Wolf Pack - 2. Silver Streaks

DANUVA

The elf was on his mind the entire morning. Was he safe? Would he make it to the city? After helping Quarian, Danuva knew well the risks of being a werewolf.

Eventually, the human drove the elf from his mind. He had done what he could for Paelias. If the elf didn’t want his help, there was nothing he could do for him.

Danuva fed his chickens, examining them under the effects of his magic. Their auras were almost normal, and he smiled. They were surprisingly sturdy creatures, and the upset from the morning didn’t seem to affect them any more.

A soft glow spread from his hand, passing through each of the birds and strengthening their colours. A rooster squabbled at him as the healing cut off, cackling as he protested the ending of the energy.

“That’s enough for all of you,” Danuva said with a stern smile, the burn of flowing energy making him feel tired, worn thin.

It was always more difficult to heal without his herbs, but the man had no lavender left to ease anxiety. He was left to his own reserves of energy, and healing that way always took a toll on him.

Finished with his animals, Danuva grabbed a large bucket and walked the mile to a nearby creek that cut through the fields of grass. Several trees grew around the water, and he was always surprised there weren’t more. The fields around his home weren’t cultivated, the grass there grew wild.

Filling the bucket, the man set the water aside and stripped. Stepping into the cold flow, he immersed himself in the water, cleaning off a day’s worth of dirt. A rustling in the trees had Danuva ducking down in the water, hiding all his bits.

“Hello?” he called, feeling a little stupid as the words left his mouth.

If someone was there who didn’t want to be seen, Danuva had just given himself away.

A minute passed, and the man moved to the edge of the creek, his clothes nearby. He stepped out of the water and shook. Pulling his clothes back on, Danuva turned to scan the area one more time.

An elf stood on the other side of the creek, dressed in a heavy cloak. A longsword hung at his hip, and Danuva could see the glint of plate armour under his cloak. He looked young, a mere fifteen to Danuva’s twenty five years, though it was always hard to tell the age of an elf.

“Hello,” Danuva called to the elf.

“Hello,” the elf returned with a nod.

“Can I help you?” Danuva asked after a moment of silence.

“Do you know how far I am from the nearest village?”

“A day’s walk.”

Danuva’s magic flickered, revealing the elf’s colours as they spoke. He was weak, tired and sore. There was a large bruise on his leg, and a claw mark on his arm, both covered by his clothing.

“You’re welcome to spend the night at my house before travelling onward,” Danuva offered.

“Thank you,” the elf smiled. “I can’t offer much in payment-”

“There is no need to offer anything. You look tired, and I enjoy helping those who I can.”

The elf waded across the creek and stopped beside the human.

“My name is Sandolin,” he said.

“I’m Danuva. It is a pleasure to meet you.

Danuva collected his water and Sandolin followed him to his home. The human stopped by his chickens first, pouring some water into a shallow trough for them.

As the two approached Danuva’s house, the man’s eyes caught a body lying in front of his door.

“That’s a wolf,” he said as they neared.

Picking up his pace, the man hurried to the animal, taking in the red fur mottled with blood from deep gashes. A bloody sword lay beside the animal, bite marks circling the hilt.

Scanning the wolf’s body, Danuva found a silver bangle hanging from the front left paw.

“Paelias…” he breathed.

“My prince!” Sandolin yelped, falling to his knees beside the wolf.

Danuva picked up the sword and shoved it into Sandolin’s grasp.

“Get this thing out of my sight,” he snapped.

Lifting the wolf, the human carried him into his house, setting him on his bed. Scanning Paelias with his magic, Danuva found a myriad of off colour marks. Silver ran across the wolf’s body in solid lines, concerning the human.

Sandolin stepped into the room, and Danuva turned.

“Get me the bucket of water,” he said sharply, following the elf from the room.

Scanning the plants in the main room of his home, Danuva’s eyes settled on his supply of monkshood. Its aura gave off a faint silver glow, and he grabbed a sprig of it.

Carrying the plant into his room, he dipped a rag into the water Sandolin had brought in and begun washing the blood from Paelias. Danuva worked quickly and steadily, grimacing as the full effects of the wolf’s injuries became apparent.

When his patient had been washed, the man placed the wolf’s bane on the wolf and took a deep breath. Diving into Paelias’ devastated aura, he began drawing the silver from the wolf’s body, channelling it from the wounds into the sprig of monkshood.

