a different language, in refined Old Tongue, yet I have no trouble understanding her. "I can't help but notice you have disregarded my warnings."

_ _

"So?" I clear my throat and half-turn away again, to continue bathing myself. I don't know whether to be embarrassed or not: the reflection shows she stands here beside me, also bathing, yet in the physical world, in reality, only I stand waist-deep in the river water. Her voice sounds as if it comes from inside my head, always there no matter which way I turn. "Did you expect anything else?"

_ _

Even though I remain turned away I still keep an eye on her reflection, repeatedly shattering and reforming under the ripples. It's hard to discern details like this, but still I can make out her bright golden-yellow eyes each time she turns to look at me, her back nearly to mine.

_ _

"No," the Huntress says after a moment, with a little shrug. She reaches down again, tail lifting and brushing, and I can feel it tickle along my waist. It looks like she uses her own comb, one carved from bone instead of treated wood like mine. "I did not. The forest is my domain, and you exist here within, yet apart from it. I cannot lead you; only guide."

_ _

That makes me scoff. I turn as if to face here, having already forgotten she's not actually here beside me. Do I look at where she would be in person, or in the reflection? "You haven't been doing much of that."

_ _

Again she looks over her shoulder at me. I jerk back, thinking I can feel a puff of warm breath against my whiskers. "Haven't I?" she says, voice soft. It's a warm, comforting tone, smooth and musical yet with a touch of huskiness beneath it. I wonder where her companions are, the three - four? - of them. Looking around in the water, I can't see any other reflections. "Look at him. See where he is, and what you've done."

_ _

I straighten up again, struggling to see where it is she motions. Another flash of motion catches my attention, though: over on the opposite bank is Sulla, knees pulled up to his chest, body twisted and malformed as I have come to know it. He watches me with that single golden eye, and as he notices me looking back at him his tattered ears perk up and his tail swishes behind him. Then, though, his attention is diverted and drawn away. A winged beetle, round and iridescent, buzzes by his head. He watches as it passes, tail slowly coming still again.

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I look back to the Huntress's reflection. "I don't understand."

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"I tried to warn you away," she says, turning towards me. A shiver shoots up my back, and then right back down again. I can feel the teeth of that comb, of her comb, as she draws it down along my bare back, even though I know nothing is there. "Nothing good can come from what you're doing. Nature could not right its own wrong. He simply should not be, and yet, here he is. And here you are. Still." Her other paw comes to rest on my shoulder; I turn my head to look at it, and though I can feel the fingers where they rest, I cannot see them. In the reflection of the water they're there, holding my shoulder, gripping gently.

_ _

"I told you," I answer. I can feel her breath on my neck. "I'm not done yet. I'm making some fantastic advances and discoveries here. I'm doing things that quite possibly have never been done before. That's a big part of why I came out here."

_ _

"To meddle in what you don't understand. To chart new ground, which should have been left unexplored." Each sentence comes with another draw of the comb through my fur, along my spine, up towards my shoulder, down along my side. The sensation makes me shiver, and it's tough to suppress a little purr of pleasure at the strange touch.

_ _

"I would think-" There it is. I have to clench my jaw and pull in a low breath. "I would almost think that you're trying to oppose me, instead of guide me."

_ _

The Huntress shrugs again. Her fingers creep closer in towards my neck, the pads surprisingly coarse and rough given her soft, gentle demeanor. "I protect my own," she murmurs, breath from an unseen mouth tickling at my unadorned ear. "And you are not mine. He is."

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"I'm trying to help him. I'm trying to save him."

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"What makes you think you can do-"

_ _

That paw leaps like a spider, seizing around my throat, gripping without restricting my breathing. I stiffen in place and half-raise my own paws in defense; the Huntress tilts her head in the reflection, licks her lips, and then draws the claw of her index finger back along my throat, from one side over to the other. I can feel the line it leaves in the fur.

_ _

"-what I could not?"

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I look over to the bank again. Sulla, and the beetle, are both gone.

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"You mean..."

