The First Age

Tristan sat cross-legged with palms curled about his knees, staring downslope and drinking in the smell of rock and ice. Home was colored with painful memories, but also with familiarity. Thorn Paw's greeting flushed disgust, and into the void, Tristan grinned. But before he shared a response, a shriek cracked the air like the snap of thunder.
He threw his hands over his ears and twisted. The Trollstone's fury lashed out, but the face remained as marble. And YOU stink of wolf! it screeched.

The outburst retracted as the shadows sucked back upon themselves.
"Uncle," Tristan said, jaw tight, muscles tense. He pushed to his feet, swiping at the mud stuck to the leathers of his backside pants, and presented himself before its face, staring into the flatness, and beheld the reflection of his own golden eyes until the spirit within slunk deep into the heart of the stone.

He turned back to Thorn Paw, the image of a pup hiding its nose under one paw, ashamed, curled apologies from his thoughts. He missed the old wolf as he came to its side.

The twisted one stirred and Thorn Paw pulled himself to his heavy paws. A growl vibrated, teeth bared. A bound brought him close, his body pressed between Wyldfyre and the cursed tomb, the weight of his thick body knocking the two-leg back even as he’d already retreated in search of the comfort of pack. That was an improvement, at least. The pup’s tail tucked low, head bowed for correction. If you must apologise, then make it for always and forever returning to such a cursed place. Images unfurled of the young one being nosed away by a tireless elder. Nettles stung no matter how many times investigated.

A snarl curved his lip, stalking agitated.

First the forgetful one, and now the stone. He blamed the one for the other. The twisted one deserved nothing but eternal silence until its spirit shrivelled forgotten, and the sooner Wyldfyre made new memories of home to supplant these ugly roots the better. His head rose to swivel the horizon with nostrils flared, ears perked than flattened, checking for noise. The longer they stayed the more likely for some mishap. We should not linger. Tell me of your travels, brother.

Grim looked down upon her like she was something strange and dangerous. Wariness stung his expression for a moment before it narrowed to introspection; then a touch of puzzlement fluttered beneath those waves, like he was not quite sure of his reaction. The distance appeared to sooth him, though. Nimeda’s chin tilted up to watch in silence. Her legs drifted through the water. Droplets still curled a path down her bare arms.

When he finally frowned and disappeared like mist, she smiled.

A sleek plop welcomed her back into the river’s embrace. Dark hair fanned wild about her face as she sank deep, bubbles zipping from her mouth and tickling her skin. She twisted until the silt began to blur her vision, and then the river itself shifted. 

It was much colder here. 

If she allowed herself to feel it, the waters bit like the score of knives, robbing the colour from her skin. But it was all in the mind. As her head pierced the surface, she drifted atop the tumult of waves and watched the iced air cloud from her lips. No pocket had snared her along her journey. The Hidden Folk were not known for their answers, but still, she had been excited to share her epiphany.

Thorn Paw did not comprehend Tristan's draw to the dark spire. He had to see for his own eyes that the evil contained within remained within. The newness of the stone was papery-thin, like the distance between this world and the stone-world was fragile barrier. The wrongness of the troll-stone rolled the globes of his eyes its direction, but finding it undisturbed, he propped his arms on his knees and rested. 

A far journey. Across the eastern sea. To a land with mountains and trees. TREES! He smiled at the memory. Iceland was quite devoid of the territorial guardians. He attempted to relay the story of being sick on the ships, hurling and heaving on enormous storm waters. 

The sharpness of his gaze fell then upon a ripple in the water below. "What is that?" He asked of Thorn Paw, gaze narrowed.

Thorn Paw padded to sit beside his brother. For the first time he sensed something in Wyldfyre that brought with it a glow of pride -- for, whatever earthly links had been shared between he and the twisted one, it was the first time Thorn Paw had truly sensed an acknowledgement of evil. For this particular specimen, at least. Amusement loped the puppyish image of Wyldfyre running into the raging sea once before, but encouragement too. Ultimately the fierceness was something Thorn Paw approved of, even if at the time he had found it wearying. Dead was dead.

