Wolf Pack - 1. The Roosting Wolf

DANUVA

Danuva Karis carried a basket out to the chicken shed, already thinking about the taste of cooked eggs. He could hear the birds squabbling angrily in the building, and his steps quickened, the man hurrying to the coop. Those chickens were his life this far from the city, and if something happened to them, he was a dead man.

Throwing open the door, Danuva frowned at the scene within, not so much of a problem as a surprise.

A man was curled in the corner of the shed, his long red hair covered in dust and droppings. He wore fancy clothes, though their look was marred by weeks of dirt. His face was troubled even in sleep, marring his firm beauty. A silver bracelet hung around his left wrist, and Danuva could see a wound where it touched his wrist. Sinking lightly into his magic, Danuva noticed a warm aura around the person, but it was tinged with something else, a metallic red anger. This man was going through some kind of struggle and Danuva got it in his mind to help him.

His head lay against the wall, his eyes closed, and Danuva noticed a long ear poking out of the red nest of shoulder-length hair.

An elf then, not a man.

The chickens were clucking loudly in the opposite corner of the room, and Danuva knew he was unlikely to get eggs that morning. He approached the elf and heard a quiet growl that stopped him in his tracks.

“Is it too much to ask to let me just live my life?” the man sighed.

He nudged the elf with his foot, and the elf woke up with a snarl, a dagger appearing in his hand.

“Easy, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He could see it took the elf a moment to get himself under control. He was fighting with something, and Danuva felt he knew exactly what that something was. The human had seen this once before, his brother sharing in this affliction.

“Get up. We don’t have any eggs today, but I can give you some meat at least,” he said.

“You…”

The elf cleared his throat.

“You will feed me?”

His voice was raspy, but carried with it the tone of someone used to power. Danuva took a deep breath, unsettled by the thoughts that ran through his mind. Who was this strange elf? A lord of some distant land? The humans and elves always traded with each other, but there was little cause for one to be laying in Danuva’s chicken coop. Unless he had been driven from his home.

“I can’t leave you out here to eat my chickens,” Danuva shrugged. “My name is Danuva. And welcome to my home.”

“Paelias. Thank you,” the elf said, rising unsteadily to his feet.

Now Danuva could see more of him, could see the effects of a slow starvation, and it worried the man. How long had he been on the road? Surely he would have brought some food with him, or hunted to feed himself. And yet Paelias seemed to deny those basic thoughts. Coupled with the open wound on his wrist, Danuva was given a very clear picture of someone who hated themself, hated who they had become.

“I can fix your wrist,” he offered, testing out this stranger.

“No. No one can fix my wrist,” Paelias denied, his face clouding, and Danuva let out a quiet sigh, wondering why these people always had to brood.

“Well, you are not leaving here hungry,” he shrugged, ushering the elf from the shed.

PAELIAS

He could feel the beast fighting him still, like a primal voice in his mind telling him to hunt, to eat.

It had been two months since Paelias had gone into a self-imposed exile. In that time, he had found no cure for his curse, nor could he find what had afflicted him with it either. His skin bore no bite marks, and in fact, he was in better health than he had ever been.

Aside from the murderous voice in his head. The elf could hear it demanding to be let out, fed, to… to breed. And he knew there was no way he could give the voice what it wanted. The full moons were bad enough.

He sat at a small wooden table, his stomach roaring at the smells of cooking meat. Or maybe it was the beast roaring within him. He didn’t know.

Another scent was in the air, a strong one. One of a summer breeze in a field of lavender. He liked the smell, though he couldn’t tell what caused it, or why it was so strong. Danuva’s home was filled with plants and herbs, but he couldn’t see lavender among them at all. There was one plant that burned his senses, but he refused to let his pain show.

The elf’s hand twisted the loose bracelet on his wrist uncomfortably. It burned him, just touching the metal, and he had an open sore where it rested on his skin, but he refused to remove it. His punishment for what he was, what he had become.

Paelias was an elf adrift in the world, no money or title to his name. He could return to Mydara at any time and resume his role as the crown prince of the elves, but to do so would be a sign of defeat. His blood was tainted now, impure.

A wooden plate was set before him, a silver fork beside it.

“Thank you,” he said, as Danuva sat across from him.

Reaching for the fork, he winced as the metal touched his fingers. Pushing past the pain, the elf picked up the utensil and stuck it into the meat.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Danuva said, setting his fork aside. “Here I am trying to be all fancy…”

He found a wooden fork and set it next to Paelias. The elf narrowed his eyes, studying the man. Try as he might, he could not feel any malice from Danuva, and it surprised the elf. Years in court had taught him that everyone had an agenda, and yet here was someone who seemed to be a simple farmer, out to help anyone he could. It was refreshing to find someone like that in the world, and Paelias let himself relax just slightly.

Picking up the new fork, he began eating, savouring the rich tones of venison. Paelias wondered how the animal had been caught. The human didn’t seem like much of a hunter, but the meat had to come from somewhere.

Danuva sighed as he sat down.

“I know what you are,” he said. “I recognise the signs from my brother.”

“Then what am I?” Paelias demanded.

“A werewolf.”

The elf sucked in a breath. He knew it. But he had been fighting the knowledge for months. Hearing the word said out loud somehow made it real. Moreso than the bone-crushing transformations he had been subject to when his emotions raged.

“Thank you for the meal,” he said, standing over his half eaten plate.

“You can stay for as long as you need to,” Danuva said. “You do not have to deal with this on your own.”

“I do,” Paelias denied.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“No. But I’ll figure it out.”

The human looked at him, concern obvious in his eyes.

“My door will always be open to you,” he said.

Paelias nodded. Pulling out a copper coin, his last coin, he placed it on the table.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“There’s a city a day’s walk east, Astara. Take the road north through the fields, and you’ll come to a brick road soon enough,” Danuva said, in a final attempt to be of some help.

Paelias merely nodded again.

Walking outside, the elf scanned the area, and set off, heading through fields of tall summer grass. An hour later, he finally made it to the main road once again, his nose filling with the scent of dusty wheat and old horse droppings.

A human warrior walked along the brick road with a smile on his face. That smile turned to a frown as Paelias neared. The fighter fingered a silver necklace set against his chest, and his hand touched the hilt of his sword.

Paelias kept his eyes on the man as they walked past each other. Neither spoke a word as they sized each other up.

The human behind him now, the elf sped up his pace, trying to put distance between himself and the man. The rasp of a sword unsheathing met his ears, and Paelias leapt to the side, off the road.

The human approached the elf calmly, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Werewolf scum,” he spat, sword level with Paelias’ throat. “Praise Lumara, the pure moon will strike you down.”

The elf felt his anger rise, and he panicked.

“No no no…” he breathed, backing off rapidly.

The warrior lunged, and Paelias twisted to avoid the attack. The sword grazed his arm, leaving a burn on his skin. A silver blade, the sign of a professional werewolf hunter.

Paelias gasped in pain, trying to fight the beast growling within him. He could not shift. He would not shift.

“Did you think that silver bracelet would protect you?” the hunter scoffed. “A clever ruse, but for the fact that anyone can see the burn it leaves on you.”

Paelias drew his dagger, the only weapon he had, and hurled it at the hunter in desperation. It bounced off the human’s armour, the man not even bothering to dodge.

The elf watched the hunter stalk toward him, his mind in a blur. He couldn’t escape this. It was almost a relief to realize. He was dead.

A growl rose unbidden from his throat. As the human raised his sword again, Paelias’ body flew at his legs, and the elf shifted.