#vanagandr

Today it is a little sapling planted by a girl named Larose Sallie. She is a singer, pink-cheeked as her name would suggest, golden-haired and green-eyed besides. The two of you are in the same class and you think she despises you a little, despises the ash that sometimes stains your fingertips, finds it ugly and undeserving. She must have been humiliated when her dogwood tree wilted and refused to bloom. She must have been humiliated when she was told by her parents that they would have it killed quickly, quietly, as if it were never there in the first place. 

You picture her in your music class, her high soprano running up and down the notes of the Song of Beauty, the world’s most beloved canticle. Maybe she’s there even now. Maybe she’s looking at your empty seat despondently and wishing you were like the rest of them, a singer who lay amongst flowers and shouted hymns at the breeze. She’s charitable even in her dislike. Everyone is. You are the only one like this match, who cannot stand the sweet peace of Mendasia’s paradise, who searches for completion and waits for the final end most earnestly.

“Oh, my.” A hand plucks the match out of yours before you can press it to the dogwood’s miserable, yellowing leaves. “An arsonist on Mendasia? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m not an arsonist,” you snap, whirling around and swiping for the match, which the man keeps decidedly out of your reach. He’s tall, with a beautiful, ageless face — you can’t decide if he is several Amber Eras your elder, or if you both might be in the same class at school. His irises are a dull artemisia, banded with knockout rose, framed with dark lashes that flutter whenever he blinks; he’s not dressed in the pale robes of Mendasia but dark-heeled boots and a long coat, the hair spilling around his shoulders messy, unkempt. He is as unfamiliar as the match he holds, which looks to be at home in his gloved grasp, and when he notices your scowl, he frowns a little, polite, puzzled.

“You’re setting fire to random trees,” he points out, twirling the match for emphasis. “Seems pretty arsonist to me, kid.”

“It’s not a random tree,” you say. “Look at it, it’s not like it has anything left to go on for. Meeting its end is its final chance at purpose and bliss. Give that back.”

He arches a sharp brow at you but does not oblige, not even when you hold your hand out expectantly.

“What are you going to pay me? I’ll accept dinner, I’m a little hungry and I’ve heard a lot about Mendasia’s cheeses—”

“What?” you say, swiping the match from him when he is distracted by his musings, holding the sparkling thing close to your heart. “I’m not paying you!”

He sighs dramatically. “Yeah, alright. So you’re going to kill this little thing, huh?”

“Just so,” you say with an injured sniff, because you are entirely irritated with this lovely man and his strange accusations and his match-stealing ways. 

“Because you think there’s nothing left but the end for it, and you want to witness that very ending. I see, I see,” he says.

“I’m sure it’s odd, but that’s how it is,” you say.

“Not that odd. I’ve met a thousand people like you in my time, obsessed with apocalypse and the Finality. It’s fine. Do as you’d like,” he says, patting you on the shoulder.

“I will,” you say, but now you are not so sure if you want to. You can’t help but wonder what he will think when he sees the orange tongues of your fire as they lap at the sickly brown bark. It doesn’t matter, but for a moment, you waver, and you do wonder if it will disappoint him.

“Good,” he says.

“Good!” you say. The match is heavy in your hand. The ache in you is different now, less acute, sweet on your tongue, hot in your stomach. You don’t know what you want but it’s something. It’s something and it’s close, you are sure of it, but for some reason, you cannot quite put your finger on what it might be, what you might call it.

“Well, I have business to attend to. Someone told me this is the home of Mendasia’s Chief Singer?” he says. You nod mutely, because it’s true, Mrs. Sallie does live here, but she’s Larose Sallie’s mother, and the thought of Larose meeting this man makes you feel ugly and ill. 

For his part, if he notices, he does not say anything beyond calling out a farewell, waving at you over his shoulder, his other arm swinging by his side as he walks away jauntily, humming a song you’ve never heard in all of your years on this planet of music. 

“Wait!” you say, darting forward, your fingers clasping around his loose wrist, your palms so clammy you cannot believe the matchstick in your free hand has not been put out by sweat. “Sir—”

The two of you flinch at the same time; he pulls away from you, but not quickly enough to spare you from the consuming hunger bursting beneath his skin. For a moment you think you are about to die, that you have reached your own — what did he call it? Finality? — but you cannot bring yourself to draw back. You chase it, you embrace it, even as he steps back and the darkness fades from the corners of your vision you reach out for him once more, faintly, fruitlessly. You want to touch him again. You want to see the end of the world that pulses in his veins. You want it, you want it, you want it. 

“What is it?” he says, not unkindly but without his earlier flippance. You swallow, and then you nod towards the spindly tree.

“Do you think it could ever become anything?” you say. He squints, angles his head as he regards the dogwood, and then he shrugs.

“Who knows? But one thing’s for sure,” he says. You lean forward subconsciously, hoping for some great and profound wisdom. “If you burn it down now, it definitely won’t. Boom! The end is the end, kid. You can’t take that kind of thing back.”

Then he really does walk away, gone before you can insist that you’re not a kid, gone before you can ask him his name or what business he has on Mendasia or how he even found the planet, protected by Idrila’s wall as it is. You clench your fist before dropping the match into the dirt, grinding the sole of your shoe into it until it’s muddy and cold. After that, you glance around furtively before pressing your nails into the ground, digging until your knuckles crack and peel and you reach root.

Ripping the sapling out of the ground, you heft it to your heart and take it with you into the woods, where it will be safe from the sun and Larose and her parents alike. You plant it there with your own bleeding fingers and try to imagine it in ten years, in twenty, when it is old and sturdy and flowering. It will be beautiful, you decide. When you come to see it again, it will surely be beautiful, worthy of Mendasia's favor. And maybe that man will come back, too, and you will take him to see it with you and you will tell him you were right, good sir. Most assuredly, you were right. 

“In my life, I have witnessed many ‘Finalities,’ though only three concern you,” you say to the crowd of gathered onlookers. Most of them are Foxian, their pricked ears swiveling around nervously, their tails lashing back and forth at the mention of Finality. Once, you might’ve pitied them, but now you only think to yourself — well, I’m not the one who called you here. You saw my black cloak and asked me yourself, so do not blame me when the answer is not the one you seek.

“The third: the tsunami of Neese, caused by the very people who drowned in it. How tragic, to think your Finality was preventable, avoidable, and yet instead of fleeing you only hastened it. Terminus was there; THEIR impartial gaze looked upon Neese’s end and chronicled it quietly, taking the civilization’s known death as an offering and continuing in THEIR march against time.

“The second: the devouring of your very own Xianzhou Cangcheng.” The Foxians gasp at this, because it is nigh-blasphemous to speak of the great ship’s death. But you are not a guest of the Xianzhou as much as you are a visitor, so you continue undeterred. “The living planet Rahu…there was nothing they could’ve done to prevent it. It wasn’t like Neese. They fought as hard as they could against their Finality, but it was futile, of course. Finality is inevitable.

“And the first, the greatest, the most beautiful ending of all: the fall of the planet of songs, the fall of my home — Mendasia. It was my first encounter with the Finality, with THEIR method, and with the Creed Exequy who embraced me as one of their own. Swallowed by a sun-eater, Mendasia sits in that beast’s stomach even now, for its Finality is a slow one, its ending quiet and long. The death of the planet was the closest I have ever been to—”

“Excuse me,” an authoritative voice interrupts you. It’s a man in a Cloud Knight uniform, stern and sturdy, standing in front of the Foxians as though he can protect them, as though you are anyone who they need protecting from. “Miss, members of the Creed Exequy are not welcome on the Xianzhou, especially not members such as yourself.”

“Members such as myself?” you say, raising a brow. You have known since the Finality of the Cangcheng that the Xianzhou holds no love for the Exequy, but you did not know that there was a special sort of protocol for you.

“Even a child could smell the sickly-sweet stench of Finality that trails after you,” he says, pointing his spear at you. “You are not a witness but a harbinger. Wherever you go, apocalypse follows.”

“I see,” you say. The Foxians are long gone; you wonder if they were meant to trap you, to chase you from this silver ship of fools. “You needn’t fear, sir knight. Terminus’s gaze has not yet fallen upon the Luofu.”

“Leave at once,” he says as if you had not spoken. “We have no desire to witness your disasters, Portent of the End.”

The title is enough to frighten anyone. Portent of the End. To have witnessed enough Finalities that Terminus’s gaze layers upon you until you are steeped in it…the mere thought of an existence like that, a shadow caught on the edge between life and death, scares people more than it ought to. Especially when it is so rare, so frightful to encounter one who is more than a mere worshipper — you cannot blame the Cloud Knight, then, for how he shudders.

“Terminus has turned THEIR attention to a new ending,” you say, drawing your dark cloak around your shoulders and bowing as you know is their custom. “It will not do for me to dwell in this flourishing land, where endings are postponed by cyclical Permanence. I take your farewell in the good spirit I am sure it was intended, and I will not mourn it, for we will all be reunited at the end of things, when the universe is rewritten anew.”

You can sometimes catch traces of the Finality, whispers that foretell those moments when a vast and great existence reaches its end. It is not prophecy as much as it is an awareness of the shifts of the Aeon, who moves for very few incidents. The deaths of planets, of stars, of solar systems and galaxies — so why, then, has a single man caught THEIR interest? Yet as board your ship, the white-gold Plumhawk, you are quite sure that when this man dies, Terminus will watch over him personally, will guide him through apocalypse and into the embrace of THEIR eternity.