He accepted the sending with a sense of contentment. Thorn Paw certainly approved of trees; a more familiar environment to his native roots than all this barren cold, and much more suited to a wolf. He nudged Wyldfyre’s arm, impatient. And have you found pack, brother? Though gold eyes swivelled to the distraction before an answer was formed. Thorn Paw made a rumbling sound in his throat. The hackles spiked along his back, though it was not fear. His muscles corded like he might spring forth and chase the shadow away, but since Wyldfyre did not move, neither did Thorn Paw. Honestly, he’d rather avoid getting wet.

Others share the dream, young one, but they are not like us. We should go. Our hunt awaits.

---

A memory rushed with the flood of water, of the most beautiful siren song welcoming an embrace into the arms of the sea, and the shining warmth of her own beckoning eyes. The strings about her wrists were willingly tied, but she’d never felt bad for pushing those heads under until the kicking stopped. Nim stared up at the dim sky as the recollection lodged like a stone, uncertainty spreading something cold in her chest before the weight of the water gushed it away -- and everything else too. For a while she only floated.

Oblivion descended. Arms spread wide, water spilling up over her chest and neck and face, she forgot entirely why she had come.

Until a resonance hummed like a ravenous shadow; sun, moon, stars: swallowed and gone. For a moment a great weight descended, tight as chains snaked about her ankle, and her head fell under in surprise. Eyes wide she sucked in water by mistake, burning a band around her lungs that made her splutter. Bubbles flew up from her mouth and panic dropped like an anchor. Bemused by the strange thrill of living, Nim let herself fall.

For a moment her gaze searched the depths, hair billowing wild, like she might recognise the thing that pulled her under. Nothing stirred in the darkness, though.

She coughed wildly when her head next breached the surface, but found the cold too deep an infection to draw much breath. Was this what it felt like to drown? Control but was a thought away, but curiosity drew her to the same sensations experienced in the Grey Lady’s realm. A choice, this time.

Ah, the Grey Lady.

She finally remembered, but meanwhile sluggishness bit faster than she would have suspected possible, spreading lethargy like a sleeping poison. Was skin supposed to be blue? No, probably not. Nim let her body react like any mortal as she fought for the shoreline, just to see if she could do it.

Tristan rolled to his feet, but with the weight on his haunches, he sat more out of curiosity than poised to leap. Thorn Paw's nudges stoked sleeping fires, though, and the sparks flared with the sudden movement. His sharp gaze focused with hawk-like acuity onto the waters below. The shadow of a body ebbed with gentle waves - harsh breakwaters crested sandy coastlines not inner fjords. Pack called and I answered. Yes, he answered, but the focus frayed with distraction.

The slender shape broke the surface suddenly, skeletal arms reaching skyward. Tristan gasped and lunged to his feet. Arctic grasses crunched as he ran, but the steps were few despite the distance. The water swallowed his ankles, icy stabs ignored. He swam in these waters as a child. The lap of the fjord was his playmate, not a body to fear. He'd surfed the great waves until ice crunched his beard and froze statues of his eyebrows. The water was home as much as the Trollstone. It embraced him as a long lost friend.

He dived, water rolling over the scalp and braid like an eagle diving for fish, until his arms found soft flesh and scooped them upward, nestling her to his chest.

The old wolf’s ears flattened, vexed by the pup’s obstinate nature. An elder's shared wisdom should have been enough to steer the pup away to more interesting diversions. Must he always disobey? Countless times Thorn Paw had watched the forgetful one amuse herself in these waters; a sentiment he admittedly did not choose to share with his kin, for it offered up the unwanted question of why the girl kept coming back. Still, he knew she was unlikely to be drowning. A grumble echoed for the tiresome distraction -- a waste of energy better spent on other endeavours, he might add -- but was perhaps at least a little mollified by the sending of good news. It stayed the hard nip that might otherwise have followed Wyldfyre’s curious stance and absent communication, anyway. And? The demand for detail was lost as the young one ran for the water.

