The Vampyre and The Lycan: Chapter 4 (please see notes)

She had been wolf-turned for days. Days? No, perhaps a week. Weeks? She couldn't know, then or now, the passage of time is so difficult to follow when it slows yet the world hastens... For a while she ambled amongst the ladies and the whites, true to form, eyes and ears naturally vigilant to any motion or scent. Nothing could escape her. She had crossed scores of leagues, she had no idea where she was and she didn't care. Virid sights and sounds came and went with aplomb. Of what she could remember: thunderbolting across churning rivers and dogtrotting plains as vast and as endless as they skies they propped. This new land, pristine and clear, still being usurped... the indigenous never feared the Preternatural but respected them as any other creature of the earth (Respect. How had it become such a gaudy term, the true meaning lost behind fear and guns?) This was the grandest feeling she had known, the girl to be a woman, a woman with everything, all the world's choices at hand. She hunted and she slept. She slept and she howled at the sky, that billowing, winking tapestry of God, funny, queen of all she touched or dreamt. Empress of everything lost or found.1

Only The Masters of the Sky knew of this. And perhaps more...2

Then, on a clear night... The clearest night. Dear Welkin was watching her prodigal little brat, close, this time with a smile. Her favoured son, Dear Moon, was out, full, His first night a perfection that couldn't be put to words. How? How could one put words to this? Lorena could feel His power, amorphous, not just across the hills and branches but within her limbs, lifting, swaying, lighting everything that she is. Upon a low rising cliff she crouched, glowing canines and glowing eyes, tail toying with the pebble-plebes behind...3

Behind. Oh, the life she left behind!4

A howl, not hers but equally honey rich. Not Timberwolf, earth toned, like hers, but with more depth and meaning, the ambiance of a grandmaster's prose. Again, long and candent. It was beautiful, like hers, but stronger, richer. More full of life, if life could be as such. And again it came, it turned her eyes above: Full moon.5

Werewolf.6

And again, persistent. It was a calling, eerie to Man, comely to Lycan. Now she could discern a meaning, in a way, with concentration:7

-I see you, I feel you, I bleed for you, goddess of my heart, empress of my desires, I felt you upon my first breath, the first opening of my eyes.8

Her heartbeat strengthened, her panting quickened. Everything faded. Male, strong, commanding and sotto. The truest of all Wolf-Gods, the one thing to tether a Lycan if they may. Her head cocked, her tail lifted, just a little. More:9

-I desire you, my huntress, my empress, my lovely, lovely Lycan.10

By then she could hear nothing else. She had never... even thought of such a thing. Not while wolf-turned. As a woman, when she desired a woman, or a man, she could take them as she pleased, her omnipresent Lycan strength leaving them no choice. The pleasure was all hers, she didn't care otherwise. But this was different, fully furred, fully feral, roaring nature to be appeased...11

And to do what, she thought.12

The Werewolf don't think. They act. Oh, how they act! They hunt and they feed and they mate when it suited. The gifts of calculation and foresight were for The Lycan, yet such things can be such a waste. They can interfere with the natural process and what need be done. She knew now wasn't the time for thinking, the time was for acting. So she let go, she had no choice. She raised her snout and replied:13

-And I, you, my savage Wolf-God, hero and pride of all The Clans.14

No more song. No more thought. She leapt the precipice, she rushed the forest, swamped by that powerful, palpitating anticipation...15

Without any idea she knew exactly where to go.16

A silent clearing. Little clearing, cinctured by a world that was no longer there. No predator could violate this place, none of any stature or purpose. An eagle sat upon a branch, watching. A mouse huddled discreetly, waiting. Through the air she could feel him, musky, earthy, so strong and virile. Seductive. Oh, so ravenously seductive! In so many ways he was what she longed to be, depending where in the sky He lay; wild, savage, forever free of those restraining, cryptic keys of modern turmoil. So pretty, she knew, so much as the surrounding weald and wold as Mother Nature intended. But... To his nose was she as well? Her fur was a little dirty, matted, her tail not so long as she would like. Two breasts, two tipples, both tiny, suddenly uncomely... A little fear, a little unsure. Self doubt.17

