The Merciful Path, Pt. I

[Colt]

10th of winter, 515 a.v.
late morning

Blood. Deep, earthy, metallic; the river of life unique to beasts, that rich red water that was as precious to animals as sap was to trees, or chlorophyll to grass, or flesh to the fungus that was neither animal nor plant.

The gully was seeped in blood, the blood of animals and people alike. The rain had smeared and thinned it, but not washed it away; the rocks were still tinted by the telltale stain of pink and scattered with bones. The scent of the stuff clung to every inch of the sheltered gash in the earth that had once been a home. A hearth. A family.

The wolves’ corpses had been removed, of course. No doubt the sheer number of them had made their slayers rich.

Merevaika, the whispers said admiringly. Merevaika, wolf-slayer.

He’d heard the story. The little boy taken. The huntress sent to wreak vengeance. An entire pack, eradicated in the course of a single day.

Their deaths made the grasslands ache. Not in the immediate knowledge of a deer or a hawk, which did not know the depths of the world that surrounded him. Shahar, though, he knew; the land was a bit more hollow now that the wolves were suddenly no longer a part of it. It was like a river, suddenly made dry and empty and left to echo with the sad knowledge that something should be there, something vibrant and necessary and full of life.

It had made his heart break to hear that Merevaika had been the master of this slaughter.

Snow was uneasy when they entered the gully, smelling the natural death of hunted prey and then the unnatural death of genocide. It lay over everything, and she didn’t know how to react.

The ravens knew, and so it was the ravens that Shahar asked. A mated pair, accompanied by three fledglings that were still learning from their parents. The family had been partnered with the wolf pack for longer than either species could remember; the wolves lived in the gully, and the ravens lived in the trees above it. They had hunted together, as raven and wolves often did; the one gifted with wings would find prey, and the one gifted with teeth would open it for both to share. Their children had grown up together. They had planned for their next children to do the same.

The destruction of the wolves had left the ravens shocked, but the presence of a Witch managed to ground them into answering his questions. They showed him what had happened, through their eyes; he saw the memory of being down below, pecking playfully at one of the younger pups that hadn’t figured out how to nip back at the oh-so-quick, oh-so-clever birds, and then the pained scream of the wolf-father––who was also raven-uncle––as he was suddenly pierced and injured by a force that none of them could see. There was no lion or bear or other wolf; it was all too quick and invisible to have any logic. He had been entirely fine, until suddenly he wasn’t.

Shahar knew that ravens could not comprehend the existence of arrows, those flying wounds that did not come from any direct source like claws or teeth.

When the chaos had broken, the ravens had fled, and that was all they had seen of it until the noise stopped and they came back down to try and learn what had happened. And then they had seen their sibling-family all limp and unmoving, being picked up and draped over the backs of horses and taken away.

It was a story that made Shahar hurt, even more so because he knew who it was that had orchestrated it. He bowed his head and let his eyes fall to the ground, where lay the remains of the boy that had so earned the wolves’ massacre. What little remained of the corpse had fed the ravens in the days following, and the mice had had their way with the last traces left on the bones. The skull stood out, stark and still stained with the color of blood, peering up at him with empty sockets. Empty, because the eyeballs were always the most sought-after morsel.

Scent. Shahar looked up as Snow alerted him to something she’d found.

What is? he asked, angling towards her.

The she-wolf paused, taking one last draw of the air before rising up to look at him. Wolves. Alive.

[Colt]

They last wolves alive were in the depression of an overhang, deep and wide enough to be called a cave if one wanted to argue semantics. It was deep enough to shelter the entirety of the pack that had once called it home, in rain, snow or thunder; mothers and fathers had lived here, and had overrun it with sons and daughters.

Now, it held only father and daughter.