Annoyance shook from his coat. For now he accepted youth’s antics, though maybe it was simply the mold for this one pup (he was beginning to suspect it. Had pack found him too late?). But no, that was unfair, for the instinct would serve him well once those instincts were actually honed. Thorn Paw recognised the sourness of a mood shadowed by the twisted one and all this cold and after a moment he stretched, massive jaws cracking a yawn. A lesson it was then.

His old bones ached as he followed in a slow pad down towards the shore, staying well back from the water. He did not need the proximity to speak with his brother, of course, but he wished to be in easy view of the interloper, so that his flat gold stare might impress upon her a memory of their last meeting as soon as she caught notice of his shadow. Impatience shimmered, but he doubted Wyldfyre would respond until his curiosity was sated. From his distant perch he watched the pup pluck her up from the waves. Leave it where you found it, brother, he urged, somewhat wearily. Not pack, not mate, not sister, and not a concern of ours. In the sending she was the rush of a springtime river that disappeared suddenly into the darkness of a crevice. Not waters for swimming or drinking or the hunt. She was like a landmark of this world; not dangerous persay, but better avoided when possible. 

---

A yelp followed the sudden capture of arms. Nimeda had been focused, or maybe the trespass so swift she had not even noticed the direction from whence it came. “I was winning,” she insisted, though the words spluttered out more of a cough. Her Other was unlikely to thank her for the raw throat she would wake to after swallowing all that icewater, but there would probably be little other damage. It was too late to worry about now anyway. Her body burrowed with shivers as she was drawn out like a fish from its home, though since she was not in fact a fish, she did cower to curl against the nearest heat source. A large slab of chest filled the horizon of her vision, between the drownings of sleek hair plastered down her face at least.

It took a moment to readjust. It was easier to believe a thing than to unbelieve a thing, and she was already greatly distracted by the discovery of what capture actually meant. She’d never seen another person on these frozen shores (unless the Grey Lady could be counted, and Nimeda didn’t think that was the case), and curiosity pulled her gaze upwards even as it was a frown that greeted his concern. It was a face shaped by nature’s loving hands; weathered and bearded. Temptation itched her fingers to trace the shaven sides of his scalp, but she had not yet quite convinced the cold its grip was imaginary. Given Grim’s reaction to the quest of her touch, perhaps it was no bad thing. So for now she only looked.

The stranger’s eyes were burnished as Charon's beloved coins, something she had seen many times before, though not with this face. Most of the kin were sparkly new, like Calvin, but this one did not entirely feel it; he resonated, like Jon and Mara and the Grimnir, plucking at frayed strands of memory she could never quite squeeze the understanding from. “Now where did you come from?” She poked at him with a numb finger, faintly accusatory of the fact he had spoiled her game with the water. Yet something playful peeked coyly behind -- for after all, games are better with two. 

Nimeda wriggled like she might slip straight through the cage of his arms, but it was a delighted smile lifting her lips, not fear. “Put me down,” she said. A mischievous tease sparked the grey waters of her gaze, like she was certain of her ability to convince him one way or another. “I will race you to the shore!”

Thorn Paw’s urgency yipped warning to drop the would-be toy, but fires spread through dead brushes uncontrolled. Predictably, the girl wriggled and wormed, slithering from his arms like captured fish. Her insistence won her freedom with full compliance on Tristan’s part. He dropped the twig of a girl at her request. Splashes abounded.

Almost immediately she plopped forth, darting through water as though she was made of it herself. Tristan’s legs heaved heavy as tree-trunks but followed shortly after. Icy waters clung to his beard as he emerged upon rocky shores, water licking his heels as he stared, fixated as the Trollstone beyond. Already, the shards of crystalline specks formed within the curls of his beard, but the cold was familiar. He did not wish to ignore her frigid fingers, and so he wrapped himself in their embrace like a blanket. But he was not immune. The body prickled with the chill, translucent hairs stood sentry along his chest, but they served only to darken the war-paint decorating his physique.