A whimper escaped. Was she worthy?18

Such savage misdoubts!19

Without a sound he emerged. Large, he was so large... His fur was grey and white with a bronze strata of beauty, swirling his body, shaping his snout and lining his ears like the galaxies beyond. Just like her. Oh, so large, so pretty, so perfect... Eyes of a green that defied a name or a class stared straight into hers. Their figurements, gibbous; movement is more natural on all fours but unnecessary. He was larger and heavier, at least twice her weight, all The Werewolf were as such. He was more thickly muscled with tauter sinew, as were his scents and senses. Wolf-God. Young, her experience could see: the wavering fear, the confusion, the boy lost in a crowd. He hadn't wolf-turned many times before this day. A dithering, a bothering, a creeping thought of remorse... Then it was gone. The man, the boy or the child or what he may be, was gone so long as He smiled his circles. Still, he was superior to her in every way, save for perhaps survival's strongest ally:20

Intelligence. The Lycan retain it, albeit deep and secondary. The Werewolf do not.21

Yet she could understand him, in a way, the same way she read the regal Timberwolf, gleaning a rudimentary vocabulary from the whinges and the head-nods and the paw-pats. So much through so little. Human words, though she understood, were of no use: The Lycan vocal-chords do not allow for the song, the music or the greatest spark of the imagination.22

But there was no need, not here. No need for any voice at all. Only this, the volumes said by a single look, a mutual nod, the greatest voice of all:23

The Mate-Dance, the greatest dance of all.24

He found himself, he settled, he rose. They circled, slowly, cautious tension pulling, surreally smooth, mouths ajar, panting, blinking eyes hiding no intentions. For the first time ever Lorena shrunk, her body contracted, her shoulders drooped, her ears folded. So weak, so submissive, never like this... And how she loved it! A welcome moment of hesitation, they were drawn together. Noses sniffed, reading, probing, each reading the more of the other than scores of words... Sweet. Smoky. Sexy. Her claws clawed, her limbs rooted, her hind legs spread as her rump lifted, high and ready...25

Of what little control he retained he lost. He mounted her.26

The blur of her next thoughts came as pure pleasure. Such pleasure, so short, so fleeting, but so intense! Her panting heavied to the claws digging at her sides. The trees watched, rapt, age old, smirking in knowing fascination. How many times they had seen this! Their gyrations synced, a back to a forth, the feeling built, intensified, quickly, parabolically, higher and higher... Until...27

Each clenched to the other's contractions. They howled as neither had howled before.28

Copulation complete, they collapsed. Over. It had just begun.29

For a while they panted, each reining their breaths. Even the forest paid its respects. Sated, for now, he rose, slowly, then stretched his limbs. He circled, sure, eye contact made, the message sent, the message answered. He snorted thunder then rushed the trees.30

Tethered by lust she followed. She had no choice.31

Over the next two days they mated with emotion, they made hollow love. Such love! They nuzzled and they hunted and they slept in an overtly human embrace. How they mated, again and again and again... So glorious, the greatest of all things! She hadn't known such things, this place, this time, what she was doing or why. Why..? Lycan, Werewolf, male, female. To them these things meant nothing. Nothing at all. Only the companionship, the safety, the common needs and the warmth of a welcome body. Feelings sprouted within her. But did he, she wondered, feel the same way? He was The Wolf with the mind of The Wolf. Loyal yet savage, fierce yet kind. Yet wolves often mate for life, perhaps the truest showing of love and devotion of any species? But... His life is perhaps 72 hours. So short, the wolfen butterfly, the phoenix and his turtle.32

No belly could come, a fact that curiously saddened her. A litter of her own, cuddly pups or wrinkly baby? Either would be beautiful. Young, nurturing young, the last reason of all... Denied. Forbidden to the Wolf-Gods like their patagial cousins, they breed not through ecstasy but through the bite to those few that could survive it. He knew this too; she read it through his whimpers and glances to her belly and wilting of the ears. Such a primal pull mitigated by an unfair fact. Still, they had their pleasure, that pure, pure pleasure. And each other.33

