More of Trojie's werewolf story.
Nov. 27th, 2008 08:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gmtaslashTitle: Phases (working title) Draft Part Two
Author: Trojie
Rating: PG (blood, violence) Pre-slash
Notes: This leaves off right where the last one ended. It hasn't been betaed, unless you count me staring at it and rewriting bits for several months as 'betaed'. Even Bridget hasn't looked at it (cue GASP! from f-list). So, you've got comments? Typos, bad sentences, things that don't make sense, stylistic comments ... anything you have to say, I desperately want it.
The moss underfoot is crackly with frost when Shan slithers off the horse into an undignified heap. Sig looks down on him with undisguised amusement, and the horse's teeth sink into Shan's leather-clad shoulder and pull him back to his feet.
'Sore?' asks Sig, and dismounts with a modicum more grace. The werewolf is gazing back towards the blazing taiga when he feels blunt fingers start digging into his back. He whips around.
'What?' asks Sig, surprised. 'Doesn't make it feel better?'
'It's not that bad,' says Shan gruffly, batting away the Ronahb's hand. 'Aches anyway. Look, we should keep moving.'
'You think they'll chase us? They're only Ersom.' And Sig's expression is full of the nomad's contempt for people who'd stay still all their lives.
'Wasn't Ersom who fired the trees, dung-brain. I think we may have just interrupted an excise-raid. Uniforms, steel weapons? And ponies with shoes.'
'Ponies with shoes won't get far on permafrost,' says Sig, 'But I've practically got snowshoes.' The horse lifts one plate-sized hoof as if to illustrate. He grins, and in a blink is mounted again. He extends a hand down to Shan. 'Coming up?'
The werewolf shakes his head, and shuffles his leather cloak off, handing it to the Ronahb. 'You carry this,' he says, crouching down. 'And I'll make my own way.' With that he changes.
***
Sig can't help but stare at Shan. A werewolf changing is the oddest sight he's ever seen, still, even after years of winters amongst them. First they sit, or crouch, getting all four limbs on the ground, and Sig always notices how short and stubby Shan's fingers are when he does this, because he stretches them and wriggles them, and the short, blunt, black claw-nails that tip them become longer as the Ronahb watches. And the fine hair that covers his limbs gets longer, thicker as it happens.
And by this point his face is changing; werewolves have sloping faces anyway, pushed forward on their necks, long jaws, long noses, but now Shan's face is thrusting forward, his jaw is elongating, his nose as well to match it, and when Shan catches Sig watching him, he lifts a black-lined lip in a grin, revealing sharp teeth, but then, they don't change; it's the same toothy grin Shan's always had.
And when he gets up and starts to run, Sig sees a plumed, silver tail. He knows Shan has a tail whatever shape he is, because the loose leather wrap-cloak-thing he wears lifts a bit at the back when he moves. Sig would rather die a slow and painful death by freezing than tell Shan he watches him this closely, but ...
He starts to trot, and then to canter, in order to keep up with the running werewolf. He briefly gets up to a gallop in order to catch him up, but settles down to a canter again in the end to keep alongside the werewolf.
'Where are we going?' he shouts against the rushing, icy wind, and he knows at that moment that they'll have to turn back eventually; his fur parka isn't going to be enough against this cold. It gets colder in the trees, he knows that, than it does on the tundra proper, but back in the forest they had shelter and they had fire.
Here all he's got is himself, and while he can keep himself warm pretty well for a while, it won't last. He's desertbred, after all. His hair won't keep out all this cold, even if his hooves'll cope with the snow. And they're not doing that so well anyway, he thinks, feeling the crusted surface break under his weight each time a hoof slams down and pushes him further on.
Shan looks back over his shoulder and barks, surging forward again. Sig has to break back into a gallop to match him.
It's snowing now, thick soft flakes that spangle Sig's mane. He flicks an ear to shift the snowflake that's perched on it, switches his tail as well for good measure. They stop finally when the snow's got thick enough that Shan's paws sink into it and stop him running, by which time Sig can't even pick up his hooves any more. The werewolf starts to circle, patting down the snow until he's in a hollow.
