The Wizard and the Fox Chapter 1 & 2
A wizard fights fate for his foxy wife.
The Wizard and the Fox
A /hmofa/ Special
By Magnus
Chapter 1 - Heart for a Heart
Rowan breathed in.
The sweetly sour scent of decay filled his nose. He quite enjoyed the drier air of Gallwood. The colossal trunks of ancient trees for which the forest was named stood unmoving against the wind sweeping in from the plains of the west. Paired with the ample shade of the towering giants, this region was always comfortably cool in the warm seasons. This was an old forest, some say older than the gods themselves, if that was even possible. Nowhere else on the map could he point to a place with as many legends and mysteries surrounding it, always shared in the candlelight by mothers to their children before bedtime. Gallwood always had a mystic aura about it to the common folk, but to him it was just a nice and easy leg of his journey. Rowan had been through there several times, always taking the well-trod merchant's road winding through the vast expanse of woods and up into the mountains. Although, this time was different. His destination was not the mountains and his route was not the road. This time the wizard's intentions were to go deeper into the forest, led by one of the native foxmen.
Rowan listened intently to the overlapping songs of the local birds and the crunch of old fallen needles under the hooves of his steed. Jet was the horse's name. The stallion's fur and mane were both a deep black that glistened in the sunlight, so it was only natural that Jet would be named after the lustrous stone he resembled. Rowan never thought himself too creative with names, but he preferred not to overthink them. Jet was gently led along by ways of a rope around his snout by the foxman on foot as he guided the wizard through the woods. Rowan had offered him a ride when they set off as his horse was quite the strong and proud specimen, the extra weight would be no burden. Much to his annoyance, the foxman refused, citing a fear of horses and that it would be harder to navigate if he weren't on foot.
Rowan took off his floppy cotton hat for a moment and ran a hand through greasy brick-red hair. He looked down at his guide, still enamored with such a curious race. As one might surmise by their name, they were like an animal that stood on two feet, covered all over in striking burnt orange fur. Their legs were very much shaped like a canine's with their joints that bent at odd angles ending in two shoeless paws that dug into the earth. He assumed their torso was that of a human's- as Rowan never considered actually asking the local to remove his shirt for the sake of curiosity -and their head was that of a fox's yet still had very distinct and expressive facial features. And what intrigued him the most was the bushy tail that extended from the base of their backs, swishing back and forth as they walked, barely brushing the ground. Rowan had seen a few of his kind in his travels but never so closely associated with one.
He put his hat back on, brushing back it's pointed tip. Looking down at the man, he asked “Are you feeling tired yet? We've been going awhile."
It was the truth, the two of them had been treading the floor of the forest for at least a day and a half with few rests save for making camp at sundown.
“Nay," the fox answered between heavy breaths, “we're scarcely an hour from home and time is not our friend."
“No, it's not." Rowan said carefully. The man had an aura of urgency about him in the time since they set off from Quinnsburgh. The foxman had caught the wizard in town, running at him to beg for aid on his knees. What a poor wretch, he had cast his last shred of pride to the ground for a mere favor. He had told Rowan that one of the elderly men of his village was deathly ill and had been there for hours haggling with the local merchants hoping to get medicine in exchange for a few soiled copper before he caught sight of the telltale hat of a wizard. Rowan rubbed his forehead just thinking about it. As much as he adored the traditional garb it was practically an invitation for strangers to pester him for magical aid. The foxman begged him to come to the village and cure his kin at death's door and Rowan couldn't help but empathize. Though, he agreed less out of goodwill and more because he would enjoy the opportunity to see one of the famed hidden fox villages in person.
He felt just a little bad that he couldn't share in the foxman's sense of urgency, as it was not his people in mortal jeopardy, but the feeling passed quickly as they caught sight of the village. It was not as grand and mystical as the scholarly accounts had described; the foxmen's architecture was as simple and functional as any other peasant village would be, though it did stand out as novel to see such a settlement resting at the feet of the giant gall trees rather than at the banks of a river or foot of a mountain where the other races would have put them. The foxmen preferred their isolation and had a deep spiritual attachment to the woods- or so Rowan read -so their choice of locale was only logical.
Rowan dismounted his horse and took the reins from the foxman saying “Go, make ready for my arrival, I'll see to your elder immediately."
