Chapter Five
W eed awoke feeling most peculiar. He appeared to have been swallowed by a cloud, going by the pillowy softness that enveloped him. Yet his limbs were leaden and his eyelids gummed shut so tightly that at first he couldn’t prise them open. In those first few moments of warm, comfortable numbness, Weed seriously wondered if he was dead.
Eventually, he managed to unstick his eyes. He rubbed at the gritty gunk that is produced by a truly long, restful sleep. The cloud he was wrapped in turned out to be a sheepskin. He brushed his cheek against it, existing for another moment in the softness of the wool curls.
The gentle click of a cup against stone brought Weed back to reality, and alerted him that he was being watched.
Weed shot upright, blankets and skins tumbling off him in a heap. The Wulver sat by a low fire in the hearth, stirring a pot with an iron ladle.
‘Good afternoon,’ the wolfman said. ‘I hope you slept well.’
Weed pinched himself under the covers, endeavouring to snap his mind out of the comfortable fog it was still swimming in. He flashed a sharp grin. ‘Solid six out of ten, wolfie. It’s not a bad situation you have here, if you don’t mind the stink of smoke and wet fur.’
Of course, the fleeces Weed had slept under—and which his fingers unthinkingly crept to stroke—were anything but wet, and in fact smelled soothingly earthy. The smoke from the fire was well-drawn through the chimney, and only a clean herbal aroma drifted from the pot over it.
The Wulver must have known this, but refused to counter Weed’s comment. Instead, he dipped his ladle into the pot and filled a cup, which he then held out to Weed. Alongside it he offered a thick, biscuit-like slab.
‘Breakfast is rather simple today,’ the Wulver said impassively. ‘Nettle tea and hard tack, if you can stomach it. I shall catch fish for later.’
Weed’s stomach growled loudly. He winced. He was used to it being achingly empty, but somehow the memory of filling it yesterday made the renewed emptiness smart more keenly than usual.
‘Cupboards running bare, are they?’ Weed snatched the food before it could be taken away. The biscuit was horribly dry, but he gnawed through it all the same, and spoke around messy mouthfuls. ‘Gonna have to lower my review for the poor menu.’
The Wulver placed the cup at Weed’s side on the floor. ‘I have not yet been able to go out to forage for fresh food.’
‘Why not?’
‘You were sleeping.’
Weed’s chewing slowed. ‘Oh, I get it. You were worried I’d make a racket if my leash dragged me after you. Scare off all the game.’
‘No.’ The Wulver tilted his head. ‘I simply didn’t wish to wake you.’
Something weird and unfamiliar fluttered in Weed’s stomach. The hard tack settling, he presumed. Still, he suddenly couldn’t meet the Wulver’s placid gaze. Was there pity in it? Weed hated to think so.
‘I saw tins of food in your backpack,’ he said, looking to brew some argument instead. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t feed me the good stuff either.’
The Wulver choked out a shocked sound. ‘That is not true.’
The wolfman stopped himself, brow and muzzle scrunching as he reconsidered his answer. ‘You are right that I have other supplies. You are welcome to see the larder. But the tinned goods are the most reliable long-life food I have—and they are precious, for I cannot retrieve them often. We get bad storms here, the kind that would keep us held in this cave for weeks, and the food outside decimated or scared off. That is what the tinned goods are for.’
The Wulver’s solemn stare bored into Weed, clearly expecting some kind of acknowledgement.
‘Emergency supplies. Got it,’ Weed mumbled back.
The wolfman relaxed, though didn’t seem entirely satisfied. He huffed to himself and disappeared, leaving Weed to finish chewing through the dry biscuit.
Weed startled as a large rucksack was dropped next to him. Logan’s rucksack.
‘This is yours,’ the Wulver grunted. ‘I have not touched the contents. They are yours to do with as you wish.’
Weed’s interest perked up. He got all of Logan’s stuff? Not that he really wanted any of the foul man’s possessions, but the thought of owning stuff intrigued Weed.
He delved straight into the bag, gleefully counting the remaining protein bars and other snacks Logan had hidden away. Logan’s clothes Weed immediately discarded—he’d burn them, if the Wulver would let him.