Sig slides to the ground and starts to help, only to be snapped at, so instead he digs into a snowdrift, trying to get enough of a hollow to be some shelter. But he only has two hands to dig with, and his hooves are no good for this.
Instead, while half of him digs, the other half leans into the snowbank and starts to melt it. He knows it's not the greatest plan; the ice-water will chill him quickly. But if he can get some shelter, he might warm up enough to make it through this blizzard, and he can drink the melted snow. The snow is falling faster and heavier now, and after a while he manages to dig into the drift enough so that it makes almost a snow-cave for him to shelter in. Shan has changed back now, and is sitting in his own shelter, staring.
Sig stares back, and then asks, again 'Where are we going?'
Shan shrugs. 'Not sure,' he says. 'Away. Away from there, at least.'
'We're going to have to circle round, then. It's too cold on the tundra, Shan.'
'We've got to stay away from the excise-men,' retorts the werewolf. 'Unless you fancy being shot?'
'We'll be able to skirt round them, it'll be fine. They can't go far in winter; they must have been village-hopping as it is to hit those Ersom this late in the season. A few more days and they'll be snowed in. Come on, you know I'm right.'
'I'm not going back. I can manage the snow. I can manage the cold.'
'Well, I can't,' says Sig, crossing his arms. 'And I'm going back to the treeline.'
'Fine,' spits Shan. 'You can go on your own, and much luck to you.'
The snow piles up between them, and they don't say another word until dawn.
When Sig rouses, snorting and flicking his ears and tail in order to clear the powdery white stuff from himself, he finds that Shan is gone, and the freshly fallen snow doesn't betray the direction he left in. There is a howl in the distance, but he pays it no mind; werewolves seldom howl, and then only when they're in packs. Shan is alone, and he has nothing to howl about.
'Fury take him,' spits Sig, mounting up and heading south-west, taking a curved path that'll bring him into the treeline a good bit west of the ruined Ersom village. He doesn't intend to be caught by Ersom or excise-men.
Or by anyone, for that matter. But only a few miles down into the trees he meets the last thing he wanted to; a hunting pack of tundra wolves, who've obviously retreated into the forest to follow their food sources; polar rabbits and shoveldeer, and to get away from the fishing bears and the ice bears.
There aren't many of them, but they growl menacingly and they have him surrounded. He stamps, jinks, kicks out at them. When one gets too close he rears, tries to bring his whole weight down on the creature, but it is too fast for him. They are getting nearer, and he cannot keep watching all of them.
There is no way out.
***
Shan is fourlegged and following the stars to perigee when he hears the howl go up. He tries to ignore it. Time is tight. But fourlegged is fourlegged and habits go with shapes. He pricks an ear back and listens in.
Dung. It's a hunt howl. Shan runs back through his mind desperately to think of something that the wolfpack could be hunting, something big enough to have their attention enough for a hunt. But this far into winter the deer are heading down to the forests to breed, and a pack wouldn't tangle with a fishing bear. It has to be the horse. That damned horse. Tundra is no place for a horse anyway. Shan keeps going. Just a horse. Sig will manage. He'll probably survive better without the thing tagging along.
But then Shan remembers the snow-cave, dug beside and built up around the horse, remembers the look on Sig's face, sleeping curled at its flank, remembers seeing them make eye contact and feeling so, so left out. So alone. Sig can't leave the horse, any more than Shan can spend the rest of his life one shape or another. Sig is the bloody horse, and the horse is Sig.
Cursing, Shan turns around.
The pack, when he gets there, is five half-starved tundra wolves. Cold, probably haven't eaten in a week. Sig is on the horse, looking even colder. The horse reeks of fear, and is stamping irritably, trying to keep the wolves at bay. Shan barks. The wolves turn. They know what he is. Their boss-dog whines. What's the horse to you? I'm hungry. We're hungry.
Mine, he growls. He puffs up his fur, looks bigger. He's dominant, normally they wouldn't test him, but they're really hungry. Really. He knows how they feel. Mine he says again, advancing on their boss-dog. Mine mine mine mine mine MINE MINE MINE! He lunges, grabbing their boss-dog by the scruff, whirling around and throwing him aside, spitting out the lump of fur that came away in his mouth, and lunging again.
