Chapter Text
in the old days people used to say—
and it often actually happened—
that some men turned into werewolves
and lived in the woods…
One: and a wise man said to the king/ we’ve seen many strange things happen in this land…
He was running. That was all that mattered.
Through forests. Bushes and scrub-brush and fallen branches that tore at his body. Hard ground. The whistle of wind.
Shouts, in the distance, chased him.
“It went that way!”
“Which way?”
“Over there—just follow the dogs—”
“Just don’t let it get away!”
Please, he thought, let it get away. Let him get away. He was a him. He was human.
He had been human. He wasn’t, anymore.
“Bloody wolves…” The voice, falling behind, sounded disgusted. Muttered curses about creatures with unnatural intelligence. He wanted to laugh. Couldn’t.
Wolves couldn’t. Weren’t built for laughter.
He’d not always been a wolf. He’d been a man. Human. A man who, granted, occasionally changed into a wolf, sometimes, to the pull of the glowing full moon. But he’d always come back, before. He wasn’t certain of much, memories all twisted up and tangled with the lure of instinct, of wolf-shape, of endless running and fear, but he was certain of that.
He knew his name was Erik. He knew he’d been human. He knew he’d been more than human. Knew that the way he recognized the song of iron in his blood, the hum of precious metals buried in the earth, thrumming with his pulse. The way he felt each arrowhead split the air, whirring past him. Never touching his skin.
Of course they were hunting him. They were hunting a wolf. Wolves were cruel, dangerous beasts. Sheep-killers. Child-killers, sometimes.
He’d never killed anyone. That he could recall.
He thought he’d been running for years.
One more arrow, not properly aimed, but too close; he bolted out of cover, startled into flight, and nearly ended up trampled by unexpected hooves.
The horse reared, shied, slipped; the rider went flying, and then didn’t move. It might be a trick, though. And he’d have to run past the body to accomplish his escape. Erik backed up. Growled.
“If you’re going to make that noise,” said a rather annoyed voice, through fallen leaves and dirt and a muffling arm, “I’m not going to help you.”
What?
“No, actually, I probably still am…oh, ow, stop that.” This last in response to the horse, who’d come back over and was nosing her collapsed rider worriedly. He rolled over, patted the wet nose, sat up, winced. “That really wasn’t very graceful of me, was it…”
Erik knew he was staring. He couldn’t look away.
He’d never been able to explain—to whom? when?—the shapes and colors of the world, in wolf-form. It wasn’t like having an animal’s senses, or a human’s. It was like tasting green, or hearing raspberries. Like seeing with two sets of perceptions, two versions of eyes. The collision was beautiful, and terrible, and it gave him a vicious headache for days.
But he could see colors. Could know shapes and objects for what they were. Could think like a man. Could remember some things. Like the subtle differences in shades of blue. There were so many. They ranged from pale and icy to hot and sunburnt and dry.
And this man, the one testing limbs rather gingerly and gazing at him, had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
Not a man-at-arms, his brain concluded, while the rest of him was busy staring. Perhaps minor nobility. Younger than he’d thought. The fabric of the clothing, while expensive, was plain. Undecorated. And that fair skin had surely never been toughened on campaign.
The eyes suggested differently, however. Those currently-calm oceans’d seen battles. Erik couldn’t help wondering when, and where.
“So…” Interrupted by a tiny groan, as the eyes sat a little more upright, on the ground. “Not the best first impression, is it?...oh, well. You’ve not run away from me yet.”
He hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? He was trapped in place by blue eyes and a beckoning accent, under the curiously craning branches of the shadowy trees, and he hadn’t run away.
“Hello, by the way. I’m Charles. And you are?”
Erik sat down in place, probably out of some kind of belated mental shock, he thought. The man was offering a hand. As if he honestly thought the wolf facing him might shake it in return.
“It’s fine if you don’t remember your name, but you could at least answer me. We both know you understand.” And, in his head, a voice: Possibly this will work better; can you hear me this way?
A voice. In his head. Unruffled and vaguely amused and supremely self-assured, sweet and tart and intoxicating as late-summer blackberries and powerful wine. Erik wanted to be shocked, was shocked, but somehow beneath that not surprised at all. As if that voice, sharing his thoughts, was only natural. As if this, here and now, was precisely the way the world’d always been meant to be.
Glad you think so! The amusement got a little brighter; under that, though, lay the same sensation, delighted mutual recognition, elated oceans reflected in those eyes.
Oh, that’s beautiful, are you always so poetic?
What—I—no!
Oh, you CAN talk to me!
I…
Do you have a name? I mean, of course you do, you ARE human, I could tell, that was why I wanted to find you first, my guardsmen are wonderful people but they have equally wonderful aim and they’re also terribly overprotective and I thought I should—
Charles?
Yes?
What is happening?
Oh…well, I have a…it’s a gift, I suppose. I hear thoughts. And emotions. I could hear you from miles away; you have a fantastically incandescent mind. Most people’re candles; you’re a lighthouse beacon. Or did you mean what’s happening right now, with the hunt? Sorry, I can answer that too if you’d like, it’s—
Incandescent, Erik thought, indistinctly amazed; and then found himself equally amazed at how easily he’d picked up the rhythm of interrupting Charles’s infinite sentences. I meant right now. Hunt?
There were reports of wolf attacks. Bodies, in the woods. And sightings, which I assume were of you, but you’ve not killed anyone, have you? No, I didn’t think so. So that’s a mystery, then, isn’t it…
Charles paused to think about that. Erik was still reeling from the offhanded certainty with which the verdict of his innocence’d been delivered.
All at once, voices bellowed, nearby. Someone shouted Charles’s name; someone else said something that sounded like “Your majesty, will you speak up and answer your guardsmen, please!” and Erik, confused, thought, mostly to himself: I’m that important? I’m being hunted by the king?
