The Wolf & The Witch

The wolf and the witch had achieved their goals, and then some: they had directly killed two of the couples, and indirectly killed the third. They had made it home- the place where, every single day and night, they sat apart from each other practicing loneliness, and wishing they were somewhere else. The cuff fell from their wrists, and they replaced it with a strip of white cotton. They killed the priestess, and the packs, and the coven witches. And they burned the forest to the ground.

Did they have any other goals?

Claire certainly had other goals: healing him, taking care of him, making sure he knew how much he meant to her- how important he was to her, finding a home, sleeping together, eating biscuits and fried chicken together, making love, smoking joints and laughing, kissing, holding hands, going on more ridiculous dates reading bad poetry, cooking together, relaxing in his arms at night in front of a fire, as the snows of winter silenced the world like folded love letters. She wanted him to bundle her up in a blanket, and hold her in his arms, and keep her warm as the snow fell, and the fire popped. She wanted him to carry her outside at night, bundled up in his strong arms, so they could watch the white flakes drift silently down, with her snuggled up against his chest. She wanted to go rabbit hunting. Claire had goals, and she finally had a friend, and she finally had a lover, and she finally had a mate, and she was not going to lose him.

She grimaced against the toxin in her joints and cracked like dry sticks as she climbed to her knees.

For the first time in her life the witch realized she had many, many goals, and they all began with him. “L-“ she started, but couldn’t speak. She snapped her jaw open and pain shot up her face, across her sinuses, to the front of her brain. She moved her jaw back and forth, and stretched her arm out, and she sounded like an old woman falling down stone stairs. “Le…stat… G-“ Claire put her arm under his neck and grimaced and groaned out in pain. “Get… Up,” she ordered. “Get… up!” Her body creaked like old doors in crooked frames. “Get up!” Claire shouted, and hit his chest, and Lestat blinked awake. “Come… on!” She pulled him to his feet, and her body felt, and sounded, like handfuls of dead leaves- every joint popped, and cracked, against the glass hands of the newt toxin.

Moss glowed green on the surface of the water, and the only reason it wasn’t on Lestat yet was because the wind, and the rain, were with the wolf and the witch, and against the green selah leaves.

She tugged him forward, twenty muddy steps as rain pelted them, fifty, then smacked face first into a tree. She paused, and rubbed her face, and looked- “No. Fucking. Way,” she said, her jaw popping. Her house had survived the fire.

Claire tugged him inside, all the way into the back, to her bed. She pulled his boots off, his pants, his underwear, his shredded shirt, then went around her house gathering potions in the dark and ointments in the storm, oils in the rain. This, as the old grandfather would say; this, as young Suzu would say, was a true wicca, doing exactly what only a true wicca could do. She gathered angelicum, holy basil, blue-bell root powder, lily petals; she gathered curved needles and thread, she gathered black ramps and stinging nettles.

She took the dried and desiccated mold that sprung up from rotten strawberries and packed it deep into the cuts in his back, and thigh, then stitched those closed, along with the rest of him. She chewed holy basil until she gagged, and forced it into the deep cut at the back of his arm, then wrapped his entire arm in lily petals, then covered that with bandages. The wicca looked back as she worked- moss had surrounded her house, and invaded her house: it covered the walls, the floors, the ceiling, living in the water; her house leaked- it had before it was attacked, and now it really did- rain dripped, and ran down the walls, and the moss waited patiently at the edge, watching her. Occasionally one brave stalk would step out of the water onto dry wood. She turned back and ignored the moss, and rubbed balsam oil all over his body, from his feet to the tops of his ears. She followed that with frankincense oil, then she bandaged him, then she took her clothes off, climbed in bed, and held him close.

The witch went to sleep with goals: saying good morning to the man she loved, saying good morning to the wolf she loved, and the friend she loved, and finding a home, with him.