It stands firm for the body blow, rolls away, catches Shan's muzzle in its jaws. He wrenches clear and growls, angry now. Somewhere, distantly, he is aware that he is bleeding now. His fur is nowhere near as thick as a tundra wolf's, he hasn't a ruff at all, if it goes for his throat he'll be done for.
But it doesn't matter, because although the blood is his, it's blood, and blood is something Shan likes. It's simple. There's only one conclusion to this, and that is that someone will win. He wants it to be him, and he throws himself at the wolf, grinning and slavering. He slams into it, carrying it to the ground, and his mouth finds the pulsing throat of the thing, and he is so close to biting, but at the last moment he pulls away.
Kill, says half of Shan's brain, smelling the warmth of the blood in the wolf. But the rest of him pushes the thought away. The wolves run when they realise he's not going to kill their boss-dog. Shan looks up at Sig, and shakes his head. He walks away, breaking into a lope when he realises the Ronahb is following him. He can't have it. Doesn't the fool realise he's dangerous? He's as likely to try and eat Sig as those wolves were, or will be, in a couple of days. Horsemeat is good eating, and he's going to be desperate.
He's also going to be mad, unless he can make it to perigee in time. He looks at the moon, and feels a sinking feeling in his belly. Even if he knew where he was going better, he'd never make it. That moon is full. Ringtide's tonight. If he can't get to perigee, he's damned and doomed and done for, mad as a rabbit with sunstroke. And the stars are fading as the day begins in earnest, taking away his only method of navigating.
Damned and doomed. Damned and doomed and doomed and damned, Shan's going to lose his mind and he'll never get it back, he'll eat his only friend and revel in it before he dies. He's seen mad ones before, and they scratch and they bite themselves, and they eat snow, and they stare at the sun, and in the end they die, soulless, in the cold.
It's not far, it can't be far now, it's only early morning, he has time. He knows he can make it, he knows the way now. He strains and yearns and pushes, faster and faster and faster, feet making a dull drumming noise on the permafrost and though he knows he's drooling into the wind, knows his feet are blistering and cracking on the rough ground and that he's leaving blood trail, it feels so good to run. It never felt this good before he hit the edge.
He knows he's teetering, knows he's falling, but it's going to be alright. He's so close.
An hour later, he knows he's not close enough. The stars are gone now, and the landmarks he knows aren't getting any closer. Distance is deceptive on the permafrost, he knows that. Knew it. Ought to know it, at least. Used to, anyway.
Damned, doomed, and soulless is Shan, the mad wolf. See him froth and see him fall, for it's only a matter of time, he can feel it now. Feel it flying, falling, following him. He runs through the day, runs through the night, and eventually he falls to the ground before the moon's height, exhausted and with a trail of bloody pawprints behind him; rough ice has torn his pads to shreds.
He sleeps - he hasn't a choice - and as he does so, the moon rises in the sky, full and round and perfect. And a howl goes up, northwards, and a shadow slides over its face, leaving a ring of light, the tiniest hairline circle, to light the snow. The werewolf rolls over and whimpers, as the magic that holds him steady finally shivers and breaks.
The next morning, there's a horse standing over him. He only notices when its shadow cuts off the weak morning sun on his face. Wriggling, yawning, and then suddenly snapping to wakefulness, he recognises the horse.
'You can't stay,' says Shan, glaring at Sig. 'You shouldn't have followed me.'
'You saved my life.' The human half of Sig comes out into view, and puts his hands on his hips. 'From those wolves.'
'Not so that you could throw it away tagging after me.'
'What's wrong with tagging after you? Safety in numbers, and all.'
'You and your horse were never made for tundra. I'm heading north, deep north. I have to get to perigee.'
'I'll be fine, I've got big hooves. They'll be like, like snowshoes.'
'You're being stupid.'
'I'd rather stick with you than go back to the wolves, if that's what you mean by stupid.'
'That's exactly what I mean by stupid. I'm worse than wolves, you moron. At least a wolf is only going to eat you!' Shan glares fiercely at Sig, and then looks away. In a quieter voice he says. 'I told you, I'm going mad. I wasn't lying, or joking, or whatever else it is humans do when there's something bad looming. I missed the ringtide. I'm going to lose my mind. I can feel it going. Don't you understand?' His expression is pleading.