When he pulled out Logan’s radio, he nearly added it to the burn pile. But the prospect of contact with someone, anyone else held an allure. Weed fiddled with it for a while. He’d never been allowed one of his own. It was a long-range walkie-talkie, with a tiny screen and a frequency dial, and several buttons that made no obvious sense to Weed. He’d seen Logan use it, of course, but aside from holding it up to his mouth to speak, Weed had no real idea how it worked.
He heard the Wulver’s claws approaching behind him and quickly tucked the radio away. Better not let the beast see it.
‘You may stow your bag under the workbench. I shall make you a basket if you wish to store anything separately.’ The Wulver nudged the cup of tea closer with his foot, reminding Weed that it was there. ‘When you are ready, we shall go fishing.’
The wolfman stalked to the hearth, raking over the fire to quell the flames into red embers. Weed felt small beneath him. And strangely… safe.
He consciously shuddered, trying to shake away the deceitful feeling. It was just the sheepskins talking. All the soft and the warm—it was messing with his head.
But still, there was the tiniest, most miniscule seed of hope burrowing itself into his heart. What if the Wulver’s mild manner wasn’t a pretence? Could it be in his nature to be calm… even kind?
Weed scoffed at himself. In his nature. Everyone knew what was in the Wulver’s nature. Just as Weed knew what was in his. He was a duplicitous little snake, who would bite the Wulver’s charitable hand without a second thought, if only he had the freedom to do so. If anything, the Wulver was a fool for not beating him into submission from the get-go.
Weed would find his moment. A way to settle the score, if only for the most fleeting of instants. He’d make his new master pay for owning him, and Weed would be able to keep on going, to carry on his hopeless existence, for the sole purpose of realising that elusive promise of vengeance.
It was all he had.
* * *
The Wulver’s intended fishing spot turned out to be the bed of the same river that ran through the ravine hiding his home. They followed the rushing water until the channel became wide and shallow, and the water slowed its pace next to the sprawling willow thickets.
Weed could easily see every pebble under the water. He knew it tasted just as clean and pure as it looked—the willow trees told him so. His mouth watered at the sight of it, fuelled by nearby root-memories of its life-giving freshness.
As he hadn’t received any instructions, Weed lounged in the sun as far away as his chains allowed and watched the clouds pass overhead.
He had no idea he’d fallen asleep until he was nudged awake by a furry paw.
‘The sun is setting,’ the Wulver told him.
Weed blearily registered the dimming sky. He’d slept for the whole afternoon? He didn’t know it was possible to sleep that much.
He followed the Wulver back to the cave in a daze. His first meal of fried fish was a highlight of his experience so far, and he ate it so fast he nearly choked on the bones.
A few hours later saw Weed retching into a bowl with the Wulver looming over him.
‘I suspect your body is struggling to adjust,’ the wolfman said, all logic and no help at all. He reached out a paw to gingerly pat Weed’s shoulder, then snatched it back as Weed hurled again.
For the next few days, this turned into a pattern that Weed couldn’t break out of. His body felt weak as shit—weaker than it ever had after being driven by Elsie or beaten by Logan.
Each day he followed the Wulver to some spot in the ravine where the wolfman had tasks to fulfil, and each day Weed lay more or less face down on the ground and fell straight back to sleep. Once or twice, he woke up back in the cave, with no memory of having walked there himself.
The Wulver took it upon himself to moderate Weed’s diet, keeping his meals to plain hard tack and weak soup. Weed simply snuck out of bed in the middle of the night to raid the snacks from Logan’s backpack, and didn’t give a shit that the Wulver would find him throwing up again in the morning.
Finally, after more than a week of living in a dazed, sickly stupor, Weed woke one morning to find he felt, broadly… fine.
‘What’s the plan today, wolfie?’ he asked, tentatively nibbling some berries the Wulver offered him.
‘Do you think you could manage the walk to the river? I should like to gather more fish for smoking.’
Weed realised he’d been so out of it that he had no solid idea of what the wolfman had been up to, save for swapping out his sick bowls and steering him from one resting place to another. He had a loose impression that there were many other caves dotted over the ravine, and the Wulver had been checking the stores in each one.