La Mancha’s death…approaches. La Mancha’s ending…is near. La Mancha…who hides on the planet of laughter…will soon meet…Finality.

Planarcadia’s landing dock is large, an industrial IPC-sponsored construction made of steel and concrete. It’s manned by mechatrons that beam signals to the Plumhawk’s navigation system, guiding you to land beside a ship that looks like it’s meant for racing, sleek like a bullet but with a long gouge down its side. You hope that’s not evidence of the mechatrons’ handling; the Plumhawk is your pride, and you don’t want its pristine exterior to be so unnecessarily marred.

“Be gentle,” you instruct the mechatron who greets you when you step onto the runway. The mechatron nods and rattles off some pre-recorded speech about how the IPC aims to please all of their associates, although it does lag for a little at the flutter of your cloak, as if you possess some preternatural force which can even frighten a heartless, soulless thing.

Compared to the serenity of the Xianzhou, Planarcadia is a little frightening in its overt muchness. It’s exactly the kind of place a maimed old wolf would go to die, filled with dark crannies shoved between the hustle and bustle where he can curl up and depart peacefully, without witness or woe. But, then, how will you find him? You duck into a kitten-themed cafe and massage your temples, reaching out for the Finality, praying it will guide you to him.

“What d’ya mean, you have to put Arcadia Nuts in the milkshake? The girl said she’s allergic, you maggot-farming shroom-for-brains!”

Your meditation is interrupted by a string of childish almost-cursing, which sounds just as vile as actual swears would when rolled over the man’s lovely twang. His accent is slow and foreign and deep, not Planarcadian in the slightest, and you eye him with a modicum of interest, although you are sure he is not La Mancha. 

“Um, it’s alright, sir,” the young girl at his side says, tugging on the hem of his dark jacket. “I can just have something else, it doesn’t matter…”

“Like Halovians it is!” he snaps. “I’ll get you a gosh-darned milkshake, even if I have to make it myself!”

“Wow,” you say, because the frightened employee has just meekly announced that your Ahaberry smoothie is ready and you have no intentions of letting this man frighten you away from it. “Are you some new kind of mechatron? I didn’t know they were into public justice of the milkshake variety nowadays.”

The cafe is silent, so your first sip of your smoothie is a little obnoxious, but you stare at the silver-bodied man without flinching, continuing to sip as the girl shrinks closer to him and the employee scoots backwards towards the blender.

“I would be entirely surprised if a milkshake with an Arcadia Nut milk base could be made without Arcadia Nuts,” you say, taking one more sip and then handing your smoothie to the girl. “Are you allergic to Ahaberries, too?”

“No, miss,” she says.

“Well, there you go. Come on, cowboy, you owe me a milkshake now,” you say, motioning him towards you, not out of any sympathy for the cafe owners but because, although he is not La Mancha, you recognize the bullet earring dangling from his ear.

“I’m not a gosh-darned mechatron, by the way, and don’t you ever fudgin’ forget it,” he says, but he does come along with you rather gamely, even holding the door open for you like a proper gentleman.

“But you are a Galaxy Ranger,” you say. “And I’d wager you’re here for the same reason I am — La Mancha has made this planet his hiding-hole, and we both, for our own reasons, want to find him.”

“How d’you know that?” he says, his face paling. “The amount of people I had to threaten — I mean, talk to — before I even heard a rumor that he might be here, and you’re telling me you, a random girl, just know?” 

“So it’s true,” you say. “Of course, THEY never lie, but I was a little confused…yet it’s the case. La Mancha is here. What is your business with him?”

“Now why in Lan’s green arm would I tell you?” he says. “What’s your business with him?”

“He’s going to die soon,” you say promptly, carelessly, because this Ranger’s knowledge of it won’t change that outcome any. “I intend to be there for it.”

The cold barrel of a pistol is pressed against your chin before you can blink. He’s definitely a Ranger, no doubt about it; no one else would be so quick, so loyal. His words come out as a growl, his brow furrowed as he jams the metal into your tender flesh. You both are in the middle of a crowded road, but no one even stops, the world milling about around you as you curl your hand over his, holding the gun in place but rendering him unable to shoot, as well.  

“You leave the boss alone, you hear me?” he hissed. Precarious. The situation you’re in is precarious. A slip of your finger, a flare of his temper, and you’ll die. You close your eyes, but try as you might, you cannot sense Terminus. Your existence consists only of the Ranger’s hand and his pistol, both cold, both digging against you, which means that either you are of such little consequence to the universe that Terminus cannot bother to look your way or the Ranger does not mean to kill you just yet. “You even think of killing him and l’ll kill you, you moth-eaten shirtsleeve.”

“I don’t have any quarrel with him,” you say. “I’m not going to kill him.”

“But you know he’s going to die?”

“Yes.”

The Ranger’s hand flexes beneath yours, but he doesn’t move it. He only narrows his eyes and leans impossibly closer to you, close enough that you can smell him, earthy and warm like leather and sandalwood, nothing like the clinical sterility you had expected.

“How?” he says.

“The Finality,” you say. “THEY told me.”

His index finger twitches over the trigger, but across the street, someone shouts in delight, and suddenly you are swarmed by the masses, people raising their phones and recording the two of you.

“Is this a movie scene? Is this one of Director Reca’s new films?” a boy says, shoving a camera in your face, the flash blinding you as he takes close to fifty pictures in quick succession. 

“What now?” you murmur to the Ranger. “I told you the truth. Terminus has shifted; La Mancha’s time has come, and it will draw the gaze of even an Aeon when he falls. Whether you believe me or not, that is the case. If you kill me now, you might also have to kill all of these people, if you even can. Or, we can work together.”

“No, it can’t be Director Reca, he normally makes his main leads attractive!”

“Work together?” he says.

“Hm,” you say. “How shall I put it? You want to find La Mancha, and I also want to find him. On our own, we may not be able to do so. Planarcadia is enormous, after all. But if we work together, we might be able to manage. What becomes of him once we find him can be decided at that time; until then, we can be allies. Do you see?” 

“I do,” he says tersely.

“Do you accept?”

“I do.”

“Then put down your gun, Mr.—?”

“Boothill,” he says, clipping the pistol back to his belt and watching with pursed lips as you rub the sore spot.

“Thank you, Mr. Boothill,” you say as everyone around you claps, clearly assuming him putting down his gun is the climax of your scene. “Now let’s get out of the public eye before we meet people who we have no interest in meeting, and then we can talk more about what this partnership might entail.”

“Good idea,” he says, scanning the streets before grinning, revealing teeth filed into sharp, perfect points. “Y’know how to ride a bike, missy?” 

“What?” you say. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever — put me down this instant!”

He hauls you over his shoulder without any sort of grace, much to the crowd’s delight. You’ve never met anyone so daring, not since you were young and still on Mendasia, an ordinary girl instead of a Creed Exequy, and it’s doubly bewildering because you are not sure how you are meant to react. He is so unaware or so unafraid or both, chuckling to himself as he swings his leg over the seat of a polished motorcycle, setting you behind him and revving the engine.

“What is your problem?” you say, flustered and confused in a way you have never been. 

“Wait, that’s my bike!”

“Muddlefudger,” Boothill says as a man sprints towards you. “Hold on tight, missy, you’re about to get a private lesson!”

The motorcycle takes off, and all you can do is throw your arms around Boothill’s waist before you fly into the streets of Planarcadia. His slippery torso offers little comfort, and although you know, logically, that the Plumhawk goes many times faster in space, that knowledge does nothing to soothe you when you and Boothill are whipping through alleyways hardly even wide enough to accommodate the two of you if you were to attempt to go at them side by side, your surroundings a blur as you speed by.

You’re in a barely-lit part of the city when the engine finally sputters and then gives out fully, the bike keeling over as Boothill hops off and yanks you after him. You rearrange your cloak about you, drawing yourself to your full height, though you do not think he finds it very intimidating based on the way he raises a brow and has the gall to chuckle.

“I have never in my life encountered someone so irreverent,” you say regardless. “Are all of you Galaxy Rangers so reckless and foolhardy? It’s a wonder your La Mancha has lived as long as he has if so!”

“Hey, hey, relax, missy. I got us out of there, didn’t I?” he says. “Aren’t you meant to be a follower of the Finality or something? Thought you were all a bit cuckoo.”

“The Finality, not the Elation. We aren't mindless adrenaline junkies; endings are only of worth when they have meaning,” you say before sighing. Explanations on the theology of the Creed Exequy will be lost on the Ranger, who already looks bored out of his mind. “Whatever. Where are we?”

He mutters something under his breath about how you’re a lot less impressive and a lot more bratty than you first seemed, and then he shrugs. It leaves you in a tough spot because you can’t exactly protest without proving him right, so you settle for glaring at him, though you think that has the same effect as whining would’ve.

“Fork if I know,” he says. “This is my first day here, too, y’know.”

“Your first day and you’re already yelling at service workers and stealing motorcycles,” you muse. “What a first impression you’ve made on this planet, Mr. Boothill.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve made worse in my time,” he says.

“Oh, I believe it.”

“Hilarious.”

“Where shall we go from here?” you say. “You don’t need to be from around Ahatopia to tell that we’re somewhere a little more unscrupulous than Duomension City.”

“Scared?” he says.