The eldest looked up as Shahar stooped to enter the overhang, while Snow lingered at the entrance. The proud animal had been the patriarch of the now-dead pack, and what animal he was; huge, the color of sand, strong bones and a powerful set of teeth. The wolf had good breeding, for certain; Shahar could not have imagined a more perfect sire for the next generation. But the massacre had left him a ragged shadow of his former pride; days without food had hollowed his sides and dulled his fine coat, because he had escaped with his life, but not with his well-being. An arrow-wound was open in his hip, crusting his sandy fur with black blood that was oozing with the precursor to infection. He hadn’t walked since he had made it into the den, and his leg would never work properly again.

His daughter lay between his front paws, tucked against his chest in an attempt to escape the cold. She was used to the strength of numbers; they both were. In the winter, the entire pack could pile into the den and keep each other warm without any difficulty, but now the entire pack was gone. There was only the two of them, and that was not enough.

Friend. Shahar’s communication was warm and comforting as he made eye contact with the father.

The once-alpha made a sheer, weak noise in the back of his throat that didn’t manage to be a full bark. Nevertheless, there was greeting in his eyes, and an equal recognition of Shahar’s power and authority. He didn’t expect help from the Witch, for indeed, what help could Shahar possibly give that would make a difference in his fate?

Shahar could give warmth.

Reaching down to greet the she-pup with a gentle brush of his fingers, the Witch tucked himself against both of them, sealing the little child in a pocket of dead air that would soon enough grow warm and drive off the winter chill. He rested one hand on the father’s mane, and the other on the hilt of his hunting knife.

Sympathy. It was a concept not well known to most animals, but familiar enough to those as social as wolves. Understanding. Kinship. He hurt for the father’s pain, for the loss of his mate and all of his other children. There was only one child left, and she was the last he would ever have. He was crippled, and he was neither female nor hunter. He could not give his daughter milk or meat to sustain her. And what female would ever accept a male who couldn’t even walk right? He was finished. His injury had ended him. His pack was dead, and whether Shahar helped or not, his lameness would eventually kill him, too.

He knew his fate, and he knew there was no way to fight it. He was already dead, even though he was still breathing.

Shahar rested his forehead against the wolf’s. Sleep, friend. His worries were at an end now. Shahar could not cure his ailments, but he could end his suffering.

The Witch drew his knife and trailed it comfortingly up the wolf’s neck. The wolf trusted him to do what was right, because that was what Witches did, and that was why Caiyha gave them power.

And that was why Shahar drew the knife through the wolf’s throat, quickly and cleanly, and ended his life.

[Colt]

The wolf yelped and jerked as his throat was opened, spilling blood onto his own chest and then onto Shahar’s. It didn’t last long, however; there were tremors throughout the canine as veins were emptied and oxygen ceased to reach the brain, but then it slowed, and the wolf bobbed his head with a great sigh, as if suddenly tired, before resting his chin in Shahar’s arms and passing on.

Snow watched from outside the den, having been wise enough not to follow her partner inside, and for the first time, she knew the feeling of sadness. Although she couldn’t truly know the full experience of losing an entire family, having grown up surrounded by loved ones that were still present and ready to love her, she could feel the hollow pain of something that had happened here, something wrong and inexplicably unfair. She tucked her tail and let loose a low whine, and Shahar reached out with comfort. I know. It’s alright.

He set the dead wolf’s head gingerly on the ground, and then turned his attention to the pup. She smelled the blood, and she was looking up at him in confusion; the body of her father was still warm, and she didn’t quite understand that the blood was his.

What to do with the pup? Her fate had been sealed since the attack. With no mother for milk and no pack for meat, she would die if left to herself.

It was a fate Shahar was somewhat uneasy with. He stroked her back, and he could feel her father’s blood running through her; she had the same strong bones, the good thick teeth, the sandy fur that would hide her in the grass. She was a good pup, with so many of those advantages that had made her father so successful. The ravens had told him the history, and so he knew that the male had lived a good many years, and had had three full litters leave to start their own families.

But she was too late. Pups were supposed to be born in spring. It was winter, and she was still small enough to be carried in the mouth of an elder. She needed milk, and her mother was dead.