'I don't,' says Sig quietly. 'Are you going to explain?'
'I can try, but I can't promise you'll understand. Look, it's ... I have two shapes, yes?'
'Yes, but-'
'The same mind, the same- Shan waves his hands frustratedly. 'The same ... way of thinking, I guess you'd call it. It doesn't work both ways. There are things I can do, automatic things, when I'm twolegged that I can't do when I'm fourlegged, cos my body just won't, and, and it's the same the other way round. My mind has to change with my body, to make it all work, and ...' He looks hunted.
'I- We- There's, its ... it's hard, understand? It's hard to be two things, even when you're one. We're all a little unpredictable, you must have noticed it, you have to have seen- We were getting close to mad, closer every day, when you ran with us. And every year, shortest day, we have to be at perigee. The closer to the moon, the less changing hurts, and perigee's best of all. Some packs live there all year. But we all, all of us, every pack, we meet up there on the shortest day, and then the magic happens. You desert types, you have magic, I've seen it. Wind magic, fire magic. Droy augurs can call the birds from the trees. You have earth magic, horse magic. Werewolves? All our magic comes from the moon, goes into keeping us all whole. Goes into the change. We call it the tide, sometimes. Pulls at the sea - I saw the sea once, you know - pulls at the sap in the trees, places where there are trees. Pulls at our bones, too. Full moon comes, we've got to change, change or be ripped apart. Moontide's cruel. But the eclipse, that's special. Moon's not gone, just shadowed. There's a circle of light, you know,' Shan stares up into the sky, and smiles. He looks mad - he looks wild. He looks beautiful, thinks Sig, gilded in morning light and desperation.
'It's beautiful. Most beautiful thing there is. The ringtide. The ringtide keeps us together. That moment, you feel the light pouring into your head, making you whole ... that's magic. That's true magic.' Watching his friend, Sig thinks he knows what Shan means. And then the werewolf's face twists, and the look he turns on the Ronahb is bereft. 'And I missed it,' Shan whispers. 'I missed it...'
Sig can't help, it he reaches out and pulls the werewolf into the circle of his arms, leaning against the bulk of his horse-body, warm in spite of the snow beneath them. Shan's head nestles on Sig's shoulder, and he feels the werewolf's tears soak through his parka after a while.
Interaction with non-Ronahb is always difficult - they persist in seeing you as a man with a horse, and it makes things difficult, but Shan snuggles into the warm spot between Sig's horse-flank and man-shoulder, and turns his tear-streaked face up to Sig's. 'Might as well gut me now,' he whispers. 'I'll only-'
Sig holds Shan's face, staring into his eyes, willing him not to do this, not to go to pieces. Shan struggles to get out of Sig's arms, and nearly runs away before he's stopped by horsy teeth clamping gently on his shoulder, and one gentle brown eye regarding him solemnly. Sig turns Shan around to face his human body, and says, pleadingly, 'Is that what you think I'd do?'
'It's what you should do,' mutters Shan, but he reaches out to Sig anyway. 'If you had any brains.'
The werewolf doesn't cry - Sig isn't sure he can - but dry sobs wrack his body. Sig holds him, trying to banish the fear of madness.
'Shh,' he says, over and over. 'I won't let you.' He doesn't know what it is, exactly, he won't let Shan do. After all, Shan never actually said. But he won't let it happen, all the same.
When the moon reaches its height that night, it lights on two young creatures entangled in each others' arms, and a horse standing drowsing over them. When the horse dozily flicks off an opportunistic fly, the face of the youth with the blond hair twitches. They both smile in their sleep, and press closer to each other, for warmth and for reassurance.
***
Next installment will feature TWO WHOLE NEW CHARACTERS! Bringing my cast up to FOUR! MARVEL at my mad storytelling skillz!
Yes, I know it's bleak. It's a bleak story. I also know that Sig's confusing. Believe me I know. I'm confused by how to write him without making him sound like a man with a speshul pony. But I have thoughts on that subject, mostly along the lines of having the human body injured in some way and forcing the horse body to carry the action. Ahem. But that's for later.