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"You have failed before, Lannon Asaros. This is what I mean when I say you meddle in things you do not understand. You are a novice at your little magical academy, faced against tasks above even your Archmage. That is where you failed before, isn't it? Don't you remember?" While she speaks her paw makes its way back down my throat to my shoulder, and then from there along my arm. Her other rests along my hip, comb held lightly in place; the Huntress lifts my left arm, slowly, gently, her touch warm and soft, little tingles of sensation vibrating up and through my back. Her grip tightens there, right beneath the elbow with her thumb pressing in, and the nerves in my forearm and fingers fizzle out for a quick second and a half.

_ _

Suddenly I am back at the training grounds in the academy in Solm. We're practicing our magic, no longer novices yet certainly not yet adepts. Mostly left to our own devices, our own practice and self-guided training, there's little supervision. We can take care of ourselves, especially with myself there; my rudimentary skill in Spirit and the practice I've undergone means that I can serve as a healer in times of need. I thought it would be enough.

_ _

While I'm talking with Sariya, the two of us discussing a certain method for weaving a spell - my talent is in Fire; it comes much more easily to me than anything else - there's a scream. I can't even identify it as belonging to a person at first, but then as it trickles off, it chills my heart. The scream came in a voice familiar to me, to both of us: a voice that I have heard murmuring my name at night, a voice which rumbles and purrs into my ear, a voice which has a sweet little laugh and a lovely way with words when we wake up in the morning, myself squeezed between the two of them, Sariya on one side and, on the other...

_ _

A group has gathered already. There's a finger of smoke trailing up into the clear sky, the sun burning relentlessly down. As we scramble closer, hearts pounding, paws entwined for support, the stench grows. It's a vile, horrible smell, the distinctive stink of smoldering fur and burnt flesh and, beneath that, something worse, something sickeningly sweet. He's still screaming, shouting himself hoarse from the pain. The other students are murmuring among themselves, covering their eyes, trying not to look yet unable to keep themselves away. They see me approaching, they call my name. Help. Help, Lannon. You're his friend. Help him. Please.

_ _

I can't believe what I see. I knew the effects of magical backlash could be devastating, but... it looks like a hunk of spent firewood, shimmering and black, smoking faintly, crisps of smolder and char still glowing along what once was flesh and skin. Emnis can't even see me through the pain. He thrashes and convulses, unaware that he's bitten through his bottom lip, his one remaining paw scrabbling at the dusty earth beneath him. The other has left cloudy black streaks along the stone, like a child banging a chunk of charcoal against a slate.

_ _

The stench is hideous. I crumble to his side, unable to see through the stinging smoke, my body constantly lurching and heaving against that awful stink. I reach forward, I hesitate, I touch what used to be his arm. It feels like burnt wood as well, light and brittle, crumbling when I lift it up. Emnis screams again. The threads of Fire wadded and knotted together, held there, and then burst back into him, searing through flesh and skin, charring bone to a dry crisp, all the way up to the shoulder and beyond. His shirt has burnt away and still smolders against his chest, though he doesn't even notice. Tendrils of twisted black course up through his skin, over his chest towards his throat, his sternum, his stomach. He's twitching and seizing in a way that just cannot be natural.

_ _

"Wait," I say, my voice tiny in my throat. "Wait. I can help. Wait. Let me - just... please, I can... don't worry, Emnis, love. I'm here." And I try. Spirit magic is fueled by passion, by force of emotion. His screams in my head, grating against my eardrums; the stink of charred flesh in my nose; the feeling, the sensation of skin fried tight, of molten fur, of crumbling bone within. An unnaturally intense flash of concentrated heat and searing flame.

_ _

I try. I hold what used to be his paw in my own and I focus my energies as sharply as I know how. I pull the power from deep within myself, from the well of desperation and panic threatening to overflow. My tears sizzle into steam as soon as they drop along that twisted mess of a limb. I cast the spell, I weave the healing threads into flesh turned to stone and leather, and it doesn't work. Again and again I try, each time drawing deeper of my own reserve of power. It begins to exhaust me, my chest starts heaving with the effort, sweat beads beneath my fur. My muscles ache, but certainly it is no compare to what Emnis feels. The dead flesh stirs and tightens against my touch, strands of healing magic struggling to take hold. Attempting, never succeeding... failing.