“When I have a Galaxy Ranger with me? Hardly,” you deadpan. “Honestly. I’ve witnessed the universe’s greatest disasters unscathed. Do you think a few local gangs are enough to frighten me? I just don’t see the sense in lingering. Unless this is the kind of place La Mancha would frequent?”

“Nah, the boss has honor,” Boothill says. “He wouldn’t be hanging around somewhere like this.”

“Overall we’re at a distinct disadvantage,”  you say. “He’s hiding from us, and ostensibly he knows the planet far better than we do.”

“I feel like you’re about to suggest something I have no interest in,” Boothill says, leaning against the alley wall and taking out a piece of scrap metal, chewing on it as he tilts his head up towards the sky.

“We need to enlist the help of a native Planarcadian,” you say.

“There it is,” he says, rolling his eyes and spitting the metal out, replacing it with a bubblegum-pink lollipop. “No fudgin’ way, missy. I work alone.”

“You’re working with me right now,” you point out.

“Not by choice, and it’s more like I’m keeping an eye on you if anything. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you,” he says.

“Come on, Mr. Boothill, be reasonable. A lone Galaxy Ranger is a sad thing, and the Creed Exequy’s modus operandi has always been bearing witness, not taking direct action. Anyways, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, but there’s a rot taking hold of Planarcadia, a rot which is only further concealing La Mancha’s location from me. Ordinarily I might be able to find him with the power of the Finality alone, but…I don’t know. The path is in a disarray, as if something is blocking my attempts at reaching for it,” you say, frowning with your hand over your heart.

“Maybe it’s Aha. Seems like the kind of thing THEY’d do,” Boothill says, the white stick of his lollipop held between his teeth. “But listen up, missy, ’cause I’ll only say it once: I don’t care about muddlefudgin’ paths and Aeons and all of that beeswax. I just wanna find my boss and get outta here.”

“And the fastest way to do that will be to enlist the help of someone who knows the area and might have a clue where La Mancha could be,” you say.

The two of you are at a standstill for a moment, but you can see in his eyes the exact moment Boothill relents. The corners of his mouth tug downwards, but he nods shortly, sharply.

“Alright, but no IPC,” he says. “It was hard enough for me to sneak on here without them realizing. We’re not going to play right into their hands.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “I have no particular love for the IPC myself. They are useful in their place but generally worthless elsewise.”

“No goons from the Department of Aberration Defense or whatever the horse-hockey they’re called here,” he continues.

“I’m sure they have better things to do,” you agree.

“Actually, you know what? You’re going to make me work with someone? Fine, but I get to pick who it’ll be,” he says.

“Very well, but if I don’t like them, I reserve the right to refuse,” you say.

“How about you reserve the right to go work by yourself, then?” he says.

“Mr. Boothill—”

“Oh, come on, before I change my mind,” he says, kicking the fallen bike aside and stomping off. With a final glance at the sky, you reach out for the power of the Finality once more, a last, pathetic attempt to beg Terminus to guide you. But all you get is those same whispers, which surge with the strength of omen and do little but assure you that you are still somewhat on the right track.

La Mancha’s death…approaches. La Mancha’s ending…is near. La Mancha…who hides on the planet of laughter…will soon meet…Finality.

“Every gang member I’ve interrogated — ahem, politely questioned — has said that this guy’s the best of the best when it comes to dumb-fudge cases like this one,” Boothill says. You both are standing together in front of a publishing company, and you weigh the merits of asking him if there’s something faulty in his coding before deciding his earlier threat about referring to him as a mechatron is probably meant to be heeded. 

“We’re going to ask Imagenae reporters to find La Mancha?” you say.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Apparently the detective’s broke as a busload of baloney, so his agency is inside.”

“Inside,” you repeat dubiously. “Er. Like, inside the publishing company? Are you sure you have the right address?”

“This is where they all said he works,” he says.

“How naive of you to believe them. Have you considered that they might’ve lied?” you say.

“Would you lie to a guy with a gun down your throat?” he says, tapping the pistol resting against his hip for emphasis. 

“I guess you have a point,” you admit. “Lead the way, then.”

You don’t really let him lead the way, though, the two of you walking next to each other, skirting around the little Imagenae who pay you no mind, hunched over their desks and bustling about as they are, speaking in squeaking tones to one another, despairing over debt and unpaid rent and other typical corporate concerns.

True to Boothill’s word, in the very back of the publishing company’s white-painted building is a door, wooden with a bubbly glass window, adorned with a sign that reads Ashen Detective Agency in dark, messy marker. He flashes you a victorious grin and knocks on the door; when no one answers, he huffs and kicks it open.

The Ashen Detective Agency’s headquarters is a single dim storage closet and not much else. There’s crumpled papers and old takeout boxes littering the ground, and in the corner a refrigerator hums merrily, tunelessly. You click your tongue, exchanging glances with Boothill.

“Entirely unprofessional,” you say.

“We’re working on the recommendations of gang members here, missy, dunno why you were expecting a red carpet to be laid out in welcome,” he mutters, but he’s obviously embarrassed. 

“How is he supposed to find a missing person when he can’t even find a trash can?” you say. Before Boothill can retort, someone clears their throat, and from beside the refrigerator, a diminutive shadow shuffles into view. 

“Well, butter my biscuit and call me a banana—”

“I’d rather not.”

“—the Ashen Detective is a monkey!” Boothill exclaims.

“It does appear to be the case, but I’m not so sure,” you say. The monkey clears his throat again and knocks on the refrigerator.

“If the great detective continues to ignore me in an attempt to gain a few more minutes of shut-eye, he will miss out on a pair of incredibly wealthy clients who might pay ten million credits or more!” he declares. 

Almost immediately, the refrigerator door bangs open, a dark-gloved hand clenching the edge as the chill manifests in the form of an icy fog. The monkey chuckles to himself, bowing at you and then stepping aside as a boot-clad leg swings over the side of the fridge, toeing for purchase before meeting ground and straightening, its owner letting out a deep sigh as he stands and gives you both an exasperated look.

“Mr. Ashveil is entirely disappointed to discover that, despite their cosmos-renowned statuses, the duo before him appear to be entirely broke!” the monkey says. “In fact, he wonders if they even have ten credits between the two of them, let alone ten million!”

“What in tarnation?” Boothill says. “I don’t know about her, but I definitely have more than ten credits to my gosh-darn name!”

“You,” you say, your breath hitching in your throat. “I know you.”

“Huh?” Ashveil says, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“I’m sure of it, though I don’t know how,” you say, furrowing your brow. “But we’ve definitely met.”

He’s well-built and handsome in a way that is unforgettable, his every feature so perfectly striking, callous angles and mercury highlights and pen-stroke brows. So why can’t you remember him? Where do you know him from? The answer lurks somewhere deep within you, but it’s like there’s netting thrown over it, veiling it from view, a warning as much as an obstruction.

“I guess it’s probably unimportant if you don’t remember,” he says. “So. Ten million credits for a missing persons case? Easy.”

“How’d you know it’s a missing persons case?” Boothill says.

“My excellent powers of deduction,” Ashveil says with a nod.

“What he does not add is that you also mentioned it when you first entered the room,” the monkey says.

“Mr. N, if you really must continue with these little asides of yours, can you at least paint me in a good light in front of my clients?” Ashveil hisses. “Anyways, let me guess. Looking for an estranged parent?”

“Not exactly,” Boothill says.

“Childhood friend?” he tries.

“You couldn’t be further from the truth,” you say.

“I got it!” he says after a moment of contemplation, clapping his hands together. “Your child!”

“No!”

“It’s my boss,” Boothill says, inching away from you with a sidelong glance, a favor you happily reciprocate.

“Why would you want to find your boss?” Ashveil scoffs. 

“It is important to note that, as of yet, Mr. Ashveil has not recognized either of his clients,” Mr. N says. “Perhaps a clue to jog his memory…the boy is wanted by the IPC, with a bounty of more credits than you can dream of looming over his head.”

“I didn’t know you had a bounty that grand on you,” you say.

“Eh,” Boothill says. “Shot a few bigwigs. You get the picture.”

“Most assuredly,” you say.

“Enough of this,” Boothill says when Ashveil cocks his head and squints at him. Pulling his gun out, he points it at Ashveil; in the back of your mind, you feel like a discussion about this shoot-first, think-later mentality is probably in order, but you file it away for later consideration. “The name’s Boothill, and I’m a Galaxy Ranger. No one’s heard from our leader in years, so I aim to be the first in the organization to chat with him in a good while!”

Ashveil doesn’t even flinch, his gaze dragging over to you, syrupy and nigh-decadent as it washes over you. “What about you, then?”

“I am also here in search of La Mancha,” you say. “Because he is going to die.”

His eyes widen slightly, and then he smiles knowingly.

“Am I to assume you mean to save him?” he says.

“No,” you say, and just for an instant, Boothill and Mr. N and the rest of the world fade away. It’s only you and Ashveil, the question and the answer, something blooming in your chest, an ache you think is called desire, an ache which has been withered and dead since your days on Mendasia, when there was still feeling and sensation to be found in your life. “I only wish to watch.”

“I see,” Ashveil says, and he doesn’t seem quite so daft anymore, his teeth glinting in the flickering lamplight, his irises almost malevolent in their understanding. “So my suspicions were correct. Creed Exequy…yes, even I have heard the stories of those who don the black regalia of Terminus.”

“Will you help us or not?” you say, a little impatiently. “Whatever your price is, I can pay it. I’m told you’re the best Planarcadia has to offer, and with things as they are, you might be our only chance. My only chance.”