*stops babbling and runs away to hide under her rock, with her fingers stuck in her ears, singing 'Jerusalem'*
Author: Trojie
Rating: PG (blood, violence) Pre-slash
Notes: This leaves off right where the last one ended. It hasn't been betaed, unless you count me staring at it and rewriting bits for several months as 'betaed'. Even Bridget hasn't looked at it (cue GASP! from f-list). So, you've got comments? Typos, bad sentences, things that don't make sense, stylistic comments ... anything you have to say, I desperately want it.
The moss underfoot is crackly with frost when Shan slithers off the horse into an undignified heap. Sig looks down on him with undisguised amusement, and the horse's teeth sink into Shan's leather-clad shoulder and pull him back to his feet.
'Sore?' asks Sig, and dismounts with a modicum more grace. The werewolf is gazing back towards the blazing taiga when he feels blunt fingers start digging into his back. He whips around.
'What?' asks Sig, surprised. 'Doesn't make it feel better?'
'It's not that bad,' says Shan gruffly, batting away the Ronahb's hand. 'Aches anyway. Look, we should keep moving.'
'You think they'll chase us? They're only Ersom.' And Sig's expression is full of the nomad's contempt for people who'd stay still all their lives.
'Wasn't Ersom who fired the trees, dung-brain. I think we may have just interrupted an excise-raid. Uniforms, steel weapons? And ponies with shoes.'
'Ponies with shoes won't get far on permafrost,' says Sig, 'But I've practically got snowshoes.' The horse lifts one plate-sized hoof as if to illustrate. He grins, and in a blink is mounted again. He extends a hand down to Shan. 'Coming up?'
The werewolf shakes his head, and shuffles his leather cloak off, handing it to the Ronahb. 'You carry this,' he says, crouching down. 'And I'll make my own way.' With that he changes.
***
Sig can't help but stare at Shan. A werewolf changing is the oddest sight he's ever seen, still, even after years of winters amongst them. First they sit, or crouch, getting all four limbs on the ground, and Sig always notices how short and stubby Shan's fingers are when he does this, because he stretches them and wriggles them, and the short, blunt, black claw-nails that tip them become longer as the Ronahb watches. And the fine hair that covers his limbs gets longer, thicker as it happens.
And by this point his face is changing; werewolves have sloping faces anyway, pushed forward on their necks, long jaws, long noses, but now Shan's face is thrusting forward, his jaw is elongating, his nose as well to match it, and when Shan catches Sig watching him, he lifts a black-lined lip in a grin, revealing sharp teeth, but then, they don't change; it's the same toothy grin Shan's always had.
And when he gets up and starts to run, Sig sees a plumed, silver tail. He knows Shan has a tail whatever shape he is, because the loose leather wrap-cloak-thing he wears lifts a bit at the back when he moves. Sig would rather die a slow and painful death by freezing than tell Shan he watches him this closely, but ...
He starts to trot, and then to canter, in order to keep up with the running werewolf. He briefly gets up to a gallop in order to catch him up, but settles down to a canter again in the end to keep alongside the werewolf.
'Where are we going?' he shouts against the rushing, icy wind, and he knows at that moment that they'll have to turn back eventually; his fur parka isn't going to be enough against this cold. It gets colder in the trees, he knows that, than it does on the tundra proper, but back in the forest they had shelter and they had fire.
Here all he's got is himself, and while he can keep himself warm pretty well for a while, it won't last. He's desertbred, after all. His hair won't keep out all this cold, even if his hooves'll cope with the snow. And they're not doing that so well anyway, he thinks, feeling the crusted surface break under his weight each time a hoof slams down and pushes him further on.
Shan looks back over his shoulder and barks, surging forward again. Sig has to break back into a gallop to match him.
It's snowing now, thick soft flakes that spangle Sig's mane. He flicks an ear to shift the snowflake that's perched on it, switches his tail as well for good measure. They stop finally when the snow's got thick enough that Shan's paws sink into it and stop him running, by which time Sig can't even pick up his hooves any more. The werewolf starts to circle, patting down the snow until he's in a hollow.
Sig slides to the ground and starts to help, only to be snapped at, so instead he digs into a snowdrift, trying to get enough of a hollow to be some shelter. But he only has two hands to dig with, and his hooves are no good for this.