The land needed wolves. And the land no longer had wolves. It needed more, to replace what it had lost. The pup wouldn’t be one of them; she was too young, and had no mate with whom to create children of her own. He had to find another pack to replace this one, and soon; she would not be grown in time.

But her pack had been survivors. That was what had drawn the ire of the hunters; they had been too good at surviving. Her children would be survivors, like her. It wasn’t the natural order of things that had doomed her.

But it was the natural order of things that would end her. She no longer fit in this picture, not without her parents. She was already deprived of food and water, and wouldn’t last much longer without the warmth of her father. He would leave her here, and the cold would kill her by morning. She could keep the ravens fed until he fixed this.

Shahar set the pup down and stood. Her father was hoisted over his shoulder to carry back to Akaidras; there was no sense leaving it here, when those that would have eaten it were already dead and skinned.

He had work to do, and there was no time to waste.

[Colt]

They returned home, not bothering to go through the deeper parts of Endrykas.

The wolf-father father was presented to Naiya as a gift. There wasn’t much time for formalities, but he made sure everyone had what they needed before informing his family that he would likely be away for a few days. Naiya wasn’t particularly happy about that, but at least he was telling her beforehand––a fact that would hopefully prevent her from slapping him again when he returned.

Shahar, Snow and Akaidras departed, opting to leave Tuka behind. They weren’t hunting to kill, a concept that he knew would confuse her too much to risk bringing the hunting cat along to muddy up their task.

They needed a pair of wolves. He wanted them young, recently-mated, searching for a territory; it was a task Shahar wasn’t greatly concerned about in terms of difficulty so much as what would follow it up. Winter was mating season, and so it was exactly the correct time for those newly-independent individuals to track down a mate, and then a place to raise pups. The finding of them wasn’t the problem; it was getting them into the vacant territory without alerting the Drykas that would require planning.

Naturally, when it came to wolves, the first ones Shahar asked were the ravens. Young, unmated juvenile ravens were rambunctious and far-flying wanderers, and information traveled quickly between them; upon finding a flock, he was quite pleased to learn that not only a pair had been sighted recently, but they had been sighted nearby. At the rim of the Stardown, on the far side; they were well-liked amongst the ravens, as they had managed to bring down an elk in the past days and subsequently fed many of the individuals he communicated with.

They arrived at the designated area by midday. Snow knew they were looking for wolves, and she picked up the scent after a half-bell of searching. Shahar dismounted to pay closer attention to the ground, bidding Akaidras to stay in the trees where the larger predators preferred not to hunt; the approach of a horse would definitely be heard by a wolf, and they wouldn’t know immediately that the horse was carrying a Witch. It was better to approach on foot to prevent their quarry from fleeing prematurely.

The trail led north, then east, then paused, doubled back and crossed over itself before angling south. It took quite a few tries, but in tracking them, Shahar was surprised to learn that while there were indeed two sets of tracks, only one of them was recent. The female, slightly smaller than the male, was the one who was crossing back and overlapping, uncertainty in her steps, while her mate’s tracks had mysteriously ceased sometime within the last few days. Snow was noticing the same thing, and it was thoroughly confusing her; neither of them were injured, and although they were a bit light, that was something to be expected for their age and situation. Neither of them seemed particularly weak; the two trackers even managed to find the remains of the hunt the ravens had spoken of, which still had enough meat on it for the wolves to come back to for several more days. Had a Drykas hunter killed this wolf, too? Shahar hoped not. One eradication was tragic enough. But it didn’t feel like something was actively missing; it felt more like it was just… misplaced.

This was a mystery. Quite a puzzling mystery, and one that they needed to solve if they were to fix the damage that needed to be fixed. Moving to follow the youngest tracks, the two hunters ended up heading towards the forest ring that flanked the rim of the Stardown crater.

If they were looking for the male, then it only made sense to first investigate his mate.