“I don’t want money,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do want money, but first, I need you to answer one question for me. If it’s true that La Mancha’s ending approaches, can you guarantee that he will meet his Finality in peace?”

“I cannot,” you say. “That’s not within the scope of my power, detective. Even I am not that strong.”

“Aren’t you?” Ashveil says, and it’s so hypnotic you almost want to say, well…

“What?” Boothill says, yanking you back to reality. “Aren’t you a normal Creed Exequy weirdo? All doom and gloom and Finality and whatnot? You’re freaking me out a bit here, missy. Why does this old fogey think you can guarantee anything?”

“It’s true that the girl follows the Finality,” Mr. N says. “And it’s also true that she is a member of the Creed Exequy. Here, I implore of you to remember that the Xianzhou call this girl the Portent of the End, which is, in effect, their method of referring to—”

The door to the storage closet slams open yet again, and a girl storms in. She’s all pretty and righteous, her golden hair tied back and her green eyes swirling with fury. She shoves past Boothill, who is too surprised to do anything but stumble backwards, and then, for some reason, she slaps a wad of credits in Ashveil’s hand.

“Hey, detective. There’s a new visitor to Planarcadia, and I need you to dig her out. I have a few choice words for her that I’ve been waiting to say for quite a damn while,” she says, her every word a lilting melody, almost like she is singing instead of speaking. It’s a cadence you haven’t heard in so long that a lump swells in your throat unbidden, the aroma of matches and flowering fruit trees invading your nose with nostalgia.

“Woah, there!” Boothill says. “The two of us were here first, if you mind!”

The girl gives him a disdainful look before she glances at you and then does a double take, her jaw dropping before she’s slamming you against the wall, digging her forearm into your neck to pin you in place. Ashveil shouts in surprise, and Mr. N starts explaining who she is, but you tune him out, because you know this girl, and not in that hazy way you know the detective. You know her, you know the betrayal brimming in her eyes, know the tears she threatens to shed, know why her face flushes pinker and pinker with every passing second. 

“Larose,” you say. Her grip is weak, her arms slender and trembling, but you don’t fight to break free. The girl who saved you from Mendasia’s fall, the girl who you then abandoned in turn and never spoke to again…you still remember how she sobbed when the sun-eater swallowed your planet, clinging to you as you watched that apocalypse in faint, muted horror. This anger is the least you owe her. “How did you find me?”

“I’ve been looking for you all of this time,” she says. “There’s so many things I want to say to you. So many things I need to ask.”

“But there’s one that’s more important than the rest,” you guess. “One that you traveled from your home in Penacony to ask me.”

“I just want to know why,” she says. “Mendasia followed the Beauty, so why did you abandon that once it fell? Why did you give everything up to become — to become —”

“An Emanator of Finality,” Mr. N completes for Larose when she breaks off and dissolves into tears. Boothill says something under his breath that sounds like what the fruitcake. “A girl obsessed with endings, who has seen so many that some have begun to wonder if she can even write them herself.”

.

.

.

The Summitville Ranger Station’s front door has four deep gouges slashed across its surface.

The sight of them stops you in your tracks. They’re huge. You lay your hand over the damage and each jagged line is thicker than your fingers. They start just beneath the glass pane in the top half of the door and slither down diagonally in the echo of a single vicious movement. You find yourself glancing around, checking over your shoulder and peering into the woods to appease the panicked insistence of your hindbrain that you’re being watched. 

You probably are. This is wild wolf territory, after all. You know because the locals aren’t shy about telling people, the gas station attendant you saw half an hour ago absently mentioning there’s not just one but two packs in the area. So maybe that’s what this is, you reason. Some kind of territory marking thing, a message from one pack to another. That makes sense and helps ease the petrified terror that’s tying your stomach in knots. You’ll be fine, probably won’t even see them. You’re sure they’re busy doing…whatever it is that wild wolves do.

You suddenly remember a conversation you had on the way into town. Sitting in the passenger seat of your friend’s car with no cell service and a road atlas stretched across your lap, her dog Molly nudging her damp nose against one of your hands from the backseat, you’d stared at the little marker for Summitville on the map. “Why does that name ring a bell?” you wondered aloud. Your friend shrugged. Because she’d mentioned it before, she figured. She liked the trails out there, how remote and private it felt when you went deep enough. Maybe that was part of it.

But you remember now. You’d seen it in the news. Summitville has an unusually high number of disappearances for a city its size. All of the towns around here do. 

The lights are on but nobody’s home in the ranger’s station. It’s spacious and mostly empty, a few chairs and end tables clustered in the back behind an unoccupied welcome desk. A stack of wildlife books and tourist pamphlets gather dust in an antique cabinet. Old photographs hang on the walls, cloudy sepia snapshots of rivers and rock formations. You call out tentatively, the floorboards creaking beneath your hesitant footsteps. No one answers. You’re considering your options when you hear something outside. Quiet and distant, muffled through the wooden walls, it’s still unmistakable—a howl.

And then another. And then another, this one far closer than the others. You hear footsteps, but they’re all wrong. A heavy, four-legged trot creeps around the side of the ranger station before changing abruptly into a two-legged gait. You see dark fur in one window—flesh in the next. The door creaks open and your blood runs cold. Standing there, blocking your only exit with narrowed eyes and a sharp-toothed snarl, is a werewolf. 

It looks like he got stuck while shifting. His limbs are unnaturally long, thick with muscle and covered in black fur, each digit tipped with large claws. But the rest of him, head to hips, is all skin. Scars of all shapes and sizes cover his body, most of the hardened, puckered flesh littering his shoulders and chest. His hair is the same pitch black color as his fur, spilling long and wild down his back. His ears are a strange mix of traits, positioned where a human’s would be but with pointed ends covered in dark fuzz. In the same moment that you notice his shaggy tail, you realize he’s completely naked. Your eyes dart back up to his face. He’s glaring. He doesn’t say a word. You start to panic when he takes a step closer, stammering apologies.

“I’m just—I’m looking for a park ranger,” you manage to tell him. This doesn’t seem to help. He tilts his head slightly and you have no idea what the gesture is supposed to mean, what he wants from you. His eyes are gold and the way he looks at you is feral, assessing something you can’t even guess at. “I need help,” you say. Your breath hitches when he comes further into the ranger station but he leaves you alone, passing you for the desk. You watch in confusion as he starts rummaging through the drawers, clearly looking for something. Eventually, he produces a legal pad and a well-chewed pencil, and then he’s staring at you again. He looks absolutely bizarre, leaning an elbow against the desk casually with a tiny pencil clutched in his furred claws. His tail flicks in what looks like impatience. He clears his throat in a pointed manner.

“Oh,” you say, all of your breath rushing out in a sound of surprise and embarrassment. You’re an idiot. He’s the ranger. “I’m, uh. I’m looking for a dog. My friend’s dog, actually. She’s some kind of poodle mix, I think, with curly brown fur and a red harness. Her name’s Molly, it’s on her collar. I don’t know the trail very well, but we were down by the creek when she wandered off, just past the wooden bridge. My friend’s still there in case she comes back.”

The werewolf scribbles something so illegible you have no idea if it’s English or not. “Do you…” He pauses to cough and clear his throat again. His voice is gravelly like he rarely uses it. When he speaks again, it’s clearer but still hoarse and quiet. “Do you have something of Molly’s? A toy, or…” He gestures vaguely. You don’t understand why it matters, but he’s staring intently at the scarf balled up in your fist. It’s your friend’s. Can he tell? Does its scent clash with yours or something?

“Oh, uh, would this help?” you ask, handing the scarf to him. “My friend was wearing it, but Molly likes it a lot. She’s always rubbing her face on it.” 

The werewolf lifts it to his face and you hear him sniffing rapidly like a dog tracking a lost treat across the floor. It’s weird, and a little cute. His nose twitches. He seems put off somehow, his face scrunching up in distaste. Your friend’s perfume, maybe. You’ve heard that kind of stuff is a little strong for werewolves. You’re less frightened the next time you hear someone walking up to the ranger station, the sound of boots crunching the dirt loud and sharp with the door left wide open. The werewolves tail wags with slow anticipation, his eyes flicking to a spot over your shoulder. You turn around and go completely still, seized by primal terror.

 It’s a man. A big one. He’s so tall he has to duck to fit through the doorway. Something bothers you, and not just the obvious threat of his overwhelming size. It’s the way he walks. Just like the werewolf behind the desk, there’s something fluid and effortlessly graceful about his entire body, purpose in every movement. He doesn’t make any noise, you realize. The floor seems to groan and creak whenever you breathe, but it’s silent under his feet as he meanders over to the desk. It’s shocking that you might not have heard him coming if you hadn’t looked, given his size and apparent age. He’s older than the other one, you’d guess somewhere in his fifties. You’re acutely aware of just how much he towers over you as he passes. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. You nod meekly and his lips curl at that, a hint of a smile on his face before he wipes it away. Like the other werewolf, he’s grown his hair out long, tying some of it back in a messy bun and letting the rest hang loose. He glances briefly over the notepad and nods to himself. “Don’t worry, Sawyer’s my best tracker,” he reassures you. The other wolf, Sawyer, merely grunts, but his tail swishes at the praise. 