The fox offered only a nod in exchange and took off into a run toward the village. He couldn't tell whether it was the boundless energy of youth or desperation that drove him, but the foxman moved faster than he thought a mortal man could ever go. Perhaps he owed it to those oddly shaped legs of his offering superior locomotion? Rowan shook the thought out of his head, petting Jet's mane. He dug into the stallion's saddle to grab a messenger bag full of reagents. Various jars and vials full of substances that no sane man would normally carry on his person clinked together as he slung it over his shoulder. He withdrew his staff from its holster. It was a long, smooth rod of white birch that had a smoky black chunk of quartz bound to it with rawhide. All across the length of it, a dozen prayers were carved in a dozen different languages, all singing the praises of his patron goddess. With a few adjustments to a simple traveling cloak hoping to make himself just a tad bit more presentable, Rowan walked after his guide.
The village was surrounded by a waist-high fence made mostly of the thicker fallen branches bound together with twine and its entrance was an arch of the same make decorated with hanging animal skulls and wooden chimes. At once many sets of reflective yellow eyes were upon him. The furred faces of these foxmen peeked from behind corners and out of windows, all of them glowing with wonder and curiosity. It did not affect him much, as Rowan was quite used to getting stares. Though he wondered; was it because they had not seen a wizard before or because they had not seen a human? He offered the onlookers as pleasant a smile as he could muster and a polite tip of the hat, though he was always worried that his “nice" smiles looked more like scowls on account of them occasionally frightening children.
A single foxman broke out into the open to receive him. He was middle-aged as far as Rowan could tell. The orange of his fur was noticeably a shade or two darker than his younger kin and the way he carried himself reminded the wizard of an experienced leader.
“I am Yhal." he said, awkwardly clearing his throat. “I lead my people."
Rowan gave a deep, formal bow then stood straight and planted the butt of his staff in the dirt. “Hail, Yhal. My name is Rowan, I am a wizard of the Order of the Iris, here to offer my services be they magical, academic, or otherwise."
Yhal's eyes widened and excited whispers spilled forth from the margins of the village. Rowan couldn't help but feel like a braggart at that little display but most people expect a certain level of dramatics from him, it made the common man more comfortable when wizards act like they do in stories.
The foxman quickly collected himself “I never thought my nephew of all people would bring home a spellcaster. He- he's told you, yes? My father, he doesn't breathe as well as he used to. He can hardly walk anymore. Can you help him?"
Rowan considered for a second. He rubbed the black stubble on his chin borne of three days without meeting a razor and answered “I am no chirurgeon, but if I am able to cure him then I shall."
“That- that is good enough!" Yhal's timid demeanor was plain as the daylight. He moved and spoke like he thought Rowan might strike him on the head with his staff at any moment. His ears were cocked back when usually they should have been standing straight. “Come, this way. This one is my family's home."
Yhal led him to a very modest dwelling. Not a hut but neither was it a proper house, more of a cabin really. Its walls were constructed of interlinked logs and its roof was thatch, the door made of uneven, lumpy planks. It is no surprise, as everything in the village appears to have been made locally, save for the occasional metal tool that was strewn about. They certainly weren't artisans but Rowan couldn't disparage them for that.
Inside was as cramped as he expected, the single room divided by curtains and the walls cluttered with a thousand little things a man and his family might collect over generations. He counted six straw beds, one of them occupied. As unfamiliar with fox faces as Rowan was, even he could tell the man was old. His fur had faded to a brownish-grey and his face was wrinkled and wisened. His eyes were closed, but he stirred in his sleep.
“Papa!" Yhal called softly “You have a visitor."
The old man's eyes cracked open, his irises were still the same golden yellow as the rest of the village with the slit pupils of a canine. His gaze wandered across Yhal, then fixated upon Rowan. He was too tired to show any surprise.
“What have you brought into our home?" His voice was thin, his breath was labored, but the old fox looked up to the two of them with stubborn defiance, like looking into the eyes of the reaper himself. “You think some outsider can get me out of this bed? Fool."
Yhal gave the wizard a nervous glance then rushed to crouch at his father's bedside and took one of the man's hands with both of his. “Papa, this one is a wizard, we can heal you with magic, real magic."
“And are you so sure he is a wizard? What spells have you seen him cast?" The old man's question pierced through Yhal like a lance.
Yhal was silent for a moment. He gently let go of his father's hand, then stood up and looked at Rowan very expectantly, pleading with his eyes.
The wizard knew what they both wanted from him. “Very well," he whispered.
A simple cantrip should be proof enough. Rowan ceremoniously gripped his birch staff in both hands and held it out before him. He muttered out the incantation “Lady Morgaine, goddess of give and take, hear my plea and answer. Thou shall partake of my lifeforce and I shall make the ground tremble before mine own boots."
