Chapter Text
Frix is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the afternoon, so much so that it is Eilika’s turn to wonder whether she has said the wrong thing or asked too many personal questions. However, despite the abatement of their conversation, Eilika doesn’t once feel frozen out by Frix the way she does whenever her mother becomes irritated and punishes everyone in her proximity with an icy silent treatment.
As they continue, silently, on their journey, the same warmth and companionable energy remains between them, with Frix gently placing a paw at the small of Eilika’s back to help guide her across unstable, rocky terrain, or being there to catch her when she stumbles back, losing her footing as they navigate over the large trunks of fallen trees on the forest floor, and Eilika insisting on preening him, carefully removing burrs and dried leaves from his bushy tail whenever they emerge out of the more densely overgrown patches of brushwood.
But, given the overarching silence, Eilika becomes preoccupied by her daydreams. Lately, as she has been able to frequently enjoy running her hands over his soft fur under the guise of helping to keep it unmatted, she begins to wonder what Frix’s normal grooming routine is when he is at home. She imagines it is quite thorough, as he is usually so tidy and well presented, with a healthy, shining coat, neat braids below his ears, and sharp, buffed claws. She would very much like – if he would allow it – to help him brush his fur and plait his mane some day.
Then, her thoughts turn to her own personal hygiene, and she is acutely aware that she has not been able to cleanse herself properly for days. She hopes Frix has not been repulsed by her odour or soiled garments, but is thankful that the weather has remained temperate enough that she has never truly worked up a sweat, and the worst soiling on her kirtle had been removed anyway, when Frix had ripped away the lower parts of her skirts.
She makes a mental note that the next time they come across an appropriate body of water, she should avail herself of the opportunity to bathe, and hopes that Frix has some kind of soap or talc or scented oil in his satchel that she may use to help herself feel refreshed.
Next, she begins to wonder what sort of homes wolfkin live in where they dwell in the Western Willulf Woodlands in Giryn. Would they reside in caves? Or tents? Or perhaps they live in cottages much like human homes, made from timber, stone or brick, but built on a larger scale to accommodate the greater size of their inhabitants, with bigger rooms and higher ceilings and door frames. This, she thinks, would be a very appropriate question to ask Frix when he becomes talkative again, as it is one he would surely be happy to answer, given it is nowhere near as personal as the queries she’d had about his species’ reproductive habits.
Eilika is just beginning to wonder whether wolven villages would have the usual sort of utilities found in human towns; wells and watermills and trading posts and markets, when she runs into the back of Frix who has come to a sudden stop.
‘Oof,’ she grunts inelegantly, then looks up at him to add, ‘sorry.’
But Frix merely wraps an arm around her, holding her against his solid body to steady her, letting her regain her balance, and she huddles closer, relishing the contact.
‘We might stop here for the night,’ he says, ‘what do you think?’
Eilika looks about her, realising that, having been lost in her own head for several hours, she’d not noticed that the sun is now low in the sky. They have come to a pretty forest glade where a level, mossy meadow is shaded beneath the canopies of a ring of maple trees.
‘It’s wonderful,’ she says.
The lush, enchanting enclave presents the perfect place to camp, with the promise of good foraging potential amidst the herbage and delicate, leafy ferns in the abundant undergrowth. However, there is no stream or rivulet nearby.
Eilika sighs, deferring her plans of a bath, and Frix seems to read her thoughts.
‘No fish for dinner tonight,’ he says, removing his pack and resting it against the wide trunk of one of the maple trees.
‘No,’ Eilika agrees.
‘Have you ever used your crossbow to catch a rabbit?’ he asks, looking at where she has the weapon trussed to her pack.
‘I have, many a time,’ she says, lowering the pack, pulling off her sack and satchel, and unstrapping the crossbow.
‘Want to swap jobs this evening?’ he suggests. ‘You see if you can catch us a rabbit, while I start a fire and look around for any other edibles?’
Eilika flashes him a wide smile in response, exceedingly pleased to be given the chance to make a meaningful contribution by providing a meal for them just as Frix had done the night prior.
‘Yes,’ she says decisively, finally emerging from the hazy fog of absentmindedness she’d felt she’d been under for the past few hours, no longer feeling sluggish or distracted.