“Be back soon,” Sawyer mutters. He bumps against the other wolf when he leaves, but the gesture seems playful or at least friendly. They growl softly at each other, Sawyer’s tail slapping against the larger wolf’s leg before he suddenly drops to all fours and shifts. He’s engulfed by fur in seconds, ears lengthening, legs changing shape. You’re still stunned when he lops out the door and disappears.

“Here for a hike?”

That leaves you with the larger one who takes up a spot behind the desk with an easy smile. “Yeah, kinda,” you say. “My friend’s pretty outdoorsy. We’re not from here but we don’t live too far away, so she comes here a lot.” 

“This is excellent territory,” the werewolf agrees, nodding. “Quiet. Good hunting. Less light pollution. Humans like it, too.” He rests his arms on the counter, showing off full tattoo sleeves. You see curling, interlocking symbols and animals, the skeletal grin of a deer skull poking out beneath one sleeve. “Vanagandr,” he says, holding out his hand. You smile, appreciating his friendliness. 

Then you take his hand and your smile falters. You feel small and vulnerable, seeing how much his massive fist dwarfs your hand, engulfing your fingers easily. You think about the door.

He tilts his head the way Sawyer did earlier, examining you. “None of us where you’re from, I take it. Just puppies who forgot how to hunt.” The way he says “puppies” almost sounds derogatory. “Sorry if Sawyer gave you a fright. He’s had it rough with humans.”

“It’s fine, he just startled me a little,” you admit. “I didn’t expect him to be, uh…”

Vanagandr nods solemnly and makes a deep, rumbling sound. “Mmm. It’s a stress response. Shifting is emotional as well as physical. Going through something painful can make it more difficult.” You just nod, unwilling to correct him, but he seems to pick up on your hesitation anyway. A grin slowly stretches across his face. “Ahh. That’s not what you meant, is it? Nothing to be embarrassed about, I know it’s strange to you.” 

He drops the subject in favor of smalltalk, asking about where you’re from, what you do, how you like Summitville’s trails. You find yourself asking questions in return, cautiously at first, more eagerly when he seems endeared by curiosity. Yes, his pack really does handle search and rescue for all of the towns in their territory. No, they don’t get paid for it, at least not with money—they prefer food and supplies. He’s got an old family name that gets handed down through the generations to eldest sons and relatives still living in Norway and Sweden. He mentions he’s the pack alpha so offhandedly that you almost miss it.

He perks up like someone called his name. You listen, but you don’t hear anything. A full minute passes before you can make out something jingling—the little metal heart on Molly’s collar with her name and your friend’s contact information. You’re caught somewhere between relief and disbelief when Sawyer comes prancing back into the ranger station, still a wolf, with Molly hot on his heels, her muddy leash dragging behind her. She looks like a puppy next to him, a little brown ball of fluff against Sawyer’s dark fur. She’s got prickly seeds and twigs stuck in her coat but otherwise seems unbothered by her journey into the woods, more interested in yipping and batting at Sawyer than paying you any attention. Sawyer turns around and snaps his teeth but the gesture is playful, his tail wagging as he bows low and lets Molly pounce on him.

This is, in fact, the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You’re debating whether it would be wildly inappropriate to take a picture, only to hear a mechanical click behind you—Vanagandr winks, his phone balanced somewhat discreetly on the counter. 

“Go find your friend and give her the good news,” he says, waving you off. You’re fighting a broad smile when you leave, hurrying down the trail. She’s never going to believe this!

Vanagandr watches you go with his chin resting against his palm. Sawyer barks at him. “Can’t delete it ‘till I get their number,” Vanagandr says slyly. “Should’ve seen ‘em earlier. They were so embarrassed you weren’t wearing anything. Fuck, humans are cute.” 

Molly tires herself out and slumps against Sawyer’s front paws. He curls up next to her, nosing against her head. He lets out a keening sound, a whining howl. “Mm, yeah. It was a nice scent,” Vangandr says, chuckling. He texts Linden, lets him know the search is over. He sends the picture of Sawyer, too, because you’re in it, half-turned and grinning in delight. He remembers how small your hand was in his, rumbling happily. 

Linden sends one word back in response: No.

Killjoy, Vanagandr thinks, pocketing his phone. He didn’t mean anything serious by it. You’re skittish and fun to tease, things that get him going. He watches Molly doze on the floor, curled up in the space between Sawyer’s paws. He frowns. How long has it been now? Five years? Six? He sniffs his palm, inhaling the faintest traces of your scent. He misses that—a human, safe and sound in his den. The loud, obvious patter of their clumsy steps, how they fit so perfectly against his body like the half he didn’t know he was missing. 

How much worse is that ache for Linden? How desperately does he maintain his distance from the pack humans he treats these days, wanting so badly yet denying himself? 

He feels eyes on him. Sawyer watches silently as emotions flicker across his face. Vanagandr sighs heavily. “One of these days,” he murmurs. 

You had noted the lack of mycology groups in Summitville online, so you figured that the dense woods in the area would be perfect for foraging in. You enjoyed the mushrooms and wild berries that grew in this region, so you hopped into your car early that morning with more than enough time before the storm blowing in to hit.

It had been pleasant at first, streams of sunlight filtering through the clouds and offered a cool veil of mist while you searched. But hours before you had expected the worst of the weather to start the sky had darkened, sheets of rain piercing through the forest canopy and soaking you within minutes.

You rubbed your arms and pushed forward, hoping to find a trail marker, a water-logged path, anything to use as a landmark. You only had the few snacks and the handful of edible berries and mushrooms you had managed to find, the thin blanket you had brought to sit on draped over your head and shoulders. Thankfully, your canteen had stayed full thanks to the weather but by the end of the night you had more than enough of your fill of water.

You counted two sunrises before you sat down against a tree in a thicket at the base of the mountain. A patch of wildflowers spread a blanket of pale yellow blooms toward you in invitation as you lay down, your eyelids weighed down with exhaustion. It was only for a second. It felt peaceful. You weren’t scared anymore, just tired.

You slept in fits and starts, but you dreamed. Watercolor dreams of your body, of skin pale and bloated, eyes wide and unblinking and unseeing of the sky above you. Dreams colored in shades of dawn, of endless rain, faces calling out to you in the dark.

Something warm pressed against your throat, your chest. More warmth wrapped about you, a soft breath strangling itself past your lips.

The world suddenly tilted and swayed, your body going limp from the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. You recalled being lifted, being moved as the warmth held you close, voices rising around you. Voices that sang in discordant melody about the things you already knew; the storm, the cold.

Something else that should have made more sense to you but you were too delirious to care:

“I found a human.”

Your shoes were sucked off with socks stiffened with mud, clothing peeled from you like a second skin. Warm, big hands gently held yours still as you whimpered and tried to cover yourself.

You whined, shying away from tendrils of steam on your face as your lips were gently plied open. Your tongue, hardened to stone in your mouth barely registered the liquid being washed over it, your throat stinging. The sensation of something oil-like being smoothed over your skin, low whispers above you; you tried to open your eyes and found that your lids chose not to obey you, your face swollen and numb. The balm that had been smoothed over your skin was wrapped with fabric to let raw, chafed flesh heal. You felt like you were in a cocoon, dark and merciful, and you relished in it for the time being.

You awoke again later, more retching sounding from your throat followed by whispers sounding in alarm around you. Your body felt like it was wreathed in flames. Cool liquid was poured once more through your lips and you mercifully drank as warm, plush fabric was draped around you. Your fingers carded through the fur of the blanket, something deep and rumbling lulling you back into dreamless sleep.

What little senses granted back to you were brief and came slowly. What you did realize though was that each moment you were coherent was washed over in a plethora of scents: Smells that pulled you into your childhood, your mother’s garden. Afternoons soothing freshly cut aloe over your cuts when you were trying too hard to roughhouse with the older neighborhood kids to impress them, chamomile tea to soothe you into sleep afterward. Lavender dreams that grew in thick and full hedges that ringed the garden, lemon balm salve to keep away the persistent bugs as you played in the woods in the summertime- but never too deep, and never too far away from your mother’s calling once the fireflies began to light their mirthful lanterns in the burgeoning dark.

When you finally were able to open your eyes enough to gain an understanding of your surroundings, you found that your vision was still watery and unfocused. You came to as a large figure ran gentle hands over your form, undoing bandages. If they had noticed your waking they made no indication, humming softly to themselves in a deep, warming tone as they worked.

You clung to them and whimpered as they knelt and dipped your body into warm, tea-smelling liquid, shushing you gently. Your limbs went limp as palms smoothed over your skin, gently scrubbing at your scalp to loosen hair matted with sweat and mud. Carefully, the hands lifted you from the tub to carry you back over to the bed to dry you off, smoothing more fragrant balm over you and wrapping you up in warm fur again.

You licked your lips. The sticky substance on them tasted slightly herbal and sweet. “Th..ank you…”

The only reply was the deep rumbling again, warm and strong on your back. 

One day, the darkness broke and you opened your eyes, truly awake for the first time.

You were tucked into a bundle of blankets and quilts on a simple wire-framed bed. The walls were laid with broad pieces of well-worn lumber. Bug bites were sprinkled here and there along your arms, your skin still fragrant with the sweet-smelling salve you had been covered in.

A little wood-burning stove sat in one corner, the fire lit with an enameled camping kettle, burnished with use, sitting on top. It began to sputter and hiss with steam as several moments later the door to the room opened. The biggest man you’d ever seen in your life stalked into the room trailing sunlight, steps heavy as his body eclipsed the door frame.

