A Wolf of Ice and Iron [OLD]

Chapter 5

Adras

"My friend used to tell me when it was spring," I say to the wolf. It is clearly listening, ears perked and amber eyes alight when I say even a single word. "But then I lost that friend." I trail off, blinking. What was my friend's name? Yasmire, maybe... I can't quite remember.

It is currently autumn, the voice says in my head. It rings out clearly, making me feel warm and strong and full of life. It is comforting and soft, like a bristle brush that has been used many times instead of the stiff new ones mum brings back from markets. I like it.

"Autumn." I try out the word on my tongue. It is familiar, I know it well, but I haven't applied it often. Seasons go over my head like some certain things. After today, I want to know more.

"What's your name?" I ask the wolf. It is the one I'm sure is speaking to me. Its amber eyes are attentive and bright and clear, beautiful and almost glowing in the midday light that breaks through my window.

The wolf does not reply for a few moments. I know I did not imagine the voice, so I am not worried. For a moment I am confused; maybe I said something wrong, offended the wolf somehow. But the wolf's eyes are mild in thought. It is not angered.

I do not have a name, it says quietly. This voice is smaller and more timid than the rest of the words I have heard. Soft and gentle, still, but shakier and fragile. It is about to shatter.

I frown at it. "Mum gave me a name the moment I was born. Did your mum not give you one?"

The wolf flicks one ear dismissively. My mother is not present. Fae are not born, only created. And that was thousands of years ago.

I have known it was fae from the moment it spoke, but this confirms it for me. My head is a little thick with the information for a few moments, and as it clears I take a shuddering breath. I am surprised by how it shakes.

Fae are dangerous, and notorious for their bloodthirsty nature. I should be afraid, but this creature does not make me fearful. It is noble and proud, but it has an underlying insecurity and relatable person that I am drawn to. I cannot make assumptions just yet about its character, but my mind has already worked without my consent.

"I'll name you Winter," I blurt out quickly. "You're Winter." It seems a fitting name for the noble creature coloured with silver, who is cold and aloof but has a cool beauty about them. To me, it is the only name that fits.

The wolf stares at me for a few long moments, amber eyes searching mine. It then gives a small huff of breath and nods, ears flicking down in what I can only think of as embarrassment. Thank you, Adras. I am your Winter.

Those words shock me. My Winter. This wolf is not mine as much as the moon is the sun's, but then again, some abstract glance at it could see it would be true.

The fae may be cold and bloodthirsty, but popular stories of them include the bonding. A rare occurrence when a human and a faerie bond together and can communicate, and are forever bound together as friends or as more. Some humans treated their fae as slaves, friends, lovers, or foes, all dependent on their choices.

But the fae stopped bonding with humans after the war, centuries ago. Although tension is higher than usual, they're on speaking terms with some humans. At least, we don't attack each other anymore. But the fae stopped bonding with humans, and I... I fear I may be one of the first of this returning.

"My Winter?" I repeat, my voice a gentle echo of this regal being's melody.

Winter looks at me mildly, but behind its eyes are something understanding, gentle, pitying, soft. Faerie manipulate, but this is not manipulation. It is kind and gentle and truthful.

I realise then that I have made a mistake to call Winter an it. Winter is a he, a being of his own, and does not deserve the dismissal of an inanimate object.

I have chosen you, come the words after my realisation. They are soft but gradually louder, and Winter leaps off the sill and pads toward my bed.

It is becoming evening, and we have talked most of the day. Winter is tired, and healing well, but his body is expending energy, and I am surprised to see him leap onto the bed and curl up on top of one of my softer pillows. He does not close his eyes, only watches me with slitted amber irises that are harsh but somehow welcoming.

Do you not sleep, Adras? Winter asks after a few moments of silence. He raises his head curiously, ears twitching as if wind flows through them, even though my window is now closed.

"I do," I say, and walk toward the bed. But I pause as Winter eyes me, unsure and skittish. He may have bonded with me, but he does not know me well at all. What he knows is that I am charitable not to kill him on sight, but I am unsure enough to be silent most of our first night together.

I walk toward my couch, my usual residence for sleep. I will not miss the bed. The cushions on the couch are softer and more secure, and the blanket there is soft and warm. Bearskin blankets are heavy but a delight to keep you insulated.

Winter seems satisfied and gives a low huff, curling up on my bed. He is not asleep, I can sense that much, but he does not stir again.

I curl up on the couch, pulling my blanket up to my chin. I am unaware of whether my family will return soon, or if they will come laden with prizes or with only what they hoped to trade as a token of their failure. I am quiet and warm as I stare out the window, staring at the rising moon.

The trees are shadows in my line of sight, quivering in a tentative breeze. I want to reach out and touch them, and for the first time, I really think I might climb out that window and make a break for it. But I don't. I stay, and do not move in my blanket. I have a home. I have a family. I must keep it.

There is a rustle of movement and a huff of breath. It is my only warning before Winter strikes me with the most meaningful words I have heard in my life.

Why do you stay here, Adras?

I am quiet, breathing shallowly. Winter does not wait for me to reply, only curls up again. I wait for a reply, but I hear nothing. He does not clarify his statement, not tell me why or who or how.

He is quiet the rest of the night.