[Colt]

They found her lingering just beyond the treeline, pacing slowly and eyeing the trees in something resembling bemusement. She was a bit small, but that could be attributed to her youth. Her fur was a mottled blend of grey and brown, and she was very lean and taut; her muscles weren’t large, but they were sinuous. Her body was build for speed and running.

She was an entirely normal young wolf, if not for the extreme oddity of her eyes. When she heard their approach and looked up, the unusual element was immediately apparent. Bright green rings around the pupils, contrasting starkly with the golden background of her eyes. No, not exactly rings; they were patterns, delicate and spidery but undoubtedly glowing, a bizarre abnormality on an otherwise normal wolf.

She quickly recognized Shahar as one of Caiyha’s own, and deep within those freakish, glowing eyes was a mix of confusion and puzzlement, but a distinct lack of grief or loss. She was alone, unaccompanied by her mate, but didn’t seem to be sad about it, exactly so much as she was just confused.

Shahar cut straight to the chase, because in Nura there was no need to do anything else. Your mate? he asked.

Yes. It wasn’t a particularly helpful answer, but she was clearly uncertain about how to give him what he needed.

Alive?

Yes. But… there was that uneasiness again. She gave him an impression of direction, the rough equivalent of saying that her mate was that way. Deeper into the shadow of the trees, closer to the rim of the Stardown.

Show me. Perhaps it would be easier for him to see for himself, if she was having such trouble defining the situation.

There were a few moments of reluctance, but she eventually agreed and turned to head into the trees. She set a brisk pace, but Snow and Shahar followed well enough to keep her in sight. Out of the grasses and under the canopy, in between the rough gray trunks heralded by the rattling of bare branches; they appeared to be cutting an almost direct line towards the edge of the crater, despite the wolf’s meandering pacing when they had come upon her.

She halted after a small while, apparently unwilling to go farther.

Problem?

Up there, she informed him, indicating that he should continue on.

Where?

Still she was reluctant, but she managed a few more yards before she became visibly uncomfortable with going any farther.

From beyond the brittle, another wolf barked. The female hesitated, whined, and then barked back.

“Petching bitch!” a rough, scratchy voice screamed. “I’ll spear you soon as I see you!”

An arrow whistled through the air, far too distant to be of any threat, but it startled the wolf into running; she bolted sideways first, not quite willing to leave her mate behind, but then another arrow flashed after her when she got too loud. Unwilling to take the risk, and convinced she could do little to help, she left the Witch and pelted back towards the open plains.

[Colt]

“Petching bitch!” the voice screamed again. “I’ll skin ya! He’s mine, y’hear me?”

Another arrow whistled through the air, and again it was so off the mark that neither Shahar nor Snow even bothered flinching. When the shouting stopped, the two of them stood perfectly still, ears perked for any indication of what their unseen, Pavi-shrieking assailant would do next. Their silence paid off fairly quickly, as their assailant cursed a bit more before quieting down into simmering anger, followed by the rustle of leather and wood as a weapon was put away. Murmuring, and then a healthy dose of rustling could be heard as the apparent male made his way through the underbrush, and not very competently; more curses and snaps could be heard as he ran into bushes, barreled his way through them and generally displayed all the grace of an injured bull.

The entire area was put ill at ease by his galavanting; birds squawked and avoided him, squirrels darted up trees and mice dashed into their holes. They seemed somewhat experienced with it, however; a few moments after he left and most were settling back down to go about their business, because winter waited for no one and they had things to do.

That resettling was a clear signal that the man was no longer near, and that he was also quite alone.

Caution, Shahar said to Snow, letting the tension fall from his body in favor of an easy, but nevertheless wary hunter’s crouch.

She needed no signal, pulling ahead with her nose to the ground and her ears in the air. She was equally confident that the man was no longer there, and that made it easy enough for her to scout ahead, on the alert for other dangers.

The treeline thinned as the edge of the Stardown rose out of the ground, turning from soft earth to rocks and crags. Crags that were not only outward-facing, but that had also broken and shattered on the outside; where the trees ended, Shahar could spot a dark crevasse in the rising earth, where dirt and rock had been worn away by weather and time to create a shallow cave that wasn’t deep enough to make a home, but was still deep enough to keep out the rain.