“Linden, the kettl- oh.” The gigantic man crossed arms covered with an impressive array of tattoos winding up from his wrists to beneath the sleeves of his rolled-up flannel. The look that he gave you made the hair on the back of your neck raise. Of course, you also happened to realize that you were completely naked beneath the blankets around you and you pulled up more of the fabric to cover yourself.    

He smirked, though you felt it was not at your expense. “I’ll let the pack know you’re awake, they’ll be relieved. Linden, especially.”

Wait. Pack? The word bounced around in your mind until it finally made the proper connection. It was confirmed as you took in the edges of his teeth as he smiled down at you, not to mention that the man was herculean in stature.

“You’re…. you’re a Wolf, aren’t you?” You breathed in amazement, enchanted. It could have been your imagination but he seemed to puff himself up at your excitement. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever known a Wolf before.”

You had met city Wolves briefly in passing, though you could barely tell the difference between them or any other person you had met. Sometimes they had a penchant for standing too close, or would sniff you as a means of familiarizing themselves with you, but nothing more.

In the fantasy stories you had read, true werewolves were great, majestic creatures that let maidens sit astride their fur as they sprinted and sang under the moonlight with their howling. You supposed the same could still be true of the person standing before you, but at the moment you were so awestruck by the look of him you could barely speak.

His tone was pleased. “Indeed I am, little human.” He smiled, showing the full breadth of his teeth. “I am Vanagandr.”

You stumbled several times over the pronunciation of his name and he chuckled good-naturedly at your effort. It was a decidedly warm sound, and you offered him a smile despite your embarrassment. “Thank you. For helping me.”

The door opened and closed again and another man, considerably shorter than the former but still massive walked toward you. Vanagandr smiled, clapping the newcomer on the shoulder warmly with an outstretched palm. “He’s the one you should be thanking. This is our hum-“ Something sharp passed in his eyes and you felt your heart began to race. “…Humble medic, Linden.” He nodded.

A tense silence followed afterward- the one named Linden had walked to stand just beside the bed and seemed content for the moment to take in the wide-eyed look on your face, gracing them over your arms as you held the blanket closer to your body. He hummed briefly in thought before reaching out a hesitant hand, testing you as if you were a stray animal he wanted to approach. His knuckles ran over your cheek with an unexpected tenderness and he smiled.

“You’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you croaked, honestly. “Were you taking care of me?” Again, he nodded. He then took your hand within his, turning your arm this way and that.

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.” Linden offered as he gently fingered the bandages on your arm, moving to linger over one on your back. “One of our shepherds found you at the base of the mountain just at the edge of our grounds. You were breathing but it was obvious that you were suffering from exposure, then the fever set in…”

His voice trailed off. You couldn’t see his expression from behind you but the way Vanagandr frowned made the seriousness of the situation all the more obvious. Luckily you hadn’t twisted an ankle or broken any bones, but they explained to you that you had been very sick. 

“You saved my life. I don’t even know how to repay you.” You bowed your head toward the bedspread and you felt breath, heated and sure, on the back of your throat. The brief, warm touch of the tip of his nose, you were sure of it.

“We checked your belongings to see who we could contact for help,” He began again, slowly. “Your phone was completely ruined from the rain and the closest hospital is still several hours away. But,” He moved to sit directly in front of you, smoothing his massive hands on your arms up onto your shoulders.  “You’re still not fully recovered. So, how about this: Spend one more night resting here and we can call someone in the morning. Okay?”

Though you had taken your keys, you had left your wallet in the glove compartment of your car at the edge of the forest. All you had really taken with you in your backpack were a small notebook and your foraging kit, along with the snacks and water you had completely depleted while you were lost.

Craning your neck to look up at him, his heat smothering over you, you could only manage a timid nod. “I don’t want to be any more trouble or to disturb your… pack.” The word felt thick in your mouth, foreign. “Won’t everyone be uncomfortable with a stranger here?”

Vanagandr exchanged a look between both of you, and Linden was the first to offer a smile. “We can pick up on certain things… scents, changes in posture, or if someone is truly trying to challenge us. Try showing your throat.”

You did so as if you were attempting to display your chin, head tilted upward and looking up at the ceiling and both of them laughed gently at your attempt. 

“Here, like this,” the medic gently took your chin within his fingers. He turned your head to the side and pointed your face upward to reveal the skin of your throat. “If you’re ever scared or don’t know what to say to someone here, move your head just like this.”

You nodded and his fingers trailed away from your skin, his tone satisfied. “Good. And we’ll be watching over you.”

“Which also reminds me,” Vanagandr knelt beside the bed to take your hand to lift toward his face, and for a brief, terrifying second you thought he was going to kiss it. Instead, he turned it around, baring the underside of your wrist and lifted it to his nose. “Just a formality, so everyone knows you are welcome here.”

Your hiking clothes were dingy, but clean; you gratefully pulled them over yourself all the same while still in bed, tugging the sleeves of your frayed red hoodie over your arms. The two had left the room to give you some privacy; you had given them a helpless look as they stood expectantly once Linden gave you back your clothes. It must be different for Wolves, maybe they weren’t so caught up in the taboo of nudity as you were. They had already seen you when they were treating you, but you were sick. That was different.. right?

You stumbled over your feet as you tried to hop from the bed- too fast -and in an instant there were two pairs of strong arms to help you stay upright. You had definitely lost some weight and your legs were sore, your feet decidedly taking newborn steps, shaking and unsure. They flanked you until you were able to stand more confidently, though Linden kept an arm hovering about your waist to steady you if need be.

“Easy now, little fawn,” he coached from behind you.

They led you to a door closest to the only window, leading outside. The forest, no longer your captor, spread out in a verdant array from the commune, the base of the mountain not too far off beyond it. Tufts of wildflowers grew in unruly patches all along the ground, painting the earth in a riot of color all around you. Without a storm and exhaustion clouding your senses, you had to admit it was gorgeous.

“It’s so beautiful here. I feel like I’m in a fairy tale.” The Wolf beside you chuckled, and you felt your face heat in embarrassment.

“A fairy tale, hmm?” You were suddenly aware of Lindens’ body heat against you, an arm cradled into the small of your back. “Do you enjoy such things?”

“I mean, maybe more than most, I guess?” You turned to smile sheepishly at him. “Though I don’t think you’d share the same sentiment. Wolves aren’t portrayed very fairly in most of them.”

His voice was low and he searched your face again. “Are they not?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy and cold. You began to fret at the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m sure you don’t go after lost humans in the woods to eat them,” you offered slowly. “But think about it: I go into the forest to look for mushrooms and berries; I get lost in a storm and fall into a deep sleep. When I wake up, I find that I’ve been saved by friendly Wolves who nurse me back to health with tinctures and herbs in the middle of a village at the base of a mountain. If that is not a fairy tale, then I don’t know what is.” You laughed, feeling silly.

Linden was still looking at you. “How do you think the story should end?”

Ahead of you Vanagandr had stopped walking, staring ahead and crossing his arms over his chest.

You stopped as well, looking about at the commune as more wolves materialized as they went about their lives: Several were mildly bickering over something, their tones genial and light. The rhythmic sounds of wood being chopped arose in the distance, accompanying the smell of a lit hearth nearby. You noticed a hutch of rabbits under the shade of a wooden lean-to, nibbling and whuffing gently with their noses at the hands that fed them, palms open and gentle.

“I don’t know,” you said, decidedly. “But I think it would make for a very nice story.”

“Perhaps,” the grin lacing into Vanagandr’s voice was obvious, suddenly coy. “Someone ought to have kissed you awake.”

You were about to laugh shyly in agreement when a sinking feeling, a strange prickling on your arms surfaced over your skin.

As you were gawking at the mountainside and talking, observing the goings-on of the commune around you, you slowly began to notice that the the community of Wolves had stopped themselves to point a million eyes at you to where you stood in the clearing. Vanagandr cleared his throat and made a gesture with his hand that you did not recognize; everyone went back to their business, and that rising, dreadful feeling began to settle down from your throat.

“Everyone is just curious,” He had offered, turning around and waving his hand. “Its been a long time since we’ve had a human come to us.” He began to laugh again, deep and rumbling, and your fear shrank further back into your being. “Come, I’ll give you a tour. It seems Sawyer has seen fit to join us.”

In your fright, you had not noticed that Linden had managed to wander away somewhere. In his stead, a man.. no, a wolf…?

You fought to keep your composure as the one called Sawyer walked up to you, watching you closely.   

Scarred, fanged, clawed; His fur was thick and black, strokes of ink punctuated by the pieces of human skin that seemed too stubborn to turn with the rest of him. Long, dark hair swept around a decidedly human face that followed into the good majority of his torso, to the almost pendulous swing of-

Well. You must have been right about Wolves not having much reservation about being naked. You blushed, your eyes shooting back up to his face.

You noticed that his ears were a good mix of the same indecision to shift that seemed to have taken ahold of him, human and still furred. His eyes were a crisp, exotic gold that passed over and burned through you, your lips falling open with the uncertainty of what to say.

“You were very sick,” he mumbled, eyes bright and knowing. “I am glad to see you up and about.” A tail surfaced to flick out from behind his back, as dark and sharp as the rest of him.

“I.. I was. Thank you. All of you.” Tense silence passed between you, and you felt your chin slowly inching upward as he stared, exposing your throat as if on cue. Vanagandr said nothing from behind you, but soon Sawyer brushed past you to mumble something lowly into his ear. You couldn’t deduce much from what they said but one snippet before Sawyer straightened himself and stalked off:  “He’s afraid.”