_ _

Then, delving into him, trying to find the end of the nerves and deaden them so I can at least kill the pain and remove the arm, another terribly discovery makes itself known. The beat of his heart is irregular, scorched muscle pulling, straining, tearing. The deeper I push, the more I can feel his own pain mirrored into myself. It is the worst thing I've ever felt, and it is only a fraction of what he is experiencing.

_ _

He has stopped screaming. The courtyard has gone quiet save for the sizzling of burning embers and my own heavy breathing, my hiccupping, my tight sobs. My fingers shake and twitch, muscles incapable of responding effectively, arms heavy, too heavy. Healing magic draws all of its power and effort from the caster: push too far and the healer might give their own life in exchange for the victim's. It's difficult to keep myself up over Emnis's body, curled over on itself, barely stirring with ragged breath, chest arrhythmically convulsing and seizing with the shocks of pain.

_ _

"Please," I murmur. I beg anyone who is willing to hear me. "Please. I'm trying. I want to help him. I need to. Please." But nobody listens. Sariya kneels down along his other side. She reaches forward and takes my paws in her own, and there's a glimmer of comfort in her warm eyes. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me tight, and I sob into her fur. I shake and writhe and shudder with the force of the exhaustion and desperation, while Emnis still writhes with undying pain beneath us. The worst part is that I cannot help. They take him away, and they amputate the arm, and they try to stitch the wound.

_ _

Days later the Archmage herself finds us, locked in my room. She tells us that Emnis is awake, yet cannot fully recover. He is incapable of using magic; the left side of his body is paralyzed; he cannot overexert himself lest he risk his heart giving out. He cannot speak, for a throat torn by screams and lungs filled with ash. One of his eyes is blind. He is removed from the academy and sent home, back south to Mora.

_ _

"Did you love him?" Sariya asks me, months later a I prepare for my journey back home. I look at myself in the mirror, bearing three studs and a hanging chain. The cuff is cast and prepared, but I have not put it on. It is more than sharing a bed: it represents true love, received and freely given in return. It waits in a box next to my bed. "I don't know," I tell her. "I think I did."

_ _

"Is it so hard to tell?"

_ _

"It is."

_ _

"Do you love me?"

_ _

The Huntress releases her grip on my elbow. The feeling returns to my fingers. They move and flex, they respond, with deftness and dexterity. Tears cloud my eyes, my throat tightens, and my body jerks and seizes with suppressed sobs, all brought back up again by the force of the memory, something I still see on sleepless nights, something that still haunts me if I let my mind wander too far.. Slowly she trails her fingers back up my arm towards my shoulder, while her other comes forward and combs through the fur of my belly. Her chest, warm and soft with a distinct firmness underneath, presses against my upper back. I look to my side and still feel a shock to realize I cannot see her. If I close my eyes...

_ _

"You have failed before," she murmurs into my ear, the words little more than a murmur. The Old Tongue has a certain lyrical lilt to it, also identifiable in its Common derivative yet reduced to a degree. She pronounces the words slowly and clearly, and just like her breath on my fur, they tickle gently. "And now you attempt something never done before. You write up your ritual and devise your formula for something you have never practiced, something you have never attempted, something you scarcely even understand.

_ _

"It's worth it." There's a lump in my throat I struggle to swallow. With my eyes closed I can imagine, can envision the Huntress as she spreads her fingers over my neck again, up towards my jaw, tilting my head up and back. It's such an intimate touch, with her other paw beneath my belly button, the claw of her little finger trailing in the river water.

_ _

"Is it?"

_ _

"It is."

_ _

"You could lose yourself."

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"It's worth it.

