"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
She stretched. Hearing him finally making his way back home after weeks of staying away. He slinks, his motions cautious as if he is being meek; she knows better. His truncated steps only belie on thing. Her wolf is angry.
Reagan shifts, facing away from him, her ears flicking backwards, feeling every pulse and breath that he gives off as he slowly gets closer. She can feel the warmth of his heartbeat, and the running of his blood through his veins. She is as inside him as he is inside her—her eyes slid shut when she felt his pain. And yet, he had not come home. She had been left to rule alone while he went into hiding to lick his wounds. After a week, she had sent Jinju after him, and neither of them had returned. Suddenly, as if out of a dream, her quickening heartbeat was familiar with the rushing of excitement—but she forced herself to stay where she was. The moss creeped up the tree trunks around her, and she pawed at the ground with her hooves. Little divots to remind her not to go anywhere, as it was getting harder to root herself to the earth.
She wanted nothing more than to pretend that he hadn’t retreated into himself. She wanted nothing more than to embrace him as a lover and create a moment that would ship them both to nirvana and forget this uncomfortable feeling that was surely going to take place. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she began to tremble with anger and hurt—trying to keep herself composed as he approached ever closer.
She was aware of what happened—she was always aware of what happened. That Ruan’s wings now belonged to another was no surprise to her. But he’d always known that those wings were temporary. Life deals harsh cards at times, but what she was waiting for him to discover was the true root cause of his anger. What had kept him away from home, while she tended the fires to stay lit for his ever-impending arrival?
When at last he steps on a fallen branch with a loud crack, she flinches; a bolt of light shoots from her body and passed his head. She makes no move to turn around—the lichens have rooted her to the spot—but her voice is frozen; terse. Perhaps as staccato as the beats of his frozen heart. “Where. Have you been.” It is not a question; they both know this. But whatever lay in the future for Reagan and Ruan would unfold into this conversation, and would be determined by whatever choice words he might be bold enough to speak.
She might be tempted to violence.
McDonald’s is always looking to turn potatoes into chips.
Shame. It was the secret he held close. He was weak, so easily tossed around like a toy. So quickly overpowered. What kind of leader was he if he couldn't even stand on his own? How could his family depend on him if he couldn't depend on himself. Reagan was all they ever needed. She always would be.
Even without her magic for a time, she'd stood tall. Strong. A true ruler. They bowed in her wake. She played the dancing phrases of diplomats, waltzing in and gracefully owning every match. She was made for this. It all went over his head. He'd never lead anything before, had never even thought on it. He was in over his head, in a world he didn't belong. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, supposed to say. How many times had he already fumbled things for them in his clumsy attempts at leadership? All he knew was his family, and his drive to love them and always keep them safe if he could.
But he was useless. Weak.
Even now he was fumbling, his step faltering and haphazard. No longer the grace of the wolf in his movement. A branch split beneath his weight. He flinched, and instantly a bolt of light shot towards him. His heart ached. She was upset. Why did that bother him? Why couldn't he just be cold and distant, safe from these pains? Why did she have to consume his every thought and rule his heart? Where. Have you been," her voice cut the air, sharp and chill.
He said nothing for a while, watching her back dimly. He was so small in her great shadow. Useless. A disappointment. Could she look in him, and see how pathetic he'd been? How swiftly he'd been overpowered. How weak he was. How much it hurt for them to be torn so aggressively from his flesh. All the times he'd curled them protectively around his daughters, kept them safe and warm, and now gone. There was no warmth now. Only a violent chill, a gaping lack in weight at his sides. The muscles still remained, useless and mocking.
He thought he blamed her at first. The beast had known her. He'd done it for her, to fulfill some unknown vendetta. Had it been her to be attacked, she'd have swept the demon from the earth in a blink. But it was her pathetic mate he'd sought, and all Ruan had done was fall to the ground and take it. His heart hardened painfully. A bitter taste crept up his throat.
When you go back to her, intact,
you tell her that I said hello, won't you?
There's a good boy.
The voice haunted him. He swallowed his pain. The beast had taken enough from him, he'd not get any more satisfaction from Ruan. The wolf would not do his bidding. I am home now, he responded heavily, glad to hear his voice was strong and not as feeble as he felt.
He found he didn't want to ask her about it after all. He didn't want to know. He never wanted to think on it again. Let things just go back to normal. They could do that, couldn't they? Pretend it never happened. Cold eyes glanced at his wound, the pointless muscles beneath flexing experimentally. It seemed it was healed enough not to break open each time he did that now. Bitter resolve settled within him. It had happened. It was done. He'd mourned like a child, ran away to lick his wounds. Now here he was, a toy for a different magician. Whatever she wanted was hers, she never even had to use her magic with him. He gave it all willingly. Loyalty and love.
I won't leave again, he said low, ashamed of his time of weakness and wishing he could hide it from her. Ashamed of his reaction. Even now, he wished he could run, avoid the disappointment in her eyes. His throat closed painfully. Did she hate him now?
She looked then behind her—chancing that perhaps he was still the Ruan she knew of old. The bolt of light had dissipated into snow, falling in small white specks upon his already speckled hide. What then she displayed was something unlike she had ever shown anyone publically.
The tears that streamed down her face showed exactly what she felt, and it worked down the slope of her grey cheek before it hit the grassy floor with a thunk and grew mushrooms where she stood.