 After he had gone, you found your voice again. “Do you have a specific role in your pack, Vanagandr?”

His form sauntered up to you, and you craned your neck to look up at him. “As a matter of fact, I’m the Alpha.” You gasped, unsure of what kind of respect you should be showing and he looked practically giddy as you began to fret.

“You’re our guest. You are more than welcome to call me that too, if you wanted.”

“Okay,” you tried, lashes lowered. “Okay, Alpha.”

You felt like a specimen on display for the rest of the morning.

Everywhere you walked- past the large pile of firewood being packed into a shed, beside rows of raised planters with seasonal vegetables flanked by a compost heap, between baskets of clothing waiting to be laundered beside a rumbling washing machine by the main clearing -everyone you walked by had stopped to watch you. While Vanagandr was too busy walking and pointing out the various landmarks of the commune, you were quick to offer a shy smile or a brief wave but you were sure you reeked of anxiety by the time you were led back to the main cabin.

You were mercifully allowed to eat your lunch by yourself in your room before bundling yourself back into bed for a nap. You were woken up as the last rays of sunlight spread in streaks of scarlet through the window, Linden’s face hovering over you.

The thought of going back out amongst so many strangers made you stomach seize again. “Do you know many humans?” You suddenly blurted out, unable to help yourself.

He hummed in thought. “Quite a few, actually. We sell and buy lots of things in local farmer’s markets, and we trade with several trusted farms further down the mountain for things that are more difficult for us to get. Textiles, harder to cultivate produce, livestock, stuff like that.” He moved back as you sat up, watching your lips as you softly yawned.

“You should start selling the things you have been using for me, it all smells so good. I can’t remember the last time my skin felt this smooth.” He raised his brows, saying nothing but seemed pleased by your praise all the same. “..Okay, except for that bitter stuff. But, maybe, some of the granola types would go for something like that.”

He laughed lightly and offered you his hand as he helped you out of bed. Hesitating, he then raised your hand to his face much like Vanagandr had done before. His breath ran warmly over your knuckles and though you didn’t understand the implication it seemed… intimate. You blushed.

“Come,” he returned your hand to your side. “Everyone is waiting for us.”

Everyone?

He led you through a door on the other side of the room into the main cabin proper, a rush of warmth and noise and heat blanketing over you.

The main hall resembled something you’d imagine a rustic summer camp would look like, the walls and floors wooden and worn with thick, patterned rugs strewn underfoot. The smell of the forest permeated the space, rivaled only by the grand fireplace that crackled with a mirthful glow on the other side of the room; even if you were to spread your arms from side to side it would not reach the full width of it. An array of couches and cushions were arranged all about the room and the effect of it all was definitely cozy. It was like a large family room, and you supposed it was one.

…Especially since there were people lounging on every single surface, even the rugs had a cluster of people roughing about or laughing on them. You had an inkling at the number of them all when wandering the commune earlier, but this confirmed it: The pack was huge. 

That small spike of panic panged through you again; You hoped you were just being paranoid, but if something were to happen this confirmed that you were desperately outnumbered.

Linden broke you from your thoughts, leading you to a card table where Vanagandr sat howling- literally -with laughter with several other seated Wolves. He pulled a seat out for you before sitting on the other side of the table across from you, beside his Alpha.

“Took you long enough! Trying to enchant our guest without us, hmm?”

Linden’s gaze was far away. “They asked me if I knew any other humans.”  

A thoughtful silence descended over the table. From what you had gathered, the subject seemed far more complex than you had initially realized.

“Humans are… special to us,” the Alpha began, his voice thick with some emotion that you couldn’t place. “It is interesting for us to share the world together, seeing the same things but the way we  experience them are rarely the same.”

His voice was so wistful, so hopeful that you wished that you could see it, too. “I could only imagine the kinds of things that you can see.” You licked your lips and you flushed as everyone’s eyes settled onto you from the action. “I mean.. it must be so amazing, to run like you can. See and feel the world as you can.” You turned where the two Wolves who were tumbling on the rug had shifted, your eyes wide in awe. “It must be so beautiful.”

“More inspiration from your fairy tales, hmm?” A rich, resonant laugh sounded from the other end of the table- you were shocked to see that Linden, who had seemed so sullen and wary at your presence before, was the source. “Yes, if only.” His eyes, filled with a mirth you had yet to see from him before, settled onto you.

“Think of it like this: The wolves inside us never truly sleep; even as we step into the skins of men it is still there. And it waits. It’s-“ His gaze never wavered from you, and you could not tear your eyes away from him, entranced. “Its almost romantic, in a way: The waiting, the release of the embrace when you can finally let go.” His voice filled with passion. The chatter and side conversations about the room began to die down and everyone was now looking at him as he continued, listening intently.

“The wind at your sides, the endless sky above, the earth, solid beneath your feet as you run as far as you would dare.” He suddenly looked sheepish. “I just realized that I never asked you for your name.”

It tumbled from your lips in an instant, as if bound by a spell. His eyes were still focused on you as it left his lips in turn, savoring it over his tongue as if committing it to memory. Vanagandr made a sound low in his throat and there was a beat of stunned silence.

“If you were a Wolf,” he rumbled, deep and richly in his throat, “You could truly see the world; Bright and resonant and whole, as it was meant to be. You can see everything, feel, touch, and taste everything. It is why so many of us yearn to live out here, away in nature from the scents and noise of the city. From so many unnatural things.”

You bit your lip. “Taste?” You made a small, curious noise. “I wonder what it is that you could taste that I cannot.” Several chuckles sounded around the table and you looked down at your lap. You opened your mouth to elaborate but were stilled by a gentle hand on your forearm. It stroked along your sleeve as if to placate you and you let the words die down in your throat.

“Linden. Could you help me with something, out back?” Vanagandr stood from his chair, his voice light but there was some kind of undertone to it, something beneath your human understanding that made Linden immediately go stiff at his words. The two Wolves stood from the table as chatter started up again, taking their leave down a hallway just beside the table.

A million questions filled your head, but you didn’t want to intrude or seem too forward by asking them. Luckily, the group assembled around the table seemed content to ask you questions, inquiring about what you did, things you liked, what you thought about the commune.  

Suddenly there was a shout, the sound of fierce snarling as two men quickly stood from one of the couches, angrily shedding their clothes to shift into two impressive wolves, teeth bared and hackles raised. A large, black wolf with bright golden eyes bounded into the room and barked, the sound so sharp that it made your ears ring. It quickly circled around the two to herd them out the door. The room erupted into laughter, but your heart had stopped from the display. You became aware of the smiles tipped with sharp incisors and canines around you; big, muscled arms thick with sinew, hands with claws to gouge and tear.

All the better to eat you with.

Was that the taste you would never know?

These creatures, barely restrained by their shells of clothing and mortal skin began to truly frighten you. You could sense the gazes that lingered just beyond your notice, heads turning as you flicked your gaze to regard them, always seconds too late. The room began to quiet down, the crackling of the fresh firewood filling the silence.  Could they smell your growing apprehension, the sudden shift of your blood as your heart began to speed up?

Your mind wandered back to the rabbits you saw earlier, docile and unknowing in their hutch.

Your tummy began doing flip-flops that you tried to convince yourself were related to your recent illness. You suddenly stood up from your seat, wincing as you knocked your knee underneath the table in your haste. The sound rang out like a shot and everyone turned to look at the clumsy human. “Bathroom,” you mumbled then practically fled from the room, down a random hallway.

“Absolutely not.”

A familiar voice carried from past the turn in the corridor, heated, from a crack in the door. You immediately halted. It was Linden, swearing something from under his breath.

A sigh sounded, definitely from Vanagandr: “They’re already here, practically settled right into our laps. I don’t understand why you keep doing this.”

You were certain they were talking about you.

“This isn’t like before,” Linden’s voice was low, cold. “I can’t do that again. None of us can. I’m doing what’s best for us. Why can’t you do the same?”

Vanagandr’s voice lowered into a tone that you did not know he possessed, almost making you cower where you stood. It carried into the hall and gave you goosebumps with the stark authority in it. “The pack needs a human. There is no way around it and today has proven it. It should have been more than proven to you. I haven’t seen you like this in years. Years, Linden. That has to mean something.”  

 A human, for what? You gasped despite yourself and his next words were immediately bit off.

In several seconds they had walked into the hallway, attention snapping over to you where you were frozen like a frightened deer in the hall several feet away, eyes wide.

Your hands began to shake. “I-I… uh, need the b-bathroom?”

Linden pointed to a door and you scurried off toward it as fast as you could.

You flung yourself through the door and slammed it behind you, locking it. Pushing a shower curtain aside, you sighed in relief as pale moonlight flooded into the room from a window. It was small, but desperation tremulously held your hands as you managed to slide it open, shoving yourself through until you fell unceremoniously to the other side with an undignified grunt.

You stood, then broke into a dead sprint ahead of you. You didn’t care where you were going as you crossed into the treeline back into the treacherous, beckoning wood but you knew you couldn’t stay here; the something that had settled deep and cold into your gut was screaming for you to get away from the commune, to find help.  

They needed a human. You didn’t want to sit around to figure out why.

Unruly branches snapped into your face as you ran past. You ran until your lungs began to burn, though not with as much strength or conviction as you had hoped. You were still weak from your recovery and your body quickly began to scream in protest, joints aching.