And inside that cave there was a wolf leashed to the wall.

The wolf looked up and was immediately cautious of Snow, barking and growling until Shahar stepped in to ask her to halt, hang back so that he could calm their quarry down. She did as asked, taking up a sentry position. The act of turning her attention outward gave the wolf some sense of ease, and he looked up at Shahar uncertainly as the Witch approached.

Comfort, Shahar said, coming to kneel beside the animal. Placing a confident hand on the wolf’s shoulder, he leaned down to examine exactly what the problem was. The wolf was collared with a leather strap, although the inside had been lined with sheepskin to be more comfortable. In fact, the collar itself seemed a well-made object designed for the express purpose of being as out of the way as possible; it wasn’t loose enough for its captive to escape, but it wasn’t tight enough be be at all uncomfortable, save for the rope that was attached and restraining the wolf.

Let’s get you out of there.

[Colt]

The knot in the rope proved to be a problem, as whoever had tied the wolf down seemed to have no idea how ropes were supposed to work. At the collar, it was a massive tangle of weaving and tangling, with no apparent rhyme or reason beyond just tying and tying and tying to make sure it didn’t come undone. Unwilling to try and sort it out, Shahar just took out his knife and cut the single, un-knotted line of rope to give the wolf some movement.

The wolf tried to leap off, which wasn’t surprising, but Shahar wrapped an arm around his chest and bid him to stay. The collar was still a problem, as was the fist-sized knot still dangling from it. Although impatient, the wolf did as he was told.

A close examination of the collar revealed that it was the sort meant to be permanent; the buckle was too complex for Shahar to feel like it was worth saving, so he cut through that too. The leather was more time consuming, but not impossible; although the wolf tensed when the cold metal touched his skin, a stern reprimand from the Witch made him stay still long enough for the work to be completed.

When the collar fell away, the wolf looked at it for a moment, as if unsure that it was really gone. A few moments passed, and then he shook himself, reveling in the feeling of an unburdened neck, then sat and scratched at the area with a hind paw.

Shahar ducked and moved his head until he could catch the animal’s eye, informing him that his mate was waiting for him. The wolf tilted his head curiously and regained all four feet, tail wagging in excitement; he hadn’t at all liked the separation, despite the apparent care the man had taken of him.

For the wolf was indeed well-cared for, for a captive; his mottled silver fur was thick and lush in response to the oncoming winter. He was also quite large for his age, with strong legs and a healthy sheen to his coat. He had almost no scars, save for a ragged patch above one forepaw, and enough muscle to show through his skin. His puphood had obviously included enough food and exercise to make him bigger than normal, which gave Shahar pause. In size, health and body, he appeared almost… domestic.

And then there were his eyes. Glowing, unnatural; they were like the she-wolf’s, but different. There was the normal background of an eye, golden like they were supposed to be, but around the pupil was something different. A starburst of bright pink was so stark in color that it was immediately eye-catching. It thrummed with something else, something that most wolves did not possess.

Something magical.

Snow let out a bark of alert. She could hear something. Both wolf and Witch were immediately on edge.

What? Shahar asked.

She didn’t need to answer. “Bitch!” the same masculine voice screamed. “Told y’t’stay off ‘im!”

An arrow whizzed through the air, and, like the rest of them, it was far too clumsy to post any threat to any of them.

“I’ll kill ya!”

[Colt]

He came crashing through the underbrush with a snarl, shortbow in hand and another arrow already moving to the string. Salt-and-pepper hair, clothes wrapped up in the telltale blue of the Sapphire, but ragged and worn with too many years without repair. And his eyes; they were the same as the wolf’s, save for the colors; it looked like his eyes were supposed to have been blue, once upon a time, but around the pupil was an orange pattern that glowed with anger. He was a weathered, wrinkled man, although he still possessed enough of his prime to draw his shortbow and loose another projectile––this time at Snow, who yelped in alarm and sprinted out of the way. Not that sprinting was really needed; although the man was quite able to shoot, his aim was absolutely miserable. In shooting at Snow, he ended up becoming more of a threat to Shahar; the arrow arced into the cave, glancing off the wall and clattering to the ground.

