#wolf-queen

What had been the driving force that had pulled them together?  What had it been about him that sparked her interest?  What had it been about her that made him agonize over tasting her cerise lips once more? What odd curiosity had led them to reach for each other when he had wanted nothing but to pay her back for a raping of the mind?  What had lured her to trust the male that had blatantly shown his disdain for her and teased her in the same breath?

Love?  A certain need to be close to another soul that felt familiar despite the lives that they lived?  Had lived? There had been a familiarity in the fierce pull that had lured the sorcerer back within her grasp.  It had brought him close enough for her to reach out with claws only to feel his own sink in.  Very few understood that he proudly bore those marks.  Not even he understood the call of her wildness but he knew it was where he wanted to be.  At least once he swallowed the pride that had held him at bay.

The tree she had declared as her own during her time in Grizzly Hills had been reclaimed by nature, showing that no one else had bothered it.  Yet as she climbed the trunk and settled upon the branch she had deemed her perch, her lullaby grew louder overhead.  On ebon wings, the song carried over the woods though this was no voice any raven held.  This was Theron’s Rose and an avian that Celestine knew very well.  The soft flapping of wings would grow near, along with the rustling of leaves as the bird appeared above the Queen.

Dark wisps of violet clung to the bird’s feathers, her own eyes the same color of her Master’s so that they seemed to be one in the same.  Not many would be able to tell the difference given that they appeared to be exact replicas of each other; his familiar an enigma as much as he was. That Rose was no simple raven was easily deciphered but what more was she?  She and her Master shared quite a few different tricks, that was for sure. For Celestine, however, it was clear who the bird was.  Rose’s connection to the Queen was far less pronounced than the bond that was shared with the redheaded sorcerer.  

As if she were a cardinal, black and not red, she continued with the song that the Queen had hummed to her.  Not once did she stop, maneuvering the last lingering note into the beginning chord.  Idly, she flew down to another low hanging branch before looking back at the Queen with an expectant cock of her head.  Another spreading of dark wings would send her to yet another branch, leading away from the once inhabited camp.  There was no use in stirring up those old ghosts.  They were shadows, a past not to be lingered on.  Dead and gone; graves best left untouched.

The path slowly became familiar.  Not in the way that sight worked but in the way that the sixth sense remembered a place. It was the sensation of having known the area once before.  Rose led her through the woods, heralding her presence though no one else lingered about.  Nature was the only other that joined them in this hunt, the scurrying of small animals and wild calls of birds overhead.  The closer Celestine drew to the destination, the more a coppery smell pervaded her senses.  It tickled and taunted her, the sanguine scent familiar and enticing.

A fur-lined cloak was folded neatly on a fallen and rotting tree when she reached the particular clearing that had been theirs to share.  The clearing had been where with no one but Mother Nature and the Great Mother of the Skies as witnesses, he had bowed.  It was the very same place where he had declared his allegiance to her, both fearful and thrilled at the dark goddess that he knew he would give his soul to. It had been the beginning of knowing that he would do anything for her, the beginning of another fear not of her but for her.  

Tucked within the cloak was another note, his impeccable penmanship present once more.

Wicked temptations brought me to your door,

And there I stood, defiant in the face of the storm.

In arrogance I thought little of the fiend I would adore,

Thinking only that my salvation would be in standing firm.

‘Twas another game and dance that I thought you offered,

A dangerously sweet seduction intended to go awry.

But it was here that we ventured past the point of no return,

Upon the final threshold where words and speech ran dry.

Beneath a starlit sky, we wandered to truths untold.

Yielding, we let the sleeping bud burst forth,

Allowing the flames to spread with actions so bold.

Forever lit within since that night in the frozen North.

Seven hearts to be staked, none as worthy as mine.

O’ heart thief, claim them all as you have consumed me.

Seek the prize that remains so hidden in this shrine,

Where, for a Queen, I bent the knee and did not flee.

If she had not seen them upon entering the clearing, they would be plain as day now.  Four of the seven hearts could be seen suspended within the tree branches like some macabre ritual. Fresh they still were, or rather seemed, as they continued to drip as if they had just been pulled from the chest cavities of the living.  They still contracted as if trying to keep precious blood flowing through a body.  To trained ears, the rhythmic beating and the soft tick, tap of each droplet would be almost deafening.  

Some could not even be seen while a few others were at near impossible heights, barely visible as they hung in the air with nothing but the dissonance of dripping and beating. There was no way that the chorus of heart beats and of tick, tap, tap was natural for surely they were enchanted to make such sounds so that she could find them.  