Paelias’ back legs began kicking out as Danuva healed him, almost as if he was running in whatever dreamworld he was in. Danuva placed his body over the legs, stopping their motion before Paelias made the silver poisoning travel any further in his body.

It took nearly an hour to draw the poison from the wolf’s body, and when it was done, Danuva sank to his knees with a sigh. Paelias was still covered in wounds, but he was stable now.

Removing the bangle from Paelias’ wrist, Danuva scraped off the dried blood from the wolf’s injuries and placed it on the stand beside his bed.

“Is he going to live?” Sandolin demanded.

Danuva gazed at the wolf, blinking as the body melted into the form of an elf.

“He’s through the worst of it,” he muttered, reaching over to draw a sheet over the werewolf’s naked body. “All we can do now is hope and pray to the gods.”

PAELIAS

Paelias stood at the head of a wolf pack, staring down at a stone keep. Forest surrounded the castle on all sides, though the trees near it were cut to make for clear firing lines for archers. He knew this place, Te Hara pei Arudan. The Halls of Blood, named for the hundreds who had died trying to take the fortress from the bandits who roamed its halls. It was unnerving being this close to the place, but he knew he would not be getting any closer. Not today.

The elf removed his clothes, feeling self-conscious as wolf eyes bore into his body. He shifted fluidly, no pain coming from the transformation. The silver bangle jangled at his feet and the wolf huffed as the metal burned his fur.

The werewolf barked an order and leapt from the outcrop where the wolves stood. He sprinted through the trees with wild abandon, the first time he had ever allowed himself to truly enjoy his wolf.

It worried him, the number of wolves around him. He wanted to cure the wolf in him, not make other wolves. The elf was caught up in his thoughts and he failed to notice a white blur leap at him from the side.

Paelias slid across the ground and was back up in an instant, a deep growl emanating from his throat. His assailant whimpered and turned his head, baring his throat to Paelias.

Paelias sniffed the air, the scent of lavender almost overwhelming to his wolf nose. He felt a sense of peace wash over him, and he stepped up to the white wolf, rubbing his cheek against the other wolf.

The white wolf snorted and bowed playfully, letting out a soft yip. He swatted a paw at Paelias and the red wolf slapped it down, jumping away. Lunging, the white wolf nipped at Paelias, carefully avoiding the silver that dangled from his ankle.

They darted back and forth, playing with each other. It was so relieving to let the weight of the world off his shoulders even for a while.

And then, with a sudden burning pain around his ankle, the world came barging back into Paelias’ mind.

His eyes darkened, the white wolf vanishing with the forest around him. Paelias felt the agony of a hundred cuts on his body. Dimly he realized he was awake, alive.

The elf opened his eyes slowly, scanning the darkness around him for any threats. He was in a building, the scent of lavender permeating the air. It was a familiar scent, though his mind couldn’t place it. He breathed deeply, enjoying the smell. His nose picked up a second smell, one of fine wine. It was almost buried under the lavender, but it was there. And this one he could place.

“My Prince?”

Paelias’ eyes flicked over to a figure sitting in the corner of the room.

“Sandor?”

The werewolf scowled at the elf and sat up, ignoring the stabs of pain from his body.

“I told you to stay in Mydara.”

“Forgive me, but a squire’s place is with his liege,” Sandolin said.

“Approach,” Paelias commanded.

The elf walked up to his prince, avoiding his gaze nervously. When he was within reach, Paelias grabbed his shirt and pulled the younger elf closer. Their lips met, and both elves breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’re not angry with me?” Sandolin asked as they pulled apart.

“I am livid. But I’ve also missed you,” Paelias replied, breathing in the heady scent of wine.

He was slightly unfamiliar with the smell, having smelled it only once, a week before the first full moon he had spent as a wolf. And now, just as then, the smell got a rise out of him, his body craving the one who carried that scent.

“Forgive me, My Prince. I didn’t want to lose you to the world,” Sandor apologised.

“I am your prince no longer,” Paelias sighed.

He tugged on the elf again, pulling him onto the bed. Paelias’ fingers untied the knots holding Sandor’s shirt closed.

“My- sir, are you sure you want this? You’re injured,” Sandor said quietly.

“I have missed your touch these past two months Sandor. But as always the choice is yours,” Paelias murmured, pausing in his task.

His arms protested his motions and he was certain the rest of his body would follow before long. To be with his squire, his lover, while in this state would be agonizing, but he needed that connection again, to feel wanted.

Sandolin pressed his lips against Paelias gently.

“I will never not want it,” he whispered.