The scents of anger and disappointment rolled from Thorn Paw, and he glanced dismissively at the old wolf. Curiosity over-powered; he’d never seen another person in the Otherworld: trolls, wolves, and fairies flourished, but pretty girls did not. Her whimsy danced the plinky-plonky paths of water bubbling tiny waterfalls in the creekbed, and Tristan was utterly bewitched speechless by her peculiarity.

A cold splash welcomed her back into more familiar arms. Nim was laughing breathless by the time her toes found the sharp, slippery ground, though it rather felt like someone had stamped hard on her chest with every inhalation. Drowned skirts tangled up in her legs like a heavy second skin, but she propelled nimbly onwards like the game might continue until victory or truce.

Until something stopped her sudden. 

The old one blocked the path upwards. Surprise widened her eyes as she backed up into the wolf’s kin, her bare foot slipping atop the shell of his before she seemed to remember he was there. He was huge. Nim slipped behind him, her grip finding the crook of his elbow as she peered beyond the wide shield of his back at the sentinel of the large wolf ahead. She was not afraid so much as wary, recalling quite suddenly the warning that had chased her away the last time she visited. Rejection stung anew. She’d told him she meant no harm.

A shiver escaped. It would be effortless to leave, but then her attention caught on the dark paints whorled against the muscular canvas inches from her face, and suddenly the wolf faded from mind. “Oh.” She pressed her fingertips to his skin, following the sinuous lines of serpents while every thought rattled inside. “The scales that squeezed the soul of the earth. Eyes like twin fire! Such a shiny new, ancient thing you are.” As she explored, a name popped suddenly against the surface: Vanagandr, and though the knowledge fled just as quickly, it was not before she realised something. A monster of the river, not of the sea. Her eyes crimped, and a laugh puffed out on cold air. “The Grey Lady has a sense of humour.”

---

He watched Wyldfyre and the bedraggled creature crawl from the waves, disappointed but unsurprised. Curiously wafted strong as a pup’s first blinks beyond the warmth of the firstden, and he was apparently enthralled by so ordinary a thing as another two-leg. He’d told his brother only moments before that the wolf dream was shared by others, but couldn’t, he supposed, blame the trust of his senses over the words of another. There was so much to learn though, and if rumour were to be believed, so little time in which to do it. Are you finished staring, brother? Can we go now?

A wary flare of scent marked the forgotten one’s recognition of Thorn Paw’s presence, replacing the entice of play. She slipped behind Wyldfyre and shortly began babbling in that sing-song voice. The old wolf’s ear twitched, but said nothing else. Warnings would not be repeated. Pack would protect if necessary.

Grey lady, he thought, testing the name on the tip of his tongue. Familiar, perhaps, but the taste was damp with wrongness. “You mean the Hudlufólk,” the Hidden Ones. Entranced, the red door loomed in his mind until he was sure it flickered behind the girl’s shoulder. Naturally, the little door perched amid the rocks for the Hidden One sang a siren song, but it was Thorn Paw’s aversive reaction that yanked his attention elsewhere. The girl snaked behind his back, but where icy seas did not disturb, her fingers trailed chills in their wake.  He did not like it.

But it was her proclamation that slithered an eel of a smile to his lips, and proudly withdrew her from cowering. “Thorn Paw dislikes you,” he said, “but he will not bite.” A shadow of strong will blotted momentarily, but it was with due respect that Tristan knew Thorn Paw would hinge his jaws shut – at least while he was around.

Issue of manners settled, Tristan studied the girl closely; she was not wolf. The scents were wrong, but neither was she fated the life of more temporal beings. There was something about her that lingered. A scent he recognized coiled the nostrils and tugged the lip toward growls the longer he focused. It clawed at the mind, unhinging humanity from wolfish instinct. A hatred, ancient as the Otherworld, clung to her that not even the waters of the fjord could wash away.