At once Rowan was met with a familiar feeling of bodily weakness as the invisible winds of the goddess's will blew through him with the force of a mule's kick, stealing the very breath from his lungs and the warmth froh his blood. And as he prayed, Morgaine answered. All around him the earth stirred. Pots fell from their cupboards, small items flew from their shelves, clouds of loose dust were spat into their air, and the very soil of the woods groaned in protest. Yhal had to grab onto one of the cabin's supports to stay steady with the minor quakes. He needed only but a moment, so Rowan released the spell as quickly as it began. The two foxmen looked about their home, bewildered.
“I admire your skepticism," Rowan said, slowly lowering his staff “but I am no fraud."
The old fox's visage faltered, replaced by awe. “You really did find a wizard…" He let out a sharp cackle, which itself seemed to rob him of his breath. His laughter turned to labored breathing.
“If I may examine you?" Rowan asked. The old man looked like he would refuse for a moment, but gave an affirmative nod.
Rowan stepped forward and leaned his staff against the wall beside the old fox's bed. “What's your name, elder?"
“Rangar." he answered.
Rowan placed the back of his hand against his forehead. The man's temperature was not extreme, neither hot with fever nor cold with chills, but he wasn't sure if this was supposed to be the norm for foxmen. “Well, Rangar, if I am able to cure you then I will. But if the gods have decided this is your fate, then I cannot stop them, do you understand?"
“Aye. if it is my time then I am ready." Rangar answered calmly. Rowan looked back to Yhal to find a look on his face that was a mix of worry and fear.
“Very well." Rowan pulled Rangar's blanket down to his waist. The old man looked up at him with clear eyes. The wizard could still see the spark of a sharp mind behind them. He removed his hat and laid his head on Rangar's chest, feeling the coarse fur of the foxman not unlike that of a well-groomed hound. He listened to his heart. The beating was there, but it was erratic and weak. His breathing was worrisome as well. He pulled away with a grim look.
“Well? What is it?" Yhal asked.
It was as Rowan expected. T'was was always the old ticker that was the first part of a man's body to fail him more often than not. A pang of fear washed over Rowan as he wondered if he was looking at himself when he reached the twilight of his own life. The wizard discarded such thoughts, as that was a matter to ponder at a later date.
“It's his heart," he said simply.
Rangar didn't appear very surprised, accepting his statement as fact. Yhal maintained his worried look as he sat on the bed opposite his father, fidgeting in uncomfortable anticipation.
“And can you…?" Yhal let his question trail off.
“I'll have to give him a new one."
Yhal looked to want to ask more, but merely gave the wizard an incredulous stare, words caught in his throat.
Rowan would rather not continue being questioned and marveled at, so he quickly asked “Do you raise rabbits? Perhaps trap them? I require a male, still lively, uninjured."
“What does-?"
“It is necessary for the spell, please find one." He interrupted Yhal. Rowan disdained being so forceful but he felt if he indulged the foxman he felt they'd be there all day answering questions.
Without a word more Yhal turned tail and left the cabin, disappearing into the village. Satisfied, Rowan slipped his messenger bag onto the old man's nightstand and withdrew a few choice pieces from within. He was lucky to have near every reagent he needed aside from a live hare. He set all the pieces neatly in a row; the antler of a buck ground into a powder, a small iron-bearing rock, the still-thorny stem of a rose, and a polished silver athame with a sapphire set into the hilt.
Rangar shakily sat up in his bed and asked “How will all of this become a heart?"
Rowan had thought the man less inquisitive than his son. Nevertheless, it was a good question. “I am not going to be making one as a smithy would fashion a horseshoe from iron. I will be offering my patron goddess worldly treasures in exchange for one."
He seemed not to just accept that. “So you are a priest?"
“No, still only a wizard." Rowan let a small small run across his lips “My lady Morgaine gives her faithful church their blessings without cost. My kind are not so lucky, we still have to pay for it."
“No free lunches, I guess." Rangar said with a small chuckle.
“Not even with the gods," Rowan agreed “please lay back down and hold still."
Rowan unsealed the clay pot of horn power and grabbed a generous pinch. He sprinkled several helpings of the stuff at various points of Rangar's body. One on each shoulder, one just under each pectoral, and one at the very center of the forehead. He gently laid the rose stem across the fox's collarbone so as not to prick him and asked him to grasp the iron rock and hold it over his heart.
It was not long before Yhal returned with a grey rabbit cradled in his arms exclaiming “I have one right here!" He stopped mid-stride to gaze at his father and ponder the curious state.
“Excellent," Rowan gestured at Yhal to hand it over “you've done very well, thank you."