Er…Charles sounded a bit embarrassed. There’s something I should probably tell you in regards to that…
At which point four very disheveled royal men-at-arms sprinted into their clearing, weapons drawn, and leapt in Erik’s direction. There was a very brief, intense, interaction.
“Stop that!” Charles snapped, not bothering to stand up. Rather impressively, this worked.
“All right, all of you. Alex, put down the broadsword, please, we talked about that. And, Sean, yes, he did bite you, but only because you tried to hit him with an arrow. Which, by the way, was never going to work; I’ll tell you why later. And you—” This last being directed at Erik. “Teeth out of my guardsmen, please. I like them unpunctured, thank you.”
Erik growled. But did as commanded. Not because he was being obedient. Because he wanted to anyway. Was choosing to listen. That was all.
“He’s a wolf.” That was the one Charles’d referred to as Alex.
“Top marks for observation.”
“Be quiet, Hank, you were voting for live capture—”
“The bodies seemed to be rather odd if examined in terms of past wolf attacks and I don’t believe they fit any sort of established pattern—”
“Someone make him be quiet before he says anything about gangrene again.”
“All of you shut up,” Charles said, absently, “and Hank is correct about the bodies, by the way. And no one’s to shoot anyone. Him, or yourselves, or me.”
“We would never—”
“You did.”
“Once! And that was an accident. Charles, are you hurt?”
“He’s still your king! Are you hurt, your majesty?”
“I’ve asked you not to call me that…”
“Are you hurt, my lord?”
“Really,” Charles protested, “that’s even worse, and no, I’m fine. Entirely my fault.” And, to Erik, sorry about them. I’ve known most of them for years. Took them in when—when they had nowhere else to go. They’re a bit…devoted.
Erik couldn’t reply. Was slowly processing the fact that his rescuer, the young man speaking into his thoughts while a large bruise gradually formed over one graceful cheekbone, and Charles, and the ruler of the forests and the villages and the entire realm, were all the same person.
“You are, as Sean so inelegantly pointed out, sitting next to a wolf, Charles. Perhaps you could back away slowly?”
“It’s all right.” Charles smiled in Erik’s direction. Held out that hand again, dirt-streaked and sincere. “He’s not going to hurt me.”
Yes, I am, Erik wanted to snarl. I am, I’m vicious, I’m an animal, I could—
Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not an animal. You’re as human as I am. Those blue eyes sparkled into his, with shared excitement, like a secret, delighted stars in the ocean-water depths. And the hand remained extended. An offer for the taking.
I am sorry I didn’t tell you right away. I was about to. Shall we agree to blame Sean for the interruption? I generally do; it makes life much easier. And, aloud: “I think perhaps you should come home with me. Would you like that?”
“Charles—”
“Oh, please. He’s less likely to bite my arm off than half the court, and he could use a friend.”
“He’s a wolf.”
“And you’re a worrywart. I’m not seeing the problem.” Charles looked back at Erik. Tipped his head to one side, an invitation. His hair fell hopefully into his face.
Charles. His Charles—and when had he started thinking of this man as his, they’d known each other for mere seconds, alone with the intrigued glances of the trees—was the king. And was asking Erik to come home with him.
He’d known the king was young. A random memory, drifting up from the chaotic flotsam that was presently his brain: coronation announcements, the ending of the Regency, terribly blurry portraits on newly-minted coins.
There’d been some sort of…controversy. He couldn’t remember anything more clear than that. Had the sense of someone else’s derision, tossing the news away as trivial, unlikely to matter. A voice saying idealist, with scorn. He won’t last long.
Idealist, he thought, and looked back at Charles. Evidently true.
He wondered, briefly, how old that tiny memory was. Had it been recent? Or had Charles in fact managed to outlast the dire predictions?
And then he wondered how old Charles in fact was, when the king smiled at him, jewel-box gaze a little worried now, as if pondering the chances that Erik might turn and run. That smile lit up his entire face, and that plus the bruises and the dirt made him look like a small child at play, but the waters of those eyes were very deep, beneath the warm surface tides.
Again with the poetry, Charles observed, cheerfully. Are you coming home with me, then? We can work on solving all of those mysteries. I do enjoy mysteries. I like a good challenge, don’t you?
And Erik shook his heavy wolf’s head, in disbelief, in astonishment, in something like affection, and said, helplessly, to everything, yes.
Brilliant! Charles started to get up. Went pale. Sat back down, abruptly. Erik, without even thinking, ran across the few feet between them and offered his shoulder. Support.
Thank you. “I think I’ve done something unfortunate to my ankle…”
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes. But…not that badly. I can probably stand up now, actually.”
You canNOT, Erik said, in concert with at least three guardsmen. Charles blinked.
That was rather emphatic.
Sorry.
No. A grin. “I’m fairly sure I just landed wrong, the first time. I can walk. It’ll help with the soreness. And I can lean on—oh, I still don’t know your name!” You never did tell me. Or do you not recall? If not, don’t be concerned, we’ll just add that to the mysteries that you and I can solve.
“It has a name?”
“He is a person, and he does.” Expectance, in their heads, and a pause, because Erik hadn’t given any answer. The leaves, on the trees, murmured to each other, in the wait.
He wasn’t certain of much—barely anything at all—but he did know his name. One of the only things he had left. Could he say it to someone else, even voicelessly? Could he give that away?
But Charles put a hand on his back and leaned weight against him, as if he knew that Erik’d be there, and Erik let himself be leaned on. Because he wanted to be.
He felt Charles smile again, fleetingly, without sound.
Charles?
Yes?
I do. Remember my name. Or part of it, at least.
Yes?
My name is Erik.