A call sounded not too far away.

Another, and another: Harmonious and sweet, howling alit the scattered moonlight around you. Two more answered several kilometers ahead and another, off to the side.

You stopped immediately and whirled around, knowing they had already gained ground on you; you tensed, waiting for a blow to send you to the ground. Should you hide? You eyed the unforgiving bark of the trees around you with no helpful branches to gain foothold on to climb.

So you ran. Stumbling over forest bracken and tree roots, you stopped immediately as a sudden wind rushed by your side, followed by silence. You started to cry, looking every which way into a silent, unforgiving forest.

“You can’t keep me here!” You screamed into the night, seeing nobody but knew they had all caught up to you and were listening. “I don’t belong here!” You backed away from nothing, from everything; you went still as something firm and warm pressed against your back, casting a shadow over you in the moonlight filtering through the trees. 

You suddenly remembered the conversation you had with Linden about lost humans in the woods and your stomach dropped in fear. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d hoped, defeated:

“Are.. are you going to eat me?”

A chorus of raucous laughter sounded around you, piercing through the trees.

Everything within you was trembling with livid fear as you tried to imagine what they could possibly want from you, a frail human. As if sensing this, the shadow spoke above you, voice low.

“My bloodline traces back to the old country, and with it the honored tradition of selecting and nurturing humans, only a special few.” The pride in his voice was undeniable. “My forebears have followed this tradition, to those who braved the wind and the seas, forging forward here in the forests and mountains; now, little human, it falls upon you.” You jumped as a hand clad down like iron onto your shoulder, swallowing it within his grasp. “Do you accept?”

There was a rustling of foliage as Linden stepped from the dark of the woods, his eyes searching yours. He was naked. “You will never be lost, or cold, or fearful, ever again.” He stood upright, looking to the face of his Alpha behind you, then back toward you. “You will never be alone.”

The forest fell into silent witness around you, the rustling of the leaves above the only sounds you could hear. Nobody knew where you were. Nobody would ever know.

Linden walked closer, gauging your every reaction, until he stood just before you. The heat of the two bodies you stood between did little to smooth the gooseflesh from your arms, a deep rumbling sound enveloping you from both sides. Linden gently tested fingers at the hem of your hoodie, beneath your shirt, and you wordlessly raised your arms to allow him to lift the fabric over your head.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He breathed into your hair. “The moon, the woods, your wolves?” Linden swallowed, voice husky. “A fairy tale.”

Strong arms encircled you from behind to finger the button on your shorts.

“Little fawn,” Vanagandr’s voice rose again from the night, dark and heady with lust. “Do you wish to see how this story ends?”

You tensed as the button on your shorts was undone, the fabric smoothed down your legs to where you were literally lifted out of them as they pooled onto the ground. Your undergarments followed quickly afterward.

“I do.” You whispered, barely hearing yourself over the sounds of the forest. But it was enough.

Their intentions were made clear when you were lowered to the ground, your face gently pushed downward as your hips were guided up with steady hands. ‘Lordosis’ you had heard it called in one of your high school biology classes, causing the room to erupt into a chorus of jeers and shouts.

By the look of him, you would have been very surprised if Vanagandr wasn’t…. sized proportionately, but as you turned to look up at his naked form you felt yourself suddenly become scared. His brows furrowed at your hesitation, your lashes flicking toward his groin and then away.  “It.. it won’t fit…” you murmured meekly.  

He lowered himself to kneel behind you, a twitch of muscle against your thigh. “I promise you, it will.” Your voice rose into a frightened wail as you felt him quickly pump his cock several times before the tip kissed at your entrance. “I won’t hurt you.” You flailed and thrashed, Vanagandr shushing you patiently and pressed you back down into a presenting position with ease. You cried out his name and in one last desperate attempt, pleaded for your Alpha to not hurt you.

It was the worst mistake you could have made in that moment.

The moment ‘Alpha’ had left your lips, he snarled as if in triumph, pushing into your body and making you tense with a sharp cry. He ran hands over your back, smoothing over your spine, his face tilted up to the sky as he groaned at the sensation of your walls clutching at him and crooned at you to relax.

His thrusts were shallow at first, slowly letting your body welcome the invasion of his overwhelming cock, stealing into you inch by inch with each downward stroke. Still, it was uncomfortable and you felt your breath hitch as his hips slowly came closer to yours. Fresh tears brimmed over your eyes to run down your cheeks, pattering into the dirt. You tried to pull away again, your struggles rewarded with hands tightening onto your hips and a grunt as you felt a burning ache creep more within you.  

You sensed that he was attempting to mount you slowly for your sake, though it did little to ease how incredibly full you felt as he sheathed himself to the hilt, balls tapping against you as you gasped. Your eyes squeezed shut, lashes clumped together with tears as your hands tightened into fists beside where your head was bowed onto your arms.

You glanced up with effort, Linden swimming into your vision through your tears. He was staring directly at you.

Vanagandr began fucking into you in earnest, pulling at your hips to meet his thrusts and your body began to naturally respond. Your small groans and yips of pain became moans and soft keens of pleasure as you tried to hold them back, ashamed. His hand moved down to play at your neck, gently gripping your throat as if commanding you to release them. You obeyed.

You were both groaning and panting with effort, your skin shining with sweat as you began to sway and moan. The Alpha sheltered himself over your back, sharing his warmth as your dampened skin evaporated with the cool night air, making you shiver.   

Before you could even register that he had moved, he had nuzzled your head to the side to expose more of your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of your throat. Adrenaline fired through your body, a heightened crescendo before you orgasmed. You cried out and fluttered around him, his voice sultry as it rose into a rough bellow over you as he staked his claim and a rush of sudden heat filled you to the brim. A strange pressure filled your core; You tried to pull away from the uncomfortable sensation before a calloused hand smoothed over your back, pressing you down to halt your struggles as he panted. “Knot,” he managed to ground out, then, “Wait.”

You turned to look at over your shoulder at Vanagandr, your eyes shining with tears and face flushed with heat. The question in your eyes grew as Sawyer materialized from the woods and stalked over to stand behind the Alpha, saying nothing. Vanagandr had a deep, satisfied rumble within his chest over you as his body held you securely in place, running soothing hands over your back. “There is so much to teach you,” His eyes never left yours, his gaze heavy-lidded. “So much for you to learn. We can go slow. We can be patient.”

Vanagandr straightened himself and turned his gaze forward, then. “Linden.”

By the time Linden came to stand over you in the moonlight, The Alpha had slowed his breathing and the fullness within you had gone down. Several minutes later he pulled away from you with a grunt, hands releasing from your hips as a thick liquid oozed over your thighs. Linden took his place between your legs, repositioning you to lay you onto your side as he moved behind you, covering you in his warmth. His chest pressed into your back as his lips played over the shell of your ear, teasing the flesh with his teeth.

A plush, throaty gasp escaped your throat at his first push inside you, the senses of your body still heightened from orgasm, his hand gripping beneath your thigh to keep you open. He trembled, sighing into you as if finding relief after a long journey. Hands that tended to your wounds, fed you, now gently cradled your chin to pull you into a kiss as you keened and cried. The action was just so human that you moaned softly against him, pressing a light kiss into his throat in turn.

His eyes closed, the look on his face almost pained, as if he had just remembered something in that moment; Something long lost, longed for, almost forgotten. He began to eagerly thrust into you, rhythmic strokes that left you panting and arching your back. You grabbed at the earth as he moved you into the dirt with each thrust.

His lids lowered in lust, voice thick with need. “Stay with us, fawn.”

You gasped softly as he withdrew from you, quickly rolling you onto your back before he pressed his chest protectively against yours and delved his cock back into you. You could see where Vanagandr stood, staring at you and Linden with an unreadable expression on his face with Sawyer pacing beside him. Into the trees beyond, more shapes came forward from the dark, man and beast, eyes glinting in the moonlight and awaiting your submission.

Linden’s hand smoothed over your sides and hips as he began thrusting into you with a vengeance, his palms practiced over the landscape of your form. You could do little to stop the helpless animal noises that tore from your throat, which only seemed to further spur him on. He was soon snarling as he snapped his hips into yours, another wave of a climax beginning to crest through you, clear and sharp. He found a spot within you that left you crying with each pass, your body writhing beneath him as you began to beg him for release.  

You were whining, legs tightening around him as your back arched and you cried out into the woods, thighs shaking. He quickly followed, raising himself onto his elbow and caressing a palm over your face as his release flooded into you, the growl of his completion settling deep within your mind. Panting, he held you close, nosing into the space opposite where Vanagandr had bitten you, your blood smeared over his chest.

You had tears dried on your cheeks, your body now muddy and cold and soreness began to fill your limbs once again; your mind wandered back to memories of a warm bath, gentle hands, fur blankets. You realized then that it probably wasn’t just blankets that had kept you warm at night.

“Yes,” you whispered into the night, voice carried over the breeze and as gentle as the rustling of leaves. “I’ll stay.”

Vanagandr knelt beside you, scooping you up into his arms and murmuring gently to you about going back to the cabin, getting you cleaned and warmed up and then ready for dinner, his voice tender. It felt like heaven, to be so fondly cradled against him. It felt like home.

You felt the earth on your skin, the warmth of the bodies that fell in line around you. Looking up, Vanagandr was looking down at you as the moon hung heavy and full as if to watch over all of you right above him.