The foxman gently transferred the rabbit over to Rowan. It was a calm specimen, well-domesticated, though that didn't make things easier as the wizard always had a soft spot for the small, furred creatures of the earth.
“Now," Rowan said “lastly I will be needing fresh green moss. Specifically from a patch that grows facing east. Remember, the direction of the rising sun. North or south will do nothing and west would have terrible effects, do you understand me?"
“Yes, yes!" Yhal nodded. He was off as quickly as he came.
“What's the moss for?" Rangar asked.
Rowan cracked open the door and checked to see if Yhal was far enough away before answering “Nothing, I simply didn't want him present for the spell."
The wizard turned and gave the old man a solemn look. “I am not going to coddle you, elder Rangar, the spell may fail, and if it does the shock of such a thing may cause your heart to give out. If that occurs, I'll have to flee the village as your family may try to hang me."
There was that defiant look again. The old man was ready and willing to fight fate, Rowan could tell. “Go ahead. I've no regrets to carry to the grave if it comes to that."
Rowan idly stroked the back of the rabbit. “Good."
The wizard took a deep breath and replaced his hat. He checked one last time that all was in order, then began the chant.
“Lady Morgaine, my goddess, she who gives and takes," Roland called out in a strong voice, one hand outstretched toward the heavens and the other clutching the rabbit to his breast “I beseech thy aid, taketh this offering, the fruits of nature plucked from the earth!"
An savage invisible gale whipped through the cabin, tearing loose the curtains and blowing the blankets off their beds. He had her attention. Rowan felt the agonizing hot breath of the goddess on the back of his neck, whispering words of encouragement. The old fox remained untouched by the madness, not a single hair on his body ruffled by the wind. He was afraid. It was the natural response when the gods turned their eyes toward men. Rangar grasped the stone in his hand and balled his other into a fist, trying to endure with every bit of strength he had left.
“Thy subject lyeth before thee, take from him that which hath faltered, return that which he hath lost! The breath of the wind! The strength of an ox! The vigor of youth! Allow this man his tomorrow, and all days after!"
Rangar watched with bewilderment as the healthy green rose stem disintegrated to a fine black ash before his very eyes. The stone in his hand crumbled to dust and was carried away by that howling wind. He looked like he wanted to scream. All was going according to plan.
“Life is only borrowed. Loaned by the gods to us on a whim and taken when the sands of the hourglass lie still. But not this day, for thy sand still runneth! I bid thee, _ LIVE!_" Shouting out the final utterance of the spell, Rowan slammed the then-squirming body of a terrified rabbit onto the old man's chest and drove his ceremonial athame through its midsection. It writhed with primal terror and let out high-pitched sqeals, its lifeblood flowing from the wound and on to Rangar. It did not suffer for long. Soon, even the rabbit was swept away by the hand of the goddess, its form quickly deteriorating as if rotting at a supernatural pace. In but a moment the poor creature left only clean yellowed bones.
Then, it was over. The gale ceased, all of the flying debris that it whipped up clattered to the floor. The room was perfectly silent for a spell as the wizard and the old man stared at each other expectantly. Rangar looked down at the remains and the blood that stained his fur. With a small disgusted face, he swept the bones of the sacrifice to the floor.
Rangar took a deep breath, testing his own body. He shifted his legs to hang over the side of the bed, then he stood up.
The old fox gave Rowan a toothy smile.
It seemed that the entire village was gathered.
They were all there the moment he exited the cabin. There was much chattering, a hundred foxy faces were turned toward Rowan with Rangar at his side waving at everyone. Yhal was in tears, he shoved aside the crowd to run and embrace his father. He muttered a series of unintelligible statements as the old man consoled him.
Rowan could only pull the wide brim of his hat down a bit. He wasn't fond of these moments. He would rather have done the deed and disappeared in a cloud of smoke, but that day rendered him far too tired to even consider another three-or-so days ride out of the woods, so he stayed to soak up the praise and gratitude.
The excitement lasted for another twenty minutes or so as Rowan was bombarded with almost everyone in the village wanting to shake his hand and give him their own thanks. He tried to be as polite as he could, but one can only give so many variations of “it was my pleasure" and “it was no trouble" before they were constantly repeating themselves. It was a nigh-unanimous agreement that the day was to be celebrated with a feast. That was one thing Rowan did not mind in the slightest. The wizard had been treated to the finest of meals by counts and mechant lords alike, but he always liked better the simple meals of the common man.