‘Very good,’ says Frix, locating an area on the ground free of grass and moss where he can build a fire, and beginning to clear it until there is nothing left but bare dirt.
Eilika slings the crossbow over her shoulder, secures the quiver on the belt worn at her waist, and begins to stride away from the clearing.
Seeing her with her back turned, marching away so determinedly, Frix experiences a tremor of fear. He had not scented any trace of the dämonbär here, nor had he sensed any other signs of danger, which was why he’d been satisfied to make camp in this grove. But, with every cubit she puts between them, forging further away from him into the forest, the mate-bond flails and howls within, warning him not to allow it.
Stupid, he tells himself. Be still. Be calm. She’s wily and watchful and perfectly sensible. She doesn’t need me on her heels at all times, monitoring her like some oafish, slobbering watchdog.
Aware though, of how easy it is to lose track of distance when one is focused on a target, on the hunt, and moreover, eager to appease the beast within, he is compelled to say something.
‘Be mindful not to stray too far, kleine,’ her calls after her, his voice soft with concern. ‘You needn’t worry if you can’t catch anything. We have plenty of provisions to eat.’
She turns back to nod in acknowledgement, grinning and waving, before setting off through the derbrush in search of their dinner.
Thoroughly used to living a life of luxury and privilege, Eilika’s father had always been a rather rakish, indolent individual. Apart from developing an unexpected interest in woodwork upon becoming poor, he had never been moved to take up any other hobbies or pursuits. As such, he has no clue about hunting, nor any other outdoor activities. Instead, Eilika has learned all she knows about the sport from her brothers, who’d taken to it out of necessity once they were old enough, as was the custom of all the young men in her village.
Though Eilika is the first born, and by far the most prudent of the bunch, her brothers have always had the infuriating habit of frequently disregarding her instructions and requests on account of her sex.
For the longest time, the two eldest, Ailbern and Emrich, had been strongly opposed to her joining them on the hunt. It had been her youngest brother, Gilgen – the one with whom she’d always had the best rapport – who’d finally convinced his siblings to allow her to accompany them.
She had been an avid tutee. Rabbits, in particular, were an agreeable quarry, and thus were regularly on offer at the family table. Their meat was lean and tasty, and Eilika’s mother had become quite creative at using them in all manner of dishes. She would boil them, braise them, roast them, use them in soups and stews and pies, and make broths with their bones. Best of all, they were always in plentiful supply.
Hunting rabbits has therefore become almost second nature to Eilika. She understands their behaviour and ways of responding when frightened. She has learned their preferred habitats, and how to draw them out. As such, she moves slowly and quietly now, zig-zagging through the woods, pausing frequently to scan her surroundings with her bow loaded and at the ready.
She checks all the right places, searching any areas that would provide the little critters the coverage they required; dense vegetation, thick brush, shrubs, piles of leaves, and hollowed out trunks of ancient, fallen trees.
But, despite her skill and eagerness, Eilika is unsuccessful. The woods seem completely still and quiet – eerily so – as if she were the only life form there. Certainly, there are no rabbits, nor anything else suitable. No hares, squirrels, quail, pheasants, or grouse. And, though she does not sense any imminent threat, something is not quite right. She has searched for half an hour, and, aware of how far she has ventured away from camp already, Frix’s words echo in her mind. She will not go any further.
She is about to admit defeat, to turn, and go back empty handed, when she sees something impossible, yet seemingly indisputable to her eyes. Before her, on the forest floor, within a wide ring of toadstools, Frix, lays dead. His great body, unmistakable in its shape, form and colouring, is sprawled there, prone, limp and lifeless.
Her scream tears through the air, wretched and piercing. A flurry of startled crows burst forth from the surrounding trees. She stands rigid with horror, a wave of acid rising up from her stomach, barely aware of the heavy sound of footfall quickly approaching at her rear.
To her giddying relief and complete confusion, Frix rushes up behind her, clutching her shoulders and stooping over her protectively.
‘What is it, kleine?’ he demands, breathless and alarmed.
Stupefied, she cranes her neck to look at him, then at the body, then back at him.
He follows her gaze, then releases her, sinking to his knees.
‘Herdegen,’ he whimpers, before letting out a terrible, tortured howl that seems to shake every leaf, rattle every branch, and quake the very earth they stand upon.