Instead, while half of him digs, the other half leans into the snowbank and starts to melt it. He knows it's not the greatest plan; the ice-water will chill him quickly. But if he can get some shelter, he might warm up enough to make it through this blizzard, and he can drink the melted snow. The snow is falling faster and heavier now, and after a while he manages to dig into the drift enough so that it makes almost a snow-cave for him to shelter in. Shan has changed back now, and is sitting in his own shelter, staring.
Sig stares back, and then asks, again 'Where are we going?'
Shan shrugs. 'Not sure,' he says. 'Away. Away from there, at least.'
'We're going to have to circle round, then. It's too cold on the tundra, Shan.'
'We've got to stay away from the excise-men,' retorts the werewolf. 'Unless you fancy being shot?'
'We'll be able to skirt round them, it'll be fine. They can't go far in winter; they must have been village-hopping as it is to hit those Ersom this late in the season. A few more days and they'll be snowed in. Come on, you know I'm right.'
'I'm not going back. I can manage the snow. I can manage the cold.'
'Well, I can't,' says Sig, crossing his arms. 'And I'm going back to the treeline.'
'Fine,' spits Shan. 'You can go on your own, and much luck to you.'
The snow piles up between them, and they don't say another word until dawn.
When Sig rouses, snorting and flicking his ears and tail in order to clear the powdery white stuff from himself, he finds that Shan is gone, and the freshly fallen snow doesn't betray the direction he left in. There is a howl in the distance, but he pays it no mind; werewolves seldom howl, and then only when they're in packs. Shan is alone, and he has nothing to howl about.
'Fury take him,' spits Sig, mounting up and heading south-west, taking a curved path that'll bring him into the treeline a good bit west of the ruined Ersom village. He doesn't intend to be caught by Ersom or excise-men.
Or by anyone, for that matter. But only a few miles down into the trees he meets the last thing he wanted to; a hunting pack of tundra wolves, who've obviously retreated into the forest to follow their food sources; polar rabbits and shoveldeer, and to get away from the fishing bears and the ice bears.
There aren't many of them, but they growl menacingly and they have him surrounded. He stamps, jinks, kicks out at them. When one gets too close he rears, tries to bring his whole weight down on the creature, but it is too fast for him. They are getting nearer, and he cannot keep watching all of them.
There is no way out.
***
Shan is fourlegged and following the stars to perigee when he hears the howl go up. He tries to ignore it. Time is tight. But fourlegged is fourlegged and habits go with shapes. He pricks an ear back and listens in.
Dung. It's a hunt howl. Shan runs back through his mind desperately to think of something that the wolfpack could be hunting, something big enough to have their attention enough for a hunt. But this far into winter the deer are heading down to the forests to breed, and a pack wouldn't tangle with a fishing bear. It has to be the horse. That damned horse. Tundra is no place for a horse anyway. Shan keeps going. Just a horse. Sig will manage. He'll probably survive better without the thing tagging along.
But then Shan remembers the snow-cave, dug beside and built up around the horse, remembers the look on Sig's face, sleeping curled at its flank, remembers seeing them make eye contact and feeling so, so left out. So alone. Sig can't leave the horse, any more than Shan can spend the rest of his life one shape or another. Sig is the bloody horse, and the horse is Sig.
Cursing, Shan turns around.
The pack, when he gets there, is five half-starved tundra wolves. Cold, probably haven't eaten in a week. Sig is on the horse, looking even colder. The horse reeks of fear, and is stamping irritably, trying to keep the wolves at bay. Shan barks. The wolves turn. They know what he is. Their boss-dog whines. What's the horse to you? I'm hungry. We're hungry.
Mine, he growls. He puffs up his fur, looks bigger. He's dominant, normally they wouldn't test him, but they're really hungry. Really. He knows how they feel. Mine he says again, advancing on their boss-dog. Mine mine mine mine mine MINE MINE MINE! He lunges, grabbing their boss-dog by the scruff, whirling around and throwing him aside, spitting out the lump of fur that came away in his mouth, and lunging again.