Bread and cheese, roasted meats and milk, wine and stew, Rowan had his fill that night. He suppressed the urge not to be greedy and to take humble portions, but he knew it would be an insult to his hosts not to gorge himself. It was his party, after all. Of course with the proper application of wine his asocial tendencies and veneer of wizardly decorum melted away. He found himself after the meal telling stories to children and dancing about a bonfire with the villagers. He had fun, there was no sense in denying himself such a reward.
As the festivities winded down and the heavy drinkers had found a patch of ground to pass out on, Yhal stood up from his seat on a log and beat a wooden spoon one one of the empty soup pots, drawing everyone's attention to himself.
“Friends and family, what we witnessed today was a miracle," he said, his voice carrying over a silent gathering “my father has been given more time with us. For that, I don't think we can ever repay our friend, Wizard Rowan."
Everyone seemed to nod their heads solemnly, murmuring agreement. Yhal paused, seeming to carefully choose his words. “With that said, kind must be paid in kind. I do think reward is in order. In exchange for the life he has given us, we give him life in turn."
Any traces of drunkenness drained from the wizard immediately, he sat up and leaned forward, cocking an eyebrow at the foxmen's leader. What could he have possibly meant by that?
Yhal looked him straight in the eye and smiled at Rowan. “Oleander, could you come here?"
A fox stood up and parted from the rest. It was a woman, young and lithe. She had short-cut hair that was a tinge redder than her fur and stood a head shorter than the men he had seen. The girl wore a simple egg-white cotton dress with lace at around the neck and sleeves, only a tinge cleaner and fancier than what the rest of her peers wore. She walked forward confidently, standing at the side of Yhal. Her golden eyes were locked on the wizard with a burning, excited gaze but her face gave little more away.
“We will not forget what you have done for our family," Yhal said solemnly, his hand on the woman's shoulder “and when you leave, we ask that you take us with you. This is my daughter, Oleander."
Oleander gave a formal curtsey, saying nothing, yet still not looking away from Rowan.
“She came of age last summer, and I have been beating my head against the wall thinking of the best man to wed her to," Yhal laughed, affectionately running his hand through his daughter's hair “Ilgi, you know the fox that led you to us? He said you told him you were a wanderer living on your own, correct?"
Awkwardly, Rowan said “Yes, but that isn't-"
Yhal did not let him finish “So I know that you won't be staying much longer, I am sure the road calls to you. My dear Oleander, she has had a burning desire to see the world outside. I have always wanted to grant her that wish but I cannot. You, however, can."
Rowan did not like where this was going. He wanted to stop the fox, but found he had not the words.
“I wish to leave her in your care," Yhal looked like he would tear up again. “She is the sharpest woman I've ever known and she will make a fine wife so that you might not have to tread the world alone. Will you do this for us?"
Rowan forced himself to be composed. He knew not if it was the wine or the sudden shock of this situation but he felt his cheeks grow hot. He hoped his disposition would be hard to tell in the faint light of a fading bonfire. It was odd, for he was no stranger to men of Yhal's age offering up their daughters in exchange for the favor of a wizard, but this time seemed quite different. It wasn't a cheap plot by shrewd men, Yhal seemed genuine in his sentiments. He met this woman's intense gaze with some difficulty. He could tell easily she did not protest her father's words. She was indeed a beautiful work of the gods themselves, even if she had a form that was quite alien to him. The temptation was almost unbearable.
His mind moved quickly and without direction. His instincts were telling him to refuse, yet at the same time he felt it would be cruel to dismiss such a heartfelt plea. Though, one had to be cruel to be kind as well, didn't they? Yet what reason had he to say no? T'was a sudden proposal, yes, but nothing scandalous. Oh how he wished more than anything for a night's sleep to think the question over with a clear head, but when the woman spoke all thoughts froze like a lake in the dead of winter.
“Would you not do this for me, good wizard? I would love to see what lies beyond this place." Oleander asked. Her voice was soft, yet it demanded attention, like silver chimes in the breeze. At the same time she had both the visage of an innocent, pleading puppy and the eyes of a hungry wolf. It terrified him.
Rowan responded without thinking.
“Morgaine, hide me from the sight of men!"
And without a word more, Rowan vanished before the eyes of a hundred foxes, as the invisibility spell took hold in less than a second after the words left his lips.
The last thing he heard as he slipped away from the scene of the festival was the eruption of astonished chattering from the onlooking villagers and the voice of the beautiful fox woman Oleander carrying throughout the whole forest “ Oh, you bastard!"
Rowan wished he could apologize, but he was already gone.
Chapter 2 - The Poison Flower
“Come on Jet, it's time to go."
