the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
The first thing that he feels is the cold. It is sharp, clear, brutal—and it sears the underside of his lungs as he draws his first breath. The second thing that he feels is the curdling of magic underneath his coat. It is as instinctive and natural as the first, shuddering breath; the electricity of it sparks his veins alive and he curls himself into it. He has no way of knowing that there is something darker to his magic; he has no way of knowing that what he and his sister can do is not natural. To Woolf, magic is just what he is. What they are.
He is in the process of opening his eyes—emerald green like his grandmother’s—when he feels it happen. It races through his veins, and he just closes his eyes, leans into it, rests his chin on the back of his sister. Before he knows it, they are gone and mother is no longer looming over them. The air here is thinner and although he wouldn’t have believed it possible, colder. His lungs ache from the frost with each breath.
Forcing his eyes to open, he takes in the pine trees and the needles crushed beneath their tangled bodies. He takes in the soft, curled purple of his sister by his side, the sight of her both new and yet completely familiar. And then, from nowhere, he hears the drawl of his great-grandfather. Tiny, mulberry ears perk forward and he lifts his head toward the source of the sound, his newborn mouth pulling into a thoughtful frown.
Who are they? What are they?
He’s not sure. Exhaustion drags through his veins, and he fights against the urge to curl into himself and his sister, fights against the desire to just close his eyes and rest. Instead, he pushes to his legs, balance off but his body unnaturally composed in its motions. He says nothing and blinks slowly at the cat who prowls toward them. Silently, he shifts momentarily into a replica of Atrox, tail flicking behind him, yellow eyes lazy.
This does not surprise him.
The shifting does not last long. After several breaths, he is back as a colt. His mind breathes out and he can feel it crawling around him, stretching and yawning into existence. “Woolf,” he breathes into the mind of Atrox and whoever happened to be around the group—effectively naming himself. “My name is Woolf.” Looking down to his sister, lights flash around them, white and then purple and then the crushed gold of his mother’s eyes. They dance and intertwine and then die suddenly, collapsing into themselves. “We are the anchor.” Even if he does not know yet what that means.
Woolf