But how was she to claim the hearts that were strewn at odd places? Surely he had forgotten this little piece of his hunt.  One might have thought that.  A careful sweep of the area would reveal  a bow and a quiver hanging from a tree trunk.  The draw weight was similar to the one she practiced with at the Estate, perfect albeit foreign in her hands.  The quiver, however, only held seven arrows.  Seven arrows.  Seven hearts. It was clear she needed perfection to claim this prize.  Or at least hope that she could retrieve the projectiles if she missed.

When her aim was true and the hearts were pierced as if from Peddlefeet’s own bow, the hearts burst into black and red rose petals.  Once she managed to find all seven, not an easy task as he had hidden some well enough that she would have had to work for them, a small thump would be heard as a package materialized out of thin air but a few feet from the ground. It lay, oddly foreboding in the middle of the clearing.

Upon closer inspection it would appear to be a thin square box.  The outside was lined in supple black leather.  A stamp could be seen on top of the container, an anatomical heart, a crown and wings extending from the heart itself.  Within she would find a necklace settled in black silk and another note:

Join me where starlight roses flower,

And the arcwine flows in excess.

Kiss the rose once more, use its power

Heed my call, listen to a love fool’s longing plea.

The soft tolling of a bell resonated through the air, a softfiltering of silver light devouring the land that held its breath for thecoming storm.  It was thirsty for thesustenance, opulent grass wishing to remain forever green in the perfect dream. The sound of the coming storm was enoughto keep him within the scene, a lure of perfect times.  He would share it with his reckless storm, let the beads of water break themselves uponhis clothes until they ran soaked and only the warmth of living bodies couldchase away the chill again.

How well do you sleepnow?

The voice broke the reverie of nature, fading into nothing.  The world died in one quick breath, meltinginto the obscure and confusing, reforming into the twisting world of anightmare.  Barren wasteland stretchedout for miles on all sides.  Miniature graveshad been dug, small piles of dirt sitting beside them ready to bury the tinycorpses of the still born, the angels that had not breathed, the lives that hadnot had a chance.  

His breathing hitched, his fear suddenly spiking.  A step backwards only made him sink a footinto one of the graves and it sent him sprawling backwards.  His hands flew out to catch himself,disturbing several mounds of dirt in his attempt to scramble backwards and awayfrom the graves.  It was the diminutivevoice and cry of a child that made him pause, his heart suddenly so loud in hisears, pounding desperately like a bird trying to escape a cage.

Papa! Papa! I had anightmare!

He could not help the apprehension that came with thatsound.  Fear struck low in his belly,fear for the child and that he would never be enough to protect them.  Fear that they were so weak and vulnerable,fear that they could be taken away so easily.

The little boy appeared before Theron, a crystalline rose in his tiny rotted hand and flung himself intothe sorcerer’s arms for comfort.  A small squelch could be heard as the tiny body hit Theron’s chest.  Thestench of rot and earth invaded his senses. He knew this scent but the thought of knowing it came from the child inhis arms tore wounds open in his heart that he thought had healed.  The white orbs of eyes peered up at him andhe reached to pull back the corpse.  

Theron’s hands sank into the small body.  Something wet slid over his fingers, thechild still looked up at him so expectantly. Not my child.  Theron repeated to himself but theundercurrent of the scent of cedar made him pause.  Not mychild but hers.  With tremblinghands, he reached to stroke the child’s head and pieces of scalp and hair cameoff.  His hands were coated with theremnants of the boy and the globs only seemed to crawl into his sleeves, sliplike slow moving slugs against his skin until he was left with nothing but askull.

A choked cry escaped him, looking down at his hands forthose were the hands that had not been able to save the child.  It was on him.  The death was on him.  And the scentpermeated his skin.  It suffocated himuntil that was all he could breathe and taste, cedar and death.  HisQueen and her child.

The horrified look on his face was apparent, several faces peered back at him and a young human male was trying to soothehim.  The stink of death still hauntedhis nose as the world came into focus and the voices of reality suddenly werethere again.  

“Alright there, my lord?” The voice came from the young man as he kneeled down to pick up thetable Theron had knocked over.  A solidwall stood behind the sorcerer and for that he was grateful.  Slowly, throat dry, Theron looked around witha half-spooked look on his face. “I will get this cleaned up and I will bring you more tea.”  The young lad righted the chairs as well, smilingback at him.

Theron was silent, his breath coming too harshly, his heartstill pounding in his ears.  Thosestaring at him slowly turned back to their dinners and drinks, the LegerdemainLongue once more, returned to normal after that small episode by the warlock.