The hunting moon announced His final coming. They huddled in their little cloister, she clutched him a little tighter.34

She slept deep.35

It was his screaming that awoke her. He was a man now, more a boy, another gear of a cog driving an eternal wheel complete. He was maybe 18 and pretty. So pretty, why is it always the young ones? Such a face, she knew, could never feel the scruff of a beard or the wrinkly of passing time. The scars of The Bite were clear, healed but obvious. From this she could guess this his third, maybe fourth, wolf-turn. So young, so virile, so... There was a sadness here. She was nearly 40 when bit. She had a life, such as it was, she birthed three children... All now dead. Yes. Dead. But still, she had her litter, her wonderful wee-ones, she watched them grow into fine adults and challenge the world on their own terms. The all succeeded, they lived good lives surrounded by good friends. They grew old and bravely faced good deaths. He had none of this, nothing to hope for or escape from, so much to live for, so much taken away.36

Here it didn't matter.37

He stumbled back, naked, lost in loathing and panic at the creature before him.38

Lorena raised a... Paw. Hairy, padded, clawed. She was still The Lycan, she hadn't thought through the sadness of the night before. She knew he remembered nothing of the last three days. To him he had simply awoken within the arms of a monster. She groped at something to say:39

-It is okay, my love, I am here, I am your protector, please let me-40

But it all came out as a rumble-growl, her wolf-chords couldn't allow it. For it he clamoured back, flaying, panic usurping panic and gone to fear...41

She had that one, last, desperate choice. She stood then closed her eyes, awaiting what must be done. The Wolf retreated, willingly, Lorena stepped forth. Her arms urticated as the fur crawled back into her skin, tickling in some ways, painful in others. Her claws retracted, her legs straightened, her ears softened and rounded. Her face... Her face, the worst was always the face. That snout, pride of the Wolf-Clans, pulling, shrinking, canines forcing themselves back into her gums, the tongue, drying, dulling that taste for blood, everything... At last it was done.42

She was again Lorena. Pretty, pure, human. She smiled and held out a hand:43

-Please, lover. Do not fear me. I am here to-44

He raised his hands in terror:45

-Démon ! Le démon est venu pour moi!46

He fled her haven. He fled his hell. Those nights of primordial lust, unbound... He flailed the trees and clawed the leaves, falling, righting, stumbling, looking back, regretting it, then again... Only fear guided his feet, she couldn't be sure that, in this state, he would survive the cooling evenfall. Though she had to power to stop him she made no move. She simply couldn't. Two closely matched breeds divided by ignorance into seething enemies. The native and the Navajo. She called out:47

-[...]48

And again:49

-[...]50

Nothing came. There was nothing to come.51

Then, he was gone.52

She slumped down, the cold grinding that question into her hands and knees: had she done the right thing? Had she? There was no way to know, just now or over the days past. She hadn't thought, she couldn't, forces as strong and as old as The Moon had reigned her and chaos. And she welcomed it. One had to find one's own solace.53

It wasn't up to either of them, she tried to convince herself. Time and nature will choose their fates. Usually in the cruelest of ways.54

She shivered and noticed her raling effluvium, thick and indifferent to the drama at hand. With no fur she was open to the elements and their tittering charms. Though she didn't want to she would have to wolf-turn, again; at this juncture it was like depriving oneself of sleep. But it was so cold and she must de-evolve to join Man. She was living two lives with two compulsions; one day she would sure have to learn to conciliate this oil and this water. It was clear warring desires would only rend her from the inside out.55

She choked. His name. She didn't know his name.56

A day later and a few leagues away she found warmth and a bed in a little town named Les Deux Rivières. For the Lycan everting was relatively easy, being slower and weaker than The Werewolf meant always stronger and quicker than Man. Acquiring things of need was a triffling thing. During these times nobody questioned a man or woman wandering in from the wild; wild was still most common everywhere. But it was all easier only in a way. She could never bring herself to wear the skins of herself that were so prevalent. Could a man wear the hide of his own kind? Deer or beaver or bear, yes, best as a currency, but she could manage. She always managed. The survivors always did.57