The wolf yelped and took a few uncertain steps away, but didn’t seem to know what to do. The sound was enough to draw the man’s attention to the cave instead, and then to Shahar, and then to the wolf he had set free.

“No!” The man began running, and before Shahar knew it the two of them had collided and were rolling.

“You ain’t got no right!” the man screamed, landing a somewhat unenthusiastic strike to Shahar’s gut.

Shahar grunted and lashed out with a kick, catching the man on the thigh to create enough of a distraction to punch his chest. The man wheezed and leaped off of the Witch, turning to the wolf, who––incredibly––had gone nowhere.

The wolf lingered at the mouth of the cave, locked in a standoff with Snow, who was trying her best to get into the cave without injuring the reason they had come here in the first place.

“Flint! Here!”

The wolf yipped in fear and edged closer to the tussling Drykas. Shahar kicked the man in the back of the knee, making him buckle, and darted around him.

Snow, back!

She gave ground obediently, and Shahar barked for the wolf’s attention.

Stop, he commanded. We––

His opponent barreled into him, yanking the both of them back to the ground. Shahar kicked and lashed out with his fists, but the man had grown wiser this time and didn’t stick around long enough to be struck. He shoved away, placing himself firmly in between Shahar and the wolf.

The Witch dragged in as much air as he could, rolling to his knees and then to his feet. If this was how it was going to be, then he would do it this way. He turned with a snarl, reaching for his knife––

––to find the man on his feet, bow drawn, with an arrow pointed straight at his chest.

[Colt]

“You got no business here, stranger,” the man growled, low and steady. “This here’s my boy, and he’s none of your concern. Don’t know what you’re playin’ at, but you’d best be moving on. You got no business with me, and you’ve got no business with my boy, but you’re Drykas, and that makes me want to give you a chance to take off with your lungs still breathing. One chance.”

Shahar sheathed his knife and slowly stood up. “Who are you?” he asked warily.

The chaos of the scene had alerted the rest of the woods, but now it was no longer the man alone. Now it involved a Witch, a Witch that was in danger. Squirrels were lingering on the trees. Birds were flitting to and fro to watch. Animals were gathering, sensing something amiss, ready to defend their caretaker if the need arose.

“If anyone’s asking questions here, it’ll be me,” the man growled. “Who are you, and why were you in my cave?”

“Who am I?” Anger flared up, bright and hot, painting his face in a frown that bared teeth. He pulled himself up to his full height––something he did not do often––and locked eyes with the bowman. “I am Shahar, ankal of the Dawnwhisper Pavilion and marked Witch of Caiyha.”

In one smooth motion, Shahar pulled off his tunic to display the mark that inhabited his arm, stretching his limbs out for his opponent to see the proof with his own eyes.

“I am here on Caiyha’s business, and you are interfering with the All-Mother’s task. This land is injured, and so she had sent a Witch to see it repaired. This land must be healed, or it and all those who live upon it will wither. Caiyha will not permit your destruction, and neither will the rest of her children.”

It was a bit unnecessarily theatrical for Shahar’s tastes, but it was sufficient enough to halt his enemy’s aggression. To accentuate his point, Shahar made a sweeping gesture to the space outside of the cave, and the man turned in time to see what was gathering. Squirrels, songbirds, three coyotes, a hawk and an owl, all brought together in peace by the distress of their guardian. All tense, all focused on the archer who was threatening Shahar. While their combined might would likely not amount to much in the way of actual damage, their presence and single-mindedness was apparent enough to make an impression.

The man turned back, appropriately unnerved. “You’re… a Witch.”