The moss crept into her bedroom as they slept; it found jars on top of jars, and baskets, and boxes; it found clothes, and pots and pans; it puddled on the floor, green, and glowing green; it peeked around corners, and crept along the grooves in the ceiling, and the indentions in the floor. Plates, and cups, in the corner, a nest of mice in the baseboards, and buckets of rainwater dripped and overspilled and the moss built forts, and temples, in the pools- looking, and searching, for the dead, and the dying.

But finding none.

*

Lestat woke with goals.

His face was smushed into Claire’s breasts, and he knew from the moment he woke that she had taken care of him- she had saved him. Again. Her scent, and her warmth, and her softness, engulfed him; he was suffocating, and it was heaven.

He heard the slow plop of water and wondered where they were. He turned his head and kissed the side of her plump breast, his lips sinking into her, and then the other, and felt her stir.

The wolf and the witch were now the rulers of both the Land of Moss and the Land of Ravines. And that didn’t matter to him, at all, because Lestat did not want to live in either land with Claire. He wanted to find a nice place for both of them, and he wanted to go hunting with her. He wanted to watch her jiggle as she did village witch things. He wanted to watch her nose crinkle as she tried to explain her poisons. He wanted to smoke joints and look up at the sky with her. He wanted to watch her eat biscuits, with that big, sticky smile of hers, and take a bath with her. He wanted to carry her in his arms. He wanted a life with her, and a home with her, and a family with her. Lestat snuggled his face between her plump breasts and realized- he wanted a future with her, and time with her, and those were, perhaps, the only goals he had.

He fought himself- he also wanted to bite her. He kissed her breasts, and nibbled very gently, trying not to wake her. After a few minutes of enjoying her breasts, he climbed up the bed, and pulled her onto his chest. His little witch moaned, and put her arms around him.

She groaned, and wiped drool on his chest, and scooted closer. “Scratch... me...”

Lestat smiled, and brought his hand around, and scratched her. She moaned, and went limp against him, and once again he was reminded how perfectly she fit against him- her hand in his, her body in his arms as he carried her, her mouth against his, and her naked body, snuggled close, when they slept.

He assumed he was in her bed, in her house, but it was hard to tell- it was dim, and green moss covered every surface except the bed. And her house should’ve been razed to ash and embers by the fire. The walls, the ceiling, the floors undulated like green valleys- all moss. The roof was crooked, and clearly leaked water- he could see the bright morning through the cracks. And the house was drafty- he saw the breeze in the moss as it rustled- all things he could fix. Assuming this was her house. He felt her stir. “Where are we?”

“... wh...“ Claire wiped drool off her chin, and onto him. “...where?” She blinked awake. That was an odd question. Then she remembered- they were in her bedroom. Her grungy, filthy, bedroom. She sat up and opened her eyes; her full, white breasts hung plump, and ripe, in the dim morning light. Wow- that was a lot of moss- her entire house, every wall, every jar, every strip of clothing, was covered in green moss. She didn’t know whether to thank the moss or cuss it.

Lestat noticed the trace of blue veins beneath her skin, running from her perky nipples up her breasts; he sat up beside her, and kissed the center of her chest- just above one of the veins, and then put his arms around her, and hugged her. “Good morning, beautiful.”

Claire smiled, and hugged him back. “Good morning, handsome. How do you feel?”

“Stiff. Achy. Tired. You?”

“I’m ok,” she said. She turned him around and looked at his back- the strawberry moss was amazing- his skin had already pulled back together. She unwrapped the bandages on his right arm- an icicle puncture, a severed tricep, and an inch-deep gash across his forearm- all better, except the tricep, though it was healing. “Squeeze your hand.”

He brought his hand to her breast, and cupped it, and squeezed.