Rowan's beloved horse gave a shake of the mane in response to hearing the voice of his master. He had left Jet tied to a post with a trough of water and a small bucket of greens from the villagers. He wanted Jet to get a good night's rest after the long trip through the woods, but it was not the kind of night where such luxury could be afforded. He gave the horse a gentle pat on the bridge of his nose and began packing his things back up in the saddle. The wizard did not have much time left before they would find him and he had absolutely no desire to stick around.
Thinking upon his own actions for the first time that night gave Rowan pause. Fleeing the celebration in such an abrupt and dramatic way was quite immature, very unbecoming of a man of his title and stature. He almost couldn't believe it happened, but the urge to detach himself from the situation as quickly and completely as possible was almost involuntary. He could have just politely declined and cited a number of legitimate reasons why he would be Ill suited to take a wife, but there was just something about her...
“That was quite rude, you know."
Rowan jumped, dropping his birch staff in the dirt. The wizard was so caught up in his thoughts that he paid no mind to his surroundings. He whipped around to see Oleander, that beautiful foxwoman in the cotton dress. She stood with her arms crossed, giving him an expectant glare. Her eyes flashed gold as they reflected the faint light of his lantern, like beacons in the night. They were not happy eyes.
Rowan reflexively straightened himself and slid into his wizardly demeanor. “I do apologize for suddenly vacating the celebration, but I have urgent matters with my order that needed immediate-"
“You're not fooling anyone." Oleander interrupted him with a biting tone.
The wizard deflated. He was a practiced liar, but severely lacked in talent. “I'm not, am I?."
She walked closer to him. Rowan subconsciously distanced himself from her, he was not accustomed to the scorn of a woman. “Why did you run?" she demanded. Oleander crept even closer, close enough that she had to look straight up to meet his eyes.
“I-" Rowan said slowly, looking for another convenient excuse. He found none. “I don't know, really."
“Do I not meet your standards?" She asked with a sharp tone “Are the girls outside this village so pretty that you've a mind to turn away the most beautiful woman in her village practically throwing herself into your lap?"
“I wouldn't have called that 'throwing yourself' back there…" Rowan forced himself to be composed again. She was merely a village girl, what reason had he to be so flustered? He took a deep, slow breath and answered “Nay, you are quite exceptional, miss Oleander. I simply live a burdensome life that is not suited for a woman."
She made an annoyed face and looked at the ground for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “What is it, then? You don't wish to drag me across the land here and there, living life as a transient? No home but the road? No roof over my head but the sky?"
The wizard nodded very quickly. “Yes, precisely."
The foxgirl gave a wicked smile, flashing her pointed canine teeth. “But that sounds like a wonderful life, all the more reason to take me with you."
“Oh, fie." Rowan cursed through his teeth. Her father did say she wanted to travel, but he thought he was merely being hyperbolic or trying to make her more appealing. He grumbled and rubbed his forehead. He would have given his entire purse of gold to be rid of this woman. "I understand, but I have quite the penchant for trouble and a wizard is terribly prone to attracting bandits. You would be better off offering your hand to a merchant or-"
“You don't have to love me." The bite of her tone was considerably dialed back, yet still firm. Rowan was taken aback by her sudden shift in personality as well as the words themselves. “You don't even have to marry me, just tell my father yes and take me away from this place. Drop me off in the nearest town and leave me fend for myself, I care not."
“I wouldn't do that!" Rowan blurted out instantly. Before she could retort with another admonishing comment, he quickly added “Should I take you with me out into the greater world it would be cruel and selfish to throw you to the wolves for my own convenience. Your wellbeing would be wholly my responsibility. I know I have offended you, and for that I am sorry, but do not take me for some common cutthroat."
Oleander shrunk from him just a bit. “All right."
Rowan sighed. What a conundrum. “Let's say you do accompany me on my travels. Yes, I would take you far and wide, but the world of a wizard is not shiny and heroic like the tales of old. My kind is fated to experience the best and the worst of mankind by the will of the gods. You will be changed forever, and perhaps not for the better. Are you willing to take that risk?"
Oleander looked like she wanted to answer immediately, but caught herself. She turned away from Rowan, and looked to the sky. One could see only the barest sliver of the heavens through the thick branches of the gall trees. Only the distant crackling of the bonfire and the wind through the leaves were audible. She contemplated for a moment before answering. “If I stay, I would be wedded to one of the young men in the village. He would be a fine husband, I would have children, they would have children, and maybe I could live to see the children after that, but I would live my whole life never having gone farther than the treeline. Then I would pass on like grandfather almost did. I can see my whole life before me, I know exactly how it is going to play out. I know I can find happiness and fulfillment in that, but I will always wonder what could have been. What if I let that strange men go without a word of protest?"