It stands firm for the body blow, rolls away, catches Shan's muzzle in its jaws. He wrenches clear and growls, angry now. Somewhere, distantly, he is aware that he is bleeding now. His fur is nowhere near as thick as a tundra wolf's, he hasn't a ruff at all, if it goes for his throat he'll be done for.
But it doesn't matter, because although the blood is his, it's blood, and blood is something Shan likes. It's simple. There's only one conclusion to this, and that is that someone will win. He wants it to be him, and he throws himself at the wolf, grinning and slavering. He slams into it, carrying it to the ground, and his mouth finds the pulsing throat of the thing, and he is so close to biting, but at the last moment he pulls away.
Kill, says half of Shan's brain, smelling the warmth of the blood in the wolf. But the rest of him pushes the thought away. The wolves run when they realise he's not going to kill their boss-dog. Shan looks up at Sig, and shakes his head. He walks away, breaking into a lope when he realises the Ronahb is following him. He can't have it. Doesn't the fool realise he's dangerous? He's as likely to try and eat Sig as those wolves were, or will be, in a couple of days. Horsemeat is good eating, and he's going to be desperate.
He's also going to be mad, unless he can make it to perigee in time. He looks at the moon, and feels a sinking feeling in his belly. Even if he knew where he was going better, he'd never make it. That moon is full. Ringtide's tonight. If he can't get to perigee, he's damned and doomed and done for, mad as a rabbit with sunstroke. And the stars are fading as the day begins in earnest, taking away his only method of navigating.
Damned and doomed. Damned and doomed and doomed and damned, Shan's going to lose his mind and he'll never get it back, he'll eat his only friend and revel in it before he dies. He's seen mad ones before, and they scratch and they bite themselves, and they eat snow, and they stare at the sun, and in the end they die, soulless, in the cold.
It's not far, it can't be far now, it's only early morning, he has time. He knows he can make it, he knows the way now. He strains and yearns and pushes, faster and faster and faster, feet making a dull drumming noise on the permafrost and though he knows he's drooling into the wind, knows his feet are blistering and cracking on the rough ground and that he's leaving blood trail, it feels so good to run. It never felt this good before he hit the edge.
He knows he's teetering, knows he's falling, but it's going to be alright. He's so close.
An hour later, he knows he's not close enough. The stars are gone now, and the landmarks he knows aren't getting any closer. Distance is deceptive on the permafrost, he knows that. Knew it. Ought to know it, at least. Used to, anyway.
Damned, doomed, and soulless is Shan, the mad wolf. See him froth and see him fall, for it's only a matter of time, he can feel it now. Feel it flying, falling, following him. He runs through the day, runs through the night, and eventually he falls to the ground before the moon's height, exhausted and with a trail of bloody pawprints behind him; rough ice has torn his pads to shreds.
He sleeps - he hasn't a choice - and as he does so, the moon rises in the sky, full and round and perfect. And a howl goes up, northwards, and a shadow slides over its face, leaving a ring of light, the tiniest hairline circle, to light the snow. The werewolf rolls over and whimpers, as the magic that holds him steady finally shivers and breaks.
The next morning, there's a horse standing over him. He only notices when its shadow cuts off the weak morning sun on his face. Wriggling, yawning, and then suddenly snapping to wakefulness, he recognises the horse.
'You can't stay,' says Shan, glaring at Sig. 'You shouldn't have followed me.'
'You saved my life.' The human half of Sig comes out into view, and puts his hands on his hips. 'From those wolves.'
'Not so that you could throw it away tagging after me.'
'What's wrong with tagging after you? Safety in numbers, and all.'
'You and your horse were never made for tundra. I'm heading north, deep north. I have to get to perigee.'
'I'll be fine, I've got big hooves. They'll be like, like snowshoes.'
'You're being stupid.'
'I'd rather stick with you than go back to the wolves, if that's what you mean by stupid.'
'That's exactly what I mean by stupid. I'm worse than wolves, you moron. At least a wolf is only going to eat you!' Shan glares fiercely at Sig, and then looks away. In a quieter voice he says. 'I told you, I'm going mad. I wasn't lying, or joking, or whatever else it is humans do when there's something bad looming. I missed the ringtide. I'm going to lose my mind. I can feel it going. Don't you understand?' His expression is pleading.
