A Wolf of Ice and Iron [OLD]

Chapter 3

Adras

The wolf bumps its head against me as it attempts to stand. It's shaky, but it is determined. Teeth bared, it gives a growl and heaves itself to its paws, giving a shake of its grey and white pelt. Then it fixes its burning amber eyes on me.

I take a step toward the house, and the wolf takes one too. Gradually I make my way to the back door, and the wolf follows me. Its eyes do not leave my face, and I push aside the prickle of uncertainty that fills me with that burning gaze it instills.

I creak open the back door and step inside. The wolf does not follow.

I pivot on my heel, beckoning to the animal. It eyes the structure I've entered warily, its eyes narrow and smoldering. I do not blame the creature for being unsure. Humans have killed wolves in Tahthian for years now, and they are not favoured animals. They are never seen in the central city, and the only reason they're feared is because they're a preferred form for the fae.

I hold a hand, and the wolf steps forward, sniffing at my skin. Its breath is warm, and the darkness behind this creature seems to grow with its bright eyes boring into mine.

And then it steps forward, regal despite its limp. Tentatively it steps past the doorframe, and it walks toward the kitchen. Its nose twitches once, twice, and then lies still. It decides against feeding on whatever rat is hiding in the kitchen, and it turns to me for guidance.

It is beautiful like this. I have never seen a wolf up close, and all I have had to think of them is my imagination and exaggerated merchant's tales. Here, with a wolf beside me, hearing its heartbeat and listening to its breathing, I cannot see why so many are afraid.

This wolf is not a vicious creature that steals children out of windows. It is not a beast that attacks without mercy, and steals food from villagers for the pleasure. This creature is alive, like all of us. It is wanting to live, to love. It is afraid of dying. It is afraid of us.

I close the door, and walk up the steps to my residence. The wolf pauses, then follows me with a slight whimper. Its amber eyes are flicking from side to side, unsure and wary. It limps across the stairs and up after me with an urgency that is hidden under its low warning growls when I get too close.

When I open my door, the wolf dashes inside and scrambles to a corner. It may be my imagination, but it seems to be staring at all I own. My drawings, lying discarded on the floor, my charcoal pencils that have flaked off and don't work very well. The maps pinned up on my board, the books strewn across the room. The unmade bed, the couch that is torn, the window that is open and lets in haphazard moonlight.

The wolf fixes me with a stare that is no longer afraid. It is grateful, but it is angry. Angry at what, I am unsure, and I don't intend to ask. The wolf would not answer.

I bend down and walk forward, holding out a hand. Although it has already smelt me, it sniffs over my skin thoroughly. With a searching gaze it draws back and stares at me, eyes hard and narrow but burning with the wilderness and my reflection. I can see myself and my own fear in this creature's gaze. It is not apart from me at all.

The wolf looks away first, a symbol of respect. It trusts me to be close. With a huff it lays its head down and breathes a deep, long sigh. It pains my chest to see this regal creature so forlorn and unable to run. My dreams of wolves have always been of them running as a pack, not alone and lying in a broken heap.

I reach out tentatively, touching its fur. The wild canine twitches and gives a growl, but it is half-hearted. I gently seek out its wounds, finding nothing in the darkness. So I reach over and switch on my bedside lamp, which burns with a fierce oil flame, and yet only lights up our small corner of the world.

Gashes across its chest and legs, a weeping wound in its head. I do not know how a creature could harm a wolf this badly, or why they would want to. I think it could have been a bear of some sort, but no villager had ever spoken of their ferocity. Only of the wolves'.

I don't know how to heal, but I know how to dress wounds and make sure they don't fester. It's all I can offer to it. I grab bandages from my dresser, and although I can't go find mum's healing salve, bandages will have to do for tonight. I can get it tomorrow when they go into the village to trade.

I won't be going with them this month. They go every month, sometimes even more frequently, and if I've been well-behaved mum will let me go. But I haven't been this month, so I do not expect to go. It isn't a loss for me, though. Too many people in too little places, too many smells and too many sounds. I get overwhelmed more than I am relieved to be out of the familiar home.

I could run away. But I won't. I have nowhere to go, and I cannot live alone.

I stretch the bandages and show the wolf. Its eyes are closed, but it seems to acknowledge that I am helping. I start with the creature's legs, gently wrapping them and trying to tie them as tight as I can. The slices across this wolf's legs are shallow, and they bleed a steady trickle of blood. I am not worried about those.

The gash along its flank is one I am concerned about, but I know I cannot help it much more without healing salve. But it is in mum's bedroom, and I am not going there at night when she is sleeping. I will go when they leave for the village.

The wolf huffs a growl as I wrap its flank tightly. This wound is raw and not bleeding, only weeping. It might become infected if I do not get the healing salve tomorrow - but I will. I refuse to think I will let this wolf die. I may know little about the creature itself, and if it is a faerie I am condemned already. But I will not leave it to die because I want to preserve my own life.

I am not sure what to do about the wound on its head. It is a hole of sorts, weeping and bleeding. It looks painful beyond measure even in the feeble light of my oil lamp.

"I'm helping you," I say gently, whispering to the regal canine as I reach toward the wound. Its eyes are open now, watching my every move with small pupils and a curled lip, revealing its red and pearly teeth. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you."

I wrap the bandages across the wolf's skull, having to reach under its muzzle to tie it. The wolf humours me for now, letting me reach across and tie it as best I can. Then it gives a great huff as I finish, its eyes opening wide, and it struggles to its paws.

I lurch back and scramble away as it shakes its pale grey coat, casting shadows across my carpet. It sniffs at my couch, which has my scent, and then at the books that hold even more of my traces. It gives a curious growl, then walks toward the window that is flung wide open and lets in wind that rifles at a few loose pages.

The wolf walks with soft pads and gentle movement, fluid and strong. Its nose twitches once as it stares out of the window, at the moon that shines its light onto its bloody coat. Somehow, it remains regal and knightly in a fantastical way, despite its various wounds and bandages.

"Are you not going to sleep?" I ask it. I'm not sure why I talk to it, but I'd feel rude if I didn't acknowledge its presence somehow. And part of me thinks it understands me.

The wolf glances back at me, amber eyes glinting. Then it stares back out at the moon, and sits down on the windowsill. Quiet, cold, collected, serene. It does not belong here.