Rowan was about to speak, but his words fell to the wayside when she turned around to give him the same fiery look he saw back at the party. “I am more ambitious than that. I want it all. Show me joy, show me despair, just show me something else besides the roof of this forest."
The wizard couldn't help but give a gentle laugh. Not because what she said was funny, but rather he had seen so much of himself in her at that moment that he couldn't help it. He finally understood what it was about Oleander that made him so uneasy. She was a kindred soul. Oh woe be to that wizard, for his fate was sealed. “You're quite poetic for a village girl."
“You're quite the coward for a wizard." she quipped back.
“All wizards are cowards," He said “we're just good at hiding it. But I must say, you leave me little choice. Tell your father I accept, if I didn't relieve the man of such a willful daughter then I might have to come back and give him a new heart."
For the first time that night he saw Oleander with a genuinely happy smile. Half of her looked relieved, like the weight of the world had finally fallen off of her shoulders. The other half was like a giddy child on their nameday. The only response she gave was a soft “Thank you."
“Don't thank me," Rowan said, half-joking “curse my name for dragging you into this life."
She crossed her arms again. “Truly, it can't be that bad."
“It isn't," He admitted, “but I need to temper your expectations before we depart."
“When will we be leaving?" she asked.
Rowan shrugged as he finished packing the saddle. “Tomorrow, tonight, a week from now. I have no pressing engagements."
“Oh?" she said with a slyly cocked eyebrow. “What of the urgent matter with your order?"
“They can handle it themselves."
The two of them were off the next afternoon. The foxmen weren't too sentimental when it came to parting. All he got was a slap on the back and a congratulations from Yhal before he sent the two of them on their way. Rowan had to endure another round of thanks and praise from the villagers while Oleander said her goodbyes, then they hopped on Jet and rode into the woods.
Oleander was excited, that was to be expected. Rowan had to chastise her about moving around so much on the back of Jet as he didn't seem too enthused about having to lug an extra squirming rider across the woods. Though he couldn't help but mirror a bit of her pep and energy. This was as much a new experience for him as it was for her. He had always politely refused travelling companions, preferring instead the company of a clear mind and a quiet road.
“We're going to have to get you your own horse once we get to Quinnsburgh," Rowan said off-handedly “or perhaps a cart. We can take turns riding in the back."
Rowan seized up in surprise as Oleander wrapped her arms around his chest, squeezed him from behind, and nestled her foxlike muzzle into the nape of his neck. She was warm, like a heavy blanket that had been hanging before the fireplace. He could feel her rhythmic breathing. He tried to put on a stoic face.
“I wouldn't mind if we continued on sharing the saddle like this." she said dreamily.
“No, but Jet would." Rowan curtly responded, scratching the back of the horse's neck.
She shifted in the saddle again, then rested her chin on his shoulder and whispered “Maybe we can share something else then?"
Rowan nearly fell off the horse. Clearing his throat, he said “Now now, let's not be too hasty here. We've known each other for scarcely a day."
“Oh, I was only talking about breakfast." she said. He could feel her wicked grin on his shoulder.
“Like hell you were."
She giggled.
Nightfall.
They had started preparations for camp at twilight. The light waned down to almost pitch-black as the roof of the forest choked out the glow of the waxing moon. The only thing the two of them could see by was a small oil lantern as Rowan crouched over a dug-out fire pit lined with stones. Click, click, click went the flint against his hunting knife. The early springtime in these woods left every bit of dead matter just the slightest bit moist, which was a pain for anyone trying to start a fire. Rowan grunted with frustration and rubbed his wrists, sore from the effort.
Oleander pulled a scratchy wool blanket tighter around her body. “Are you nearly there? It's getting cold out, why not just use your magic to light the fire?"
Rowan sighed, exasperated. He didn't look up from his task when he answered with an annoyed voice “It's not my magic, magic is merely borrowed and the goddess who loans such powers frowns upon it being used for frivolous purposes."
The foxgirl tilted her head. “Oh, so it was that woman you called out to at the bonfire? Right before you disappeared?"
Rowan was about to answer, but the sparks finally caught and the wizard dropped his tools to feed the fledgling fire his breath. “Yes," he finally answered as the dry leaves and twigs bloomed into flame “Morgaine, the goddess of exchange, bargains, and prosperity. Quite popular with merchants."
