Sunday, March 21, 2010

He stood in front of the Fruited Plain, a haunted figure in tattered clothing, staring at the door as though, for all the world, it was going to come out of that frame and bite him.

The impression wasn’t given so much by the nervousness of his expression ­ though that was certainly there ­ or by the subtle shake of his hand. No, this impression came from the glances up and down the street, the wiping of sweaty palms on tattered jacket, and the soft muttering through clenched teeth, steeling his nerves for what was to come. An internal pep talk, as it were.

He was, honestly, hoping that she was still home, and still wanted to talk to him. He hoped the children weren’t desperately interested in telling him how terrible he was. Mostly, however, he hoped she didn’t have the shotgun.

Or if she did, she’d miss.

June, 2009

He looked over the paltry sum of his necessities, and then up at Stacee’s door, comforted in the soft sound of her breathing, and the apparent absence of a nightmare thus far. A deep breath, to steady himself ­ and a look around the apartment that so defined his life.

Boxes still unpacked, yes ­ but there just never seemed to be any hurry to do so. A few children’s toys, stacked carefully in the corner where they’d be out of the way. The kitchen was spotless, for once, save for the few things he’d tossed on the counters.

It was then that he started to realize just how much she didn’t need him.

No, it wasn’t that, it was… that she was stronger than he. He looked down at his hands, and sighed, softly, /Killing Creed was a necessity. A good work. It fixes nothing. Having me here is a blessing and a curse, now; she looks in my eyes and remembers what I am, and I know what she thinks of me now./ He reached over then, touching the scrap of folded paper that had come in last week’s mail. /I should tell them no ­ there are others better suited for such work. None so close, perhaps, but../ A quiet sigh then, and a shake of his head, loose hair falling down around his face, framing the letter in his view. /But I harm her for being here, and I don’t know how to help her. And, Gaia help me… nothing I do can touch her. So then what? The enemy is dead, the watchers keep her safe, and this old wolf hovers around her shoulders like a ghost, overprotective and overwrought./

A glance at her door again, a soft, sad smile. /Useless, I am, as usual./

He picked up the note, crumpling it into a loose ball, and stuffing it down into the side pocket of his tattered coat. Next the knife, tucked in at the base of his spine ­ glittering silver reflecting the moon crazily as the ancient blade settled into its usual spot. The old wolf felt strangely comforted by that.

A ballcap to hold the hair out of his face, and a pen, hastily set to a sticky note from one of the pads on the counter next to the refrigerator. “I’ll be home soon. ­ Rael”

He crossed into the Plain, somehow comforted that his key still worked in the old lock. Wiping sweaty palms against dirt-stiff jeans, a quiet sniff of the air made him realize just how long it had been since he’d had a bath.

Downstairs then, and into the laundry, a sponge-bath and groom, shivering in his underwear at the utility sink while jeans and shirt washed cold and tumbled dry just like the labels said. Pulling them on was bliss, dryer-warm and comforting, but a bliss noticed only in passing as an unusual luxury, his thoughts ranging ahead.

/Three stories up. Sixty feet at most./

August, 2009

/Some errand. You owe me, Allen./ The black wolf sprinted across the sun-baked sand, the sound of the ululating Dancer’s hunting howl echoing around him. In his mind’s voice, he twisted his own thoughts into a sarcastic mockery of the Philodox’s voice: /Just cross the desert, keep heading west, you can drop the message off in a week./ If snorting didn’t cost breath, the old wolf would have. /Bastard./

A jig to the left, and the gift of speed sent him blurring across the open stretch in front of the mesa, a clinical part of his mind noting just how pretty the desert really was at midday. /Must bring Stacee and the children ­ they’d love the view. I wonder if they’ve seen the Grand Canyon yet?/ A quick feint left, and the whistling arrow missed, thudding deep into the ground nearby. /It wouldn’t be that bad a trip, really.. a few weeks at most/.

The black wolf ducked then into a low cut in the rock spires nearby, taking a moment to catch his breath as the closest hunter stumbled past, half blind in the bright sun, snarling and frothing green from the exertion. /Yes, yes! Runs-on-the-Clouds owes me his cabin anyway, and Allen can foot the bill. I think that would do nicely./

A quick sprint, at an angle this time, tangling his scent in that of the Dancer’s and taking off at a new angle, a flat run that ate the hundred yards to the rocky scree of the mesa’s edge in no time. /I’ll give him a call when I get to Youma./

The cat brought him up short at the door; something that definitely didn’t fit into his picture of what the Fruited Plain was supposed to have in it, at the moment. A welcome diversion from dithering on which door to knock on first, and which one was least likely to rip his head off.

A glance then, between the two doors ­ his own, and Sue’s. He swallowed.

November, 2009

/Snow/. A long-suffering sigh, as Rael’s thin shape shivered under the wooly skin the local sept had offered him to keep warm for the moot. /Why does it //always// have to be snow. And why is it that, every time something cold and wet falls out of the sky, it falls on me?/ He shrugged deeper into the skin, watching the fire, and the Stargazers around it, with a certain detached interest. /Of course, old wolf, you could be home, instead of on a bare mountaintop with people who, while kind, don’t have the sense to wear warm clothes/. He smiled, then, wryly.

During the procession down the mountain, he fell into a discussion with the pack’s Theurge, a young Garou with that odd, overwise and placid expression that the Stargazers seemed to earn after a few years. He came away resolved to stay a bit longer. /cold and wet maybe ­ but there’s something here I need to know yet/.

He decided between the two doors, and raised a hand, knocking softly.

One last deep breath to steady himself.

February, 2010.

The old wolf straightened, working out a kink in his back and popping knuckles rubbed raw and red from the soapy water in the bucket by his feet.

The well-worn scrub brush hit the water in that bucket with a tinny splash, a soft chuckle escaping Rael despite the aches.

/I don’t think the old seal has ever been quite that clean. At least ­ not that I’ve seen./

Around him, the bustle of the Wheel was mirrored only by the bustle of the marketplace in the city below. Mingled shouts of Arabic and French crossed with the busy conversation in a dozen other languages as the Wheel continued to turn, Garou from all corners of the Tellurian coming and going on their missions.

The Old Wolf smiled as he watched a pack of younger Garou head for the heart of the Wheel, their conversation turning to rampant speculation on what they’d be able to do in the Amazon. /They’ll need that enthusiasm there/, he thought, golden eyes following them, /but it’s good to see./ He knew that Sufi would be leaving soon too, and in watching the youngsters pile through the portal arch, he resolved to catch her for a drink or two before she left. /Perhaps I can get her to tell me about that new caern in the Urals again. Might have time to visit before all is said and done. Not that I’ll have much time away ­ but I can head east soon enough, and who knows when we’ll have the chance again?/

He grinned, and scooped up the bucket, pausing to halfheartedly scold a youngster who hadn’t paid attention to the mud on his boots, his mind not really on the scolding, so much as the earned beer.

He didn’t notice the owl circling above him.

March, 2010.

He smelled the familiar pines of Manchester long before the city came into view, fur flat against his face as he ran, full out, muscles stretching as he rode the moon home. The dreams had been too vivid, the sudden /need/ to be back almost overpowering, and impossible to deny.

He knew it was close to Stacee’s time, and going over the days mentally, he cursed himself for a fool. /I hope I’m there before it’s all done.

Whatever’s happening, it’s only just begun, and this is the tip of it. Gaia speed my feet./

The wolf slipped into the shadows of the wood near the Trust, even as clouds covered the philodox moon.

/And that shotgun had better be somewhere my wife can’t get to it./