_ _

"It was the shattering of their bond that did this to him," she continues. I open my eyes and yet again feel that same shock to see there's no paw on my neck, no fingers teasing at my waist, no cloudy-white wolfess half-wrapped around me. I can feel the warmth of her body and breath, so close, so far away. "You have felt this, haven't you?"

_ _

"The bond..." The empty shell, the half-spirit within. I have felt something tainting that essence, something strange and unnatural. "That's what's keeping him in this form?"

_ _

"No. The shattering caused it. Two souls bound as one, suddenly torn apart. Roots yanked out of fresh earth; skin peeled away from flesh. The tearing was the catalyst." She slides her fingers down from my neck and along my chest again, soon joining her other paw at my waist. My body responds, as of course it does. I swallow and hope she doesn't notice. "Two souls, so close, mixing and melding as one, suddenly... parted." Abruptly she steps away, the water stirring, the reflection shifting. Where she touched, my throat, my elbow, my chest, my belly, just above my sheath, tingle warmly for a second, and then become chill. "Surely there was some overlap, something missed. Hunter and companion, man and beast. What you see is both, and at the same time, neither. The name he gave you was Sulla. Can you be sure that's all he is?"

_ _

There is no Sulla over on the bank where he sat originally. I look further, I squint against the warm midmorning sun, I scan to the side... and then I jump again, as there's someone else standing here in the river alongside me. A wolf, male, sleek of shoulder and slim of body yet still built. I recognize his face, yet it is unfamiliar to me. His eyes are a warm mossy green, and both of them shimmer bright and full. His body is woven with a tight, streamlined musculature, his form perfect, his body beautiful. He grins at me, and his pink tongue flicks out over black lips. Sharp teeth glimmer in the sunlight. His lips move and purse to say something, and though they make no sound, I can make out the words:

_ _

"Eo lla ea. Sulaya."

_ _

But he speaks past me, over my shoulder. There is nobody there, yet in the reflection the Huntress stands, looking upon Sulla beside me. He casts no reflection.

_ _

"He does not belong here," she says, watching him. He continues speaking, but my lack of knowledge of the Old Tongue means the words are lost. Sulla pauses in his speech, laughs, and then looks at me again. He tilts his head one way, then the other. More slowly, more deliberately: "Lannon. Shua-eo." He smiles. My heart stirs, and warmth blossoms in my chest. I reach out to touch him, to take his paw in my own - and then he's gone, so quickly, so suddenly, that for a moment I wonder if he was ever there. The water remains still and undisturbed where he stood. "You do not either. But you have surprised me. I do admit, I tried to turn you away, to shoo you out of my domain. But, perhaps, you may serve."

_ _

Still facing where the wolf, the hunter, used to stand, I ask: "Who are you?"

_ _

The water stirs. In the reflection the Huntress had leaned over, again wetting that little bone comb. She straightens up again, golden eyes watching me.

_ _

"The spirit of the forest," she answers. "Its soul. Its center. Who are you, Lannon Asaros?"

_ _

The world remains silent for a moment. I make my answer.

_ _

"I am his way out of the woods."

_ _

The Huntress remains where she is, then smirks and continues combing through her fur. Cloudy white glimmers in the warmth of the sun. Just like him, she is beautiful.

_ _

"You are something else," she murmurs, more to herself than me. "Something new. That much is certain." Then, a moment later: "You know, Lannon..."

_ _

I, too, resume my own ministrations, trying to ignore the little images and thoughts of her claws combing through my fur instead, of those little bone teeth drawing down my body towards my waist. "Mm?"

_ _

"You haven't been singing your little song right."

_ _

Again I pause. I turn to stare at her, remember what I'm doing, and stop where I am. "I know," I answer, a little guarded. "I can't remember the lyrics."

_ _

Silence for another moment, and then soft, sweet:

_ _

"On the crow's call, on the eagle's cry, on the wind's whisper, on the storm's rumble,

you will hear me, for as long as you love me..."

_ _

The words were of course in the Old Tongue, yet their meaning comes clear to me. I pause and perk and ear, hearing her sing.