“I was told wizards all got their magic by reading books on how to do it. They'd say the right words and wave their wands and make miracles." Oleander said idly, punctuating her sentence with a yawn.
Satisfied with his work, Rowan sat back and only barely took his eyes off the fire to respond “No, but also yes. There's more to it than that. The goddess demands the proper reagents and incantations and even if you do it right you might not get what you want if she hasn't taken a shine to you."
“Sounds like an old woman."
Rowan laughed, taking off his hat and placing it on the fallen log he pulled up to the campsite. “You've barely even scratched the surface."
Both of them looked ponderously into the growing fire for a wordless moment, then Oleander asked “Is she a jealous goddess?"
“Aye, like you wouldn't believe."
“And that's the real reason why you didn't want to take me?"
Rowan's face darkened. While he normally walked about with the jaded grimace of an old man, for a moment the wizard looked like a black wind was blowing over him “Aye."
“Then why did you?"
“You're damned inquisitive for a village girl from the middle of nowhere." Rowan snapped at her, his raised voice seeming to shatter the stillness of the night. “Too damned inquisitive for your own good."
Rowan instantly regretted his choice of words and tone when Oleander turned her nose up, refusing to look him in the eye. “Well pardon me, but I have a right to know why I have to compete with divine suitors for the man I just entrusted my life to."
The wizard rubbed his forehead. “I'm sorry. You just wanted to know."
Silence reigned for what seemed like an eternity. Rowan mechanically poked and prodded at the fire, adding more fuel and ensuring it would burn for a good few hours after they went to sleep for the night. Rowan wasn't even sure she was still awake when he started to speak again.
“I have no love for Morgaine and she knows it, yet still lends me magic. That's the fate of a wizard. Aye, I can give a man a new heart, spout fire from my fingers, and speak to the birds in the trees but it all has a cost. Not just a few trinkets and hollow words, those are just for show. The real price is paid upfront. You become a trophy, a plaything. To make a pact with a god is to tether your soul to them, you give up your very destiny for them to decide." He looked up to Oleander, and for a moment he had the eyes of a man who had lived a thousand years. “Truth is, I don't care anymore. Morgaine can get bent, I'll live my own life. I'll make her win my favor, not the other way around. I'll take my freedom back even if I have to fight for it. And… I thought maybe you could help me. It's selfish, but I suppose that's why I took you in."
No response. She must have fallen asleep. Rowan resigned himself to fishing a skin of wine from Jet's saddlebags and having a drink before bed. The dry, barely sweet taste of wine slipped past his lips smoothly and warmed him with that familiar pleasant feeling. He was a quarter way through the skin when Oleander spoke. “Is it really possible to take your fate back from the gods?"
Rowan was startled, but slowly he answered “I haven't the foggiest idea. No one's ever done it." He took another swig of wine. “Maybe I'll be the first. More likely I'll die trying."
“Well those are thoughts for the morning," She said. “You know this blanket is big enough for the both of us, right? Fire or not, you'll freeze to death over there."
Rowan looked up from the fire in the pit to see the fire in her eyes. Soft, yet glistening. He couldn't remember the last time anyone ever looked at him like that. Coyly, he asked “Is that the something else you were talking about?"
She gave him a pearly, childish smile. “Maybe."
He shuffled over to her side of the fire and she wrapped him in that cotton blanket as they both stared into the absolute darkness beyond the light of the fire. She rested her head on his shoulder and he put both arms around her. Gods be good, her fur was soft. She smelled like a horse, but then again so did he. She seemed to cozy into him further as he stroked her arm, tail, and the tufts on her cheeks. As both their breathing slowed Rowan could feel her heartbeat. He liked to think hers was almost in tune with his. Warmth washed over him like the beating waves of the ocean and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he'd get a good night's sleep.
Oleander. A fox woman named after a pink flower that was beautiful, yet poisonous. Sometimes he would see them blooming along the roadside in the spring. A fitting name, he thought. He plucked her from the meadow where she grew at risk of mortal peril. He couldn't fool himself, what he did could have very well set in motion a chain of events that would spell both their dooms. The gods were fickle creatures. Perhaps they might face no wrath at all, and she could walk by his side the same way he had done on his own for decades. Or just as likely they might have to fight a storm of fury so great that it threatened to rip the very mountains from the earth and carry them to the heavens. Perhaps something in between? Who knew.
But at that moment such concerns were far away, as he was far too comfortable and warm to let dark thoughts drive away pleasant dreams. His consciousness drifted off into a formless murmur, and soon the both of them fell into a deep sleep…