She smiled, and pulled the carpet of moss back, and fished around for the angelicum and holy basil. The moss hissed at her, and it shook its stalks and rattled its green leaves and glowed. “Shut it- you got to eat an awful lot last night because of us.” The moss stopped hissing, but still vibrated green. She opened the jar and rubbed the white paste onto his arm, and his thigh, and his scalp, and rebandaged him. “Um… I was thinking…”

He looked at her hazel eyes, the color of bourbon, the color of locust honey, and her small nose, and small mouth. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking about home- our home. Winter’s coming, and so it needs to have a fireplace.” So we can snuggle on blankets in front of it, and make love, and smoke joints and eat biscuits and snuggle and make love and eat biscuits and snuggle and- goals, Claire had goals. Lots of them.

“Definitely a fireplace,” he agreed. A house with some kind of fireplace was a given- Lestat loved cutting wood; he loved sweating, and he loved the smell of metal, and fresh cut wood, and he liked the thunk and the crack as the axe split the log. All the better if the sound echoed around the empty countryside. And holding her, naked, in front of a fireplace- what could be better? Then he thought of something better. Maybe better- “Our house needs a big bath we can fill with hot water, and-”

“Oh my god yes!” Claire tackled him and they fell off her bed and the moss hissed at them, as they rolled across it naked, kissing, fondling. Then they heard horses outside, and Claire raised her head, listening. “There’s no fucking way.” First her house, and now their horses? Maybe this land had improved with the deaths of the wolves and witches?

Lestat kissed her neck, then down to her breasts, and nipples, and kissed his way from one, to the other, nibbling. “I’m surprised your house survived,” he said, and looked up at her.

Claire shook her head, and grinned- was it really that surprising? What were the odds her house survived a forest fire, and the horses survived, and returned? Miraculous. What were the odds she would fall in love with a wolf? What were the odds she would let a wolf nibble her naked body, from her left breast, down her ribs, one by one, biting, kissing, licking, sucking, caressing her with his mouth... She blushed and covered her eyes as he kissed his way down her stomach to her sex, and then gasped, as he did the same to her pussy as he had to the rest of her body- bite, kiss, lick, suck, caress.

Lestat nudged the folds of her sex open with his nose, and kissed her clit. Then he moved to her thighs, and nibbled his way around. He grabbed a tuft of brown pubic hair, and tugged one way, then another, all while slowly tracing his way up her thighs with his fingers. Then, with the hunger of a starving wolf, and with the appreciation of a starving man, he dove into her sex with his mouth, and his fingers, and she writhed and moaned against him.

*

Claire collected some of her more important jars from under blankets of moss, and her favorite boots, and thought about packing her favorite pajamas, but much preferred his shirts, and she was pretty certain he would force her to sleep naked anyway. Although she did pack a few skirts, and a few dresses, and a few tops, and a few pants. The two horses had returned with all their gear still intact: clothes, a sword, items from Lestat’s hut, their dire wolf cloaks, their blankets, and one pack full of dried food.

Itthon was sparkling green, like the face of an uncut emerald: as far as the eye could see nothing but undulating moss; rolling fields of verdant green with the occasional blackened tree stump sticking up here and there. The air smelled clean and fresh and green and alive.

“Which way should we go?” the wolf asked, as he helped her up into the saddle. Back to the land of apples was an option, to visit Este.

The witch crinkled her nose, and looked up in thought. “Let’s flip a coin.”

Lestat pulled a gold coin from his pack, flipped it, and it landed in the moss. Heads.

Claire looked down, then up- “That way,” she said, and pointed over the fields of moss.

And the wolf had to wonder- how did flipping a coin tell them which direction to go? Two sides of the coin- many different directions, and he started to ask, then stopped. The truth was- any direction with the witch was better than any direction without her, and he didn’t care where they were going, as long as they were going together. He tightened his arm around her, and she scooted her body back into the shape of his. Lestat put his nose in her hair and inhaled- the scent of leaves upturned, waiting for rain.

They left Claire’s house and did not look back- Claire would not let him look back.

~The End... as the snows of winter silenced their world like folded love letters...

*

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