Her hair fell in strings around her face, and the once composed lady lowered her head, and loosened her posture to show just how broken she felt. The Irish woman flipped her tail upward and then back down again—irritated, agitated—before she turned around to look at him. A perfect circle was made in the ashy soil at her feet, and she stared at him; bright green needles that threatened to prod her into motion. Instead, her tears threatened to drown them both, holding her at bay. She shakes her head, her emotions barely containing themselves as she speaks to him, her voice quavering at barely just above a whisper.
“You are free, Ruan. To do as you please. But I am not your keeper. I am your mate—not your mother.” She sniffs, her eyes going from a light to a dark green, those spikes finally letting loose. “She’s dead.” She snarled, her velvety voice coming at him in elastic waves of sound that cover them both.
“I am from another world. A world you have no part in. A past that has memories that have been trapped and heldfast to the roots of a land that no longer exists.” She steps forward to him now, the wind picking up as she gains volume to her voice; she was shivering with sadness, and brokenness. Now; anger. “The demons from that world have itched their way here from your worst nightmares, and now threaten to drown us all, and what do you do—you wallow. You’re better than this.” Her muscles ripple, and the ice that belted around him like an armor—trained and reformed, made better; made flesh. Ice wings that fitted with a lock to the muscles and bones of where Ruan’s wings had been—using Ruan’s own magic to create them. Magical ice that never had to melt—no matter the season. “You know those wings were never your to begin with, and yet you never consider—this.”
She blinked at him, snorts, and turns to the side, considering him, testing his mettle. “If you must find someone to blame—blame me. But do not wallow in your self-doubt. There is no room in my life to be a mother to my lover. If this is what you intend my life to be… then leave. Or stay—and be the man I know you are.”
She’s terse, but takes one calculated step forward. “Your choice.”
His strong and regal mate, a Queen in every respect of the title, was changed. Tears stained their treks down the curves of her face as she slowly turned to him, her pain laid bare for his witness alone. It made him feel worse. Look what he was doing; now he was even breaking the unbreakable. His heart sank further in his chest, and his shoulders slumped. Defeated. He'd wondered if she would hate him now, but it was so clear that she still loves him so deeply. Somehow that was worse, more painful to bear. It was so much easier if she despised him for his weaknesses.
The dark storm in her eyes spilled over, leaked its way into the atmosphere. Gusts rose and billowed with the rise of her voice. She snapped a painful truth to him: his mother was dead. She had showed him long ago and the loss still sat cold and dead in his heart. His ears flicked back in agitation, looking away from her, barricading the memories. He would glare at anything but her. Never her. She stepped forward as she spoke, and he caught the shudders racking her hurt and angry body. Everything within him demanded he go to her, touch her. Comfort her. Was he even capable of it anymore? But, for now, he held steady.
Dark ears flattened at the word demon, but he relaxed them once again. "...and what do you do - you wallow. You're better than this." Pride stiffened his back, hardened his eyes as they returned to her, blue locked with her charged emerald. And still, he held his silence. Then he sensed it coming, her magic reaching and mingling with his; melding, reforming. The frozen armor plates numbing the wounds at his sides slid away, and he let them. He let her do whatever she wished to him.
"You know those wings were never yours to begin with, and yet you never consider -this."
His eyes shuttered closed as she made them: wings of ice. He couldn't watch as she pinned them to him with his own magic, built them into the muscles that had come with his borrowed wings. Beautiful, warm wings that he hadn't even wanted at first. They'd grown on him, became tools to carry him swiftly to his mate, sheltered and insulated his daughters. They had become natural to him, entirely natural. These were unnatural. New. Different.
And cold.
He opened his eyes slowly, trying to read her emotions and thoughts. She had turned to the side and was scrutinizing him back. He had been stupid. Childish and afraid of her reaction to his failure. But she saw it differently. His failure was not in his lack of fight for the demon as he had seen it, but in the distance he forced between the two of them. She would have helped him earlier, would have done whatever she could to ease his hurt and confusion. He'd messed up.
Love and regret were written all over him. It softened his expression, lined the hard planes of his face. She was exactly what he needed. A soft touch when he needed comfort. A knowledgeable advisor when he needed wisdom and guidance. A kick in the ass when he needed that too. He smirked. She was older, wiser, far more powerful. And yet she always treated him as her equal. He supposed it was time he accepted that perhaps, to her at least, he was.
Lean muscle eased him smoothly forward. He cradled her gaze in his, searching, as he came to her. He'd been so foolish to isolate himself in his suffering. He hadn't wanted her to swoop in and fix everything for him. He'd needed his time alone, but he could have had that here. In their home. His dark face bent in close, sweeping gently across her soft skin.
I'm sorry, he whispered into her coat, breathing in her aromatic warmth like oxygen. He didn't have to look at the wings she'd created. He'd seen in his mind and through his magic what she'd done. They were far more beautiful than he could have ever created for himself. She was an artist with an expertise for design, each feather delicately carved in intricate detail. The were a soft, cloudy white, like frosted glass. A light dusting of snow twinkled like glitter as it caught the light. They were different.
She turns then, and allowing her defenses to drop, she gives herself fully and freely over to him. Reagan allows herself to be cradled by him—pressing her body into his coat, lipping his pelt, and the hair on his neck, rolling her body into his flesh. She is so pleased with the choice he has made.
She breathes in his scent and drowns herself in his care; her voice soft as she speaks to him. “I love you” she whispers, her voice barely audible. Her tail flicks upward, wrapping around his neck and she warps around him, his yin to her yang, and they are plunged into an ethereal grace that spans the test of time. As long as the trees of the Taiga stand strong, there will be a wolf to defend it.
She waits for him to say something—anything. She is content with the moment, but knows that these next moments are in his hands. Wherever he calls her to be; she will follow.