'I don't,' says Sig quietly. 'Are you going to explain?'
'I can try, but I can't promise you'll understand. Look, it's ... I have two shapes, yes?'
'Yes, but-'
'The same mind, the same- Shan waves his hands frustratedly. 'The same ... way of thinking, I guess you'd call it. It doesn't work both ways. There are things I can do, automatic things, when I'm twolegged that I can't do when I'm fourlegged, cos my body just won't, and, and it's the same the other way round. My mind has to change with my body, to make it all work, and ...' He looks hunted.
'I- We- There's, its ... it's hard, understand? It's hard to be two things, even when you're one. We're all a little unpredictable, you must have noticed it, you have to have seen- We were getting close to mad, closer every day, when you ran with us. And every year, shortest day, we have to be at perigee. The closer to the moon, the less changing hurts, and perigee's best of all. Some packs live there all year. But we all, all of us, every pack, we meet up there on the shortest day, and then the magic happens. You desert types, you have magic, I've seen it. Wind magic, fire magic. Droy augurs can call the birds from the trees. You have earth magic, horse magic. Werewolves? All our magic comes from the moon, goes into keeping us all whole. Goes into the change. We call it the tide, sometimes. Pulls at the sea - I saw the sea once, you know - pulls at the sap in the trees, places where there are trees. Pulls at our bones, too. Full moon comes, we've got to change, change or be ripped apart. Moontide's cruel. But the eclipse, that's special. Moon's not gone, just shadowed. There's a circle of light, you know,' Shan stares up into the sky, and smiles. He looks mad - he looks wild. He looks beautiful, thinks Sig, gilded in morning light and desperation.
'It's beautiful. Most beautiful thing there is. The ringtide. The ringtide keeps us together. That moment, you feel the light pouring into your head, making you whole ... that's magic. That's true magic.' Watching his friend, Sig thinks he knows what Shan means. And then the werewolf's face twists, and the look he turns on the Ronahb is bereft. 'And I missed it,' Shan whispers. 'I missed it...'
Sig can't help, it he reaches out and pulls the werewolf into the circle of his arms, leaning against the bulk of his horse-body, warm in spite of the snow beneath them. Shan's head nestles on Sig's shoulder, and he feels the werewolf's tears soak through his parka after a while.
Interaction with non-Ronahb is always difficult - they persist in seeing you as a man with a horse, and it makes things difficult, but Shan snuggles into the warm spot between Sig's horse-flank and man-shoulder, and turns his tear-streaked face up to Sig's. 'Might as well gut me now,' he whispers. 'I'll only-'
Sig holds Shan's face, staring into his eyes, willing him not to do this, not to go to pieces. Shan struggles to get out of Sig's arms, and nearly runs away before he's stopped by horsy teeth clamping gently on his shoulder, and one gentle brown eye regarding him solemnly. Sig turns Shan around to face his human body, and says, pleadingly, 'Is that what you think I'd do?'
'It's what you should do,' mutters Shan, but he reaches out to Sig anyway. 'If you had any brains.'
The werewolf doesn't cry - Sig isn't sure he can - but dry sobs wrack his body. Sig holds him, trying to banish the fear of madness.
'Shh,' he says, over and over. 'I won't let you.' He doesn't know what it is, exactly, he won't let Shan do. After all, Shan never actually said. But he won't let it happen, all the same.
When the moon reaches its height that night, it lights on two young creatures entangled in each others' arms, and a horse standing drowsing over them. When the horse dozily flicks off an opportunistic fly, the face of the youth with the blond hair twitches. They both smile in their sleep, and press closer to each other, for warmth and for reassurance.
***
Next installment will feature TWO WHOLE NEW CHARACTERS! Bringing my cast up to FOUR! MARVEL at my mad storytelling skillz!
Yes, I know it's bleak. It's a bleak story. I also know that Sig's confusing. Believe me I know. I'm confused by how to write him without making him sound like a man with a speshul pony. But I have thoughts on that subject, mostly along the lines of having the human body injured in some way and forcing the horse body to carry the action. Ahem. But that's for later.
*stops babbling and runs away to hide under her rock, with her fingers stuck in her ears, singing 'Jerusalem'*