Through it wall she wondered what became of him. Him, in that cold forest, the cold night coming, naked, so lost and so scared... Why didn't she stop him? This she knew. Then, she hadn't time to wonder; she saw the palisades erected and the whispers from the hunters and the mountain men. It spread like the nescient paranoia it was:58

-La Montagne-Sorcière.59

Mountain-Witch. That they assumed wrong meant nothing; Lorena knew exactly to whom they were referring. Her nose sensed no witches in the region, she hadn't seen any in decades; wise, arcane, so strange... But Man had no more to fear from they than they did their own imaginations. Regardless, this meant they were spotted, the means probably reflected by their kills, perhaps their tracks or spoor. Man was so clever, even then. So clever yet so ignorant. But Man feared them all with that greatest fear pulled from the maw of the worst of the irrational. If uncovered they all suffered the same horrible fate.60

Man, she knew, had his ways of sussing her kind out. Many, many ways.61

This well bred knowledge caused her to dither. She grew nervous, she felt unsafe. With as few words as possible bartered her stolen furs for comestibles and a well-shoed steed. She quickly moved on. Always moving on...62

The next town had no name so far as she could tell.63

As she neared something caught her nose. The first, fleeting, tickling of remembrance. Horrible remembrance. Pushed by something, it strengthened as she neared. It was then she saw the black smoke, that soot-river to the sky... The hell of reality enveloped her. She knew that scent, she knew it well. For three days to her it was unbounded pleasure, bounded energy, such perfumed lust.64

Man, he knew. She must remain strong, or she'll be uncovered.65

She felt a panic. A shivering despair that screamed at her to bolt, go here, go there, go anywhere. Her steed, always kith and ally to The Preternatural, felt it but remained steady. He knew, so keener than Man could know. And so strong, mighty steed, she supposed he saved her life that day. She shook, he calmed. He trotted on, slowly, tail whisking, nose snorting away any unwanted attention. Stay the trail, be yourself, be the human...66

The blaze in the town centre had calmed, the crowd since dispersed. Gloaming gleed fed a still healthy flame. Fire, that hell and that salvation, he would devour both Man and Preternatural with equal grace. In the midst a blackened lineament of something she knew, by both ear and nose...67

Something as old as The Moon made her turn and look.68

It was him. Her mate. His hands were spread, cruciate, feet bound, black and emancipated, all the most of him gone. His charred head was raised to the sky, Vile Welkin, in a silent, skeletal scream...69

The emetic feeling came, then those nights beyond nights. Lorena retched but didn't vomit... Just. Again. And again. Her steed joggled his head then whickered and clacked, displaying dismayed, trying to distract.70

Wolf-Eared whispers:71

-Il était mais l'animal favori de la sorcière-72

-Il y avait un autre-73

-Qui l'est- ?74

-Où est-elle venue de- ? 75

-Je ne sais pas... 76

Even could she speak she dared not. Her accent only the furthering of suspicion. Her she felt the most fear of her life. She knew they didn't need to know, merely suspect, no facts, innuendo fine, anything... Then she would join her man.77

But...78

The looks...79

...80

She righted herself. As best she could she hid the sickness that was still there.81

They turned away. Times were harder, death closer, hunger always there. The day's chores awaited, the tasks beckoned. All assumed her paleness the female weakness, a sheltered wench never seeing true justice. Interest faded, for now, she knew the time to leave was now. Sensing this her steed, without a spurring, trotted towards the gate, a ripple on a calm pond, nodding and snorting Lorena's dour greeting...82

They passed a trapper, forest scented, who looked at her, just a little too keenly...83

After a league she spurred him into a gallop. Rustic steed, he knew, he set the best pace for the most distance that the terrain could allow. Her Wolf-Ears hinted she wasn't being followed. But only hinted. She forked south, The Colonies, new adventure and a wild world full of eventual fear and persecution.84

Lorena swallowed. She never knew his name.85

She didn't cry. She could feel despair, but The Lycan cannot cry.86

But they feel rage. Oh, how they can feel rage...