the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He pays no mind to the others, not to what they say, what they offer, what they have to give. He is one track minded, and his cool emerald gaze remains locked on the mare, nodding once when she told him that he would teach her of the cosmos. He would. Woolf was many things, but he was not inherently a liar, unless of some great need.
If he promised that he would teach her, then he would.
It happens slowly, and then all at once. The magic pools from her and pours into him, settling amongst his nerves and cells, taking root and flourishing. He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, feeling the gift of it settle once more into his body. When he opens his eyes, they glow fierce and alive. Rodrik and Prague slip from his mind as easily as they arrived, the mulberry stallion completely unaffected by their presence.
“You ask of knowledge,” his voice booms, echoes, magnifies in his throat as his magic ripples outward and cuts them off from the rest of those who dwelled in the forest. The landscape bleeds away, dissolves, the sky dripping down to reveal their new reality.
Instead of forest floor, the ground billows upward and outward, replaced by the milky light of constellations. The trees rip away by howling wind, uprooted, until they too are gone and they stand amongst the heavens. The air is thin, even in this mirage, the wind cold.
Woolf says nothing, his glowing eyes piercing into hers. The world shifts, tips, and replaces with something new, another heaven, another formation of stars that surround them—bright, too bright. The light singes his eyes but he does not blink; he enjoys the way that the pain reminds him of what he has. Again, and again, he shows her the constellations he has traveled, all the hidden places. He shows her where he had kept his family hidden, locked away from wars. He shows her everything. Finally, he takes her to the final resting place, the place where he and Bright had been trapped from overexerting themselves.
The light from the stars does not reach here; there is nothing but darkness, emptiness, silence. They stay only a few moments, but it is enough to shake his core. He pulls them back roughly to the forest floor, the place they had, in actuality, never left. His eyes return to their normal cool green, but his neck is slick with sweat and his shoulder has split open, his own blood dripping down to splash upon the ground next to his massive hooves.
For him, magic always had a price.
“What else will you have me show you?” he says quietly, burning his gaze into hers.
Woolf