Shahar thought that fact was evident enough, and so he did not respond.

“You… why are you here?” There was no aggression in his voice anymore.

“That is between myself and Caiyha. But it does not have to involve you. There is no reason for our goals to conflict. Lower your bow, and let us speak like men.”

He did so. It took a conscious effort for Shahar to force his guard down and his tension away, falling into a calculated pose of ease. It signaled that the conflict was over, and the man picked up on it and fell into a similar stance. Shahar took a few steps forward, formal greeting on his shoulders.

“Let us begin again,” he said. “My name is Shahar, of the Dawnwhisper Pavilion.”

“Yvex,” the man replied. “Yvex Windriver, of the Sapphire Clan.”

Shahar halted just in front of Yvex and held out a hand. “Hello, Yvex.”

Yvex returned the arrow to his quiver and shook the offered hand. “Hello, Shahar.”

When the arrow was gone, Shahar sprang into motion. His free hand was pulled into a fist and thrown at Yvex’s stomach, where it connected with a solid thud. Moving quickly, the Witch took full advantage of the surprise and grabbed Yvex’s bow, yanked on their joined hands and swung Yvex deeper into the cave. Yvex didn’t fall, but he stumbled under the completely unexpected strike and it took a moment for the surprise to wear off––a moment that was long enough for Shahar to throw the shortbow out of the cave, over the wolf, over Snow and into the clearing beyond.

[Colt]

Snow! Shahar shouted. Back off!

The strength of his command spurred her to take another set of steps backwards, and Shahar barked again to regain the attention of the wolf.

Away! he commanded, stepping towards the animal in an attempt to herd him outward. Run!

Once more the wolf was uncertain, but Snow was no longer pressing him from the front; there was an opening now, and Yvex was no longer tangling with the Witch.

Go!

The wolf took a few steps away from the cave.

Now!

From somewhere beyond the trees, his mate howled. The wolf stopped, ears perking.

“No!” Yvex shouted, rushing to stop the canine.

Shahar intercepted, grabbing the Sapphire Drykas and holding him back. Yvex struggled, but he was not as strong as Shahar––age had long since begun to strip into his body, and while he did manage to get a few painful kicks in, it wasn’t enough to get free once Shahar dug his heels into the dirt.

“You can’t!” Yvex screamed. “You can’t take him away! He belongs with me! Please! I can’t lose him! He’s all I have left! The magic will be lost! They’re all dead! My children! My wives! My family! He’s all I have left! Let me go! Please!”

The wolf raised his head and howled back. A few moments passed, and his mate responded. He looked out, taking more steps away as his confidence grew. She was calling for him, and now there was nothing keeping him from going to her.

“Flint! Flint, come back! Don’t go! You belong here! You’re a Windriver! You’re the last Windriver! You can’t leave!” He twisted and writhed with renewed vigor, elbowing Shahar viciously in the chin. “You have to let me go! He has to stay! Don’t you see? He’s the last Windriver! Please! He’s my last heir! He’s the last heir I’ll ever have! I can’t teach it to anyone else! I can’t see! Please!”

His cries fell on deaf ears, as neither Shahar nor Flint paid heed to his words of desperation. The wolf’s hesitance melted away with every step, and soon he was loping, and then he was running, scattering the coyotes that had come to Shahar’s aid. The danger was gone, and so the collection of animals began to trickle away, as there was still work to be done before the sun went down.

Yvex continued to scream and thrash, but it decreased considerably once the wolf was out of sight. The man watched the space in the brush where the animal had disappeared, and his shouts became murmurs, pained and desperate murmurs for Flint to come back, because he was the last, because there would be no more, because that was the end of it.

Eventually the murmurs trailed off, too, and the thrashing stopped. Yvex didn’t fight, nor even try to get up; he went slack in Shahar’s arms, causing the Witch to set him into a confusing kneel. Yvex didn’t seem to care; all he did was continue to stare into the forest after Flint, mouth shaping words that no longer made any sound.