_ _

"If you ever feel alone, look to the sky, to the sun, to the clouds, to the stars and the moon,

and you will see me looking back,

for as long as you love me."

_ _

I clear my throat. "It begins with a breath, with a touch, with a nuzzle, with a kiss..."

_ _

Amusement creeps into her voice. Her tail brushes against my waist again. The water stirs.

_ _

"And on and on it will continue,

for as long as you love me."

_ _

There's more to the song, but I can't continue. I reach up and touch at my eyes. "Sorry," I murmur. "I'm sorry. It's just - that song, it... reminds me of my mother. Before she passed away."

_ _

"Your mother?" The Huntress's reflection turns to face my again. "She learned it from your father?"

_ _

Again she gives me pause. "...Yes. She did. How do you..."

_ _

"Azalon, yes?"

_ _

Azalon Asaros, one of the weavers in the little town of Avriel nestled in the remote wilderness of northwestern Loria, within view of the forest and the grasses both. Azalon Asaros, older lynx with one rambunctious son and one arm. It is said that he spent some time lost in the forest, and the tribe of wolves living there took his arm from him.

_ _

The Huntress laughs. It's a warm, lovely sound, the joy of it spreading into my own heart, perking my ears, giving me an irresistible little smile. The world seems to grow a little brighter as it grows and then trails off. Her tail wags in her reflection in the water, herself sleek and beautiful, full of life and wonder.

_ _

"He learned it from my grandmother," she says simply, over her shoulder. "A shame about the arm. Had she found him during the storm it might have been saved."

_ _

For a moment I don't know what to say. "It - he gets along just fine, without it."

­­

"I'm sure he does. I remember her saying he was strong of will. And - rather sharp of tongue." Her reflection casts a look my way, and then winks and sticks her tongue out. All of this time I had thought of her as some goddess, some ancient deity, and yet she laughs and plays and teases like... like a bold puppy. She has a grandmother, one who stays at their camp, their settlement, and helps to assist and heal poor travelers who lose their footing during a storm and injure themselves. She has a family. "It makes sense that you're his son."

_ _

"Will I meet your grandmother?"

_ _

"Yes," she answers without a pause. I watch her reflection as she kneels down and dips her head into the water, then flicks it backwards to shake it right back off. She runs the bone comb up and over her head to smooth down her cloudy-white fur. "You will. We've been keeping an eye on you."

_ _

"I thought so. You can come out and say hi sometime, you know."

_ _

"They cannot. It is forbidden for them to approach him."

_ _

"Sulla?"

_ _

"Yes."

_ _

"Why?"

_ _

"Just like the source of his predicament. You know the reason already; you just haven't recognized it."

_ _

"Hm."

_ _

The Huntress looks over her shoulder at me again. "Is that not a satisfactory answer?"

_ _

I think about it for a moment. "No. It's not."

_ _

Again she smirks. "Good."

_ _

Around us the river continues on, constant and quiet, warm and pleasant. The forest stirs and sways as it always does, birds chirping, insects singing. The cicadas have grown a bit louder and sharper with the approaching onset of summer, and the weight of that heat can be felt in the air all around us. Her tail brushes against me once and again, and I almost expect to feel her turn and run her claws or her comb through my fur again. Part of me wishes for it, just to know that she is actually real and not just some figment of my own imagination, but - when I turn to say something more to her I find that again I stand alone in the river, with no company save for my own reflection.

_ _

~ ~ ~

Day 26

Evening

_ _

Keeping in mind everything that she told me, I have done some more investigations and searches. Sulla is being wonderfully patient with me; he knows that I only want to help him. It does indeed match most of the signs of a broken bond like the Maldeth ritual, but it's still fundamentally different from everything familiar to me. The biggest difference is that I can't sense a trace of practiced Spirit magic anywhere.

_ _

Anything I can do would just patch the wound rather than wholly mend it. I suppose this is still better than how he is now, at least.

_ _

A few more days. That's all I need. I want to make sure I'm prepared.