Fishing sounded infinitely more fun than taking inventory.
Weed grinned sharply, flashing his teeth. ‘Sure thing. I’d like to see how you use those fangs of yours.’
The Wulver gave Weed a peculiar look, but said nothing. When they reached the river, Weed discovered why.
Rather than hunting fish with his teeth or claws as Weed expected, the Wulver’s preferred method turned out to be spearfishing. The spear was a dainty but vicious looking affair with three narrow, barbed blades protruding from the end. Weed vaguely remembered it from the first trip, but hadn’t realised what it was for. This time, instead of finding a place to lie down, Weed watched the wolfman from the banks.
The Wulver held his spear poised in one hand, scanning the water in which he stood shin deep. He looked comical with his jeans rolled up to his knees.
He’d also removed his hoodie for this task, and his shoulders seemed broader for it. Weed wondered why he bothered to hide under human clothes at all. He was an intimidating beast underneath the layers, all muscle and sinew. The fur over his back looked short but dense.
Weed briefly considered how soft it had felt when he’d swiped a finger over the Wulver’s chest on their first day together. An unclear half-memory swam through his brain, of silky fur grazing his cheek as he was lifted in strong arms, carried while mostly unconscious. He shivered, brushing it away.
But as the Wulver straightened, Weed couldn’t help the way his eyes raked down the wolfman’s spine. His gaze followed the curve of the Wulver’s back, ending at the naughty dimple by the top of his ass cheeks where his tail protruded. The position of his tail meant that the Wulver had to wear any trousers slung low around his hips—an alluring detail that was usually hidden under the awful, baggy hoodie.
Right now, his tail was as still as the rest of him. Weed wanted to yank on it. He wondered whether it would make the wolfman howl.
The Wulver tensed, eyes darting left. Then the spear followed, a precise stab into the water. The blades re-emerged, laden with a fish. The fish was an ugly yellow-brown colour and covered in dark spots, but it looked a good size and Weed’s stomach rumbled automatically.
‘Impressive,’ he drawled, as the Wulver placed his catch in a basket. ‘I don’t see why you don’t just use your teeth, though.’
The Wulver resumed his careful stance in the water. ‘There are many more efficient ways of catching fish than attempting to bob for them like apples.’
‘I think you just don’t like getting wet.’
The Wulver huffed, glancing down at his legs where the water eddied around them. ‘You may think what you like.’
Weed did. He imagined pushing the Wulver into the water just for the spite of it. But rather than enjoying his intended revenge daydream—that of a soggy, angry wolfman—Weed’s imagination startled him with a fantasy.
His jaw went slack as the Wulver rose from the water in his mind, muscles bulging under dripping fur. The wolfman advanced on him like a predator. Amber eyes pinned Weed down as effectively as a fish spear. Hot breath cascaded over him. Clawed hands seized his shoulders roughly, and Weed’s chest hitched at the pinch of teeth around his throat, holding him at the wolfman’s mercy. His heart thumped madly in his chest, his whole body growing hot under the solid weight of the beast climbing on top of him…
Weed exhaled, coming back to himself as the phantom wolfman faded from his mind’s eye. A part of him longed to chase after the daydream.
A bit early for Stockholm’s, isn’t it? he mused, trying once again to shake the idea from his brain.
Weed had entertained the thought before, in passing, that the Wulver was attractive in an uncanny sort of way. But this was the first time he’d thought it in relation to himself. And now that he had, the painful ache of desire began to unfold from deep within, where he’d buried it.
Familiar and unwelcome yearning throbbed in his veins. The awakening of an old hunger—a despairing, frantic kind of hunger, more acute than mere starvation—caused Weed to curl in on himself.
He groaned aloud, rolling onto his side and pulling his legs into a foetal position. Weed shut his eyes and hugged himself against the onslaught of need . Eighty years of thirst, of isolation, clawed at him at him like a caged animal. All because he’d just let his guard down around that fucking wolf.
‘Are you all right?’ The Wulver’s concern broke through his wretched haze. A large, cool palm landed gently on Weed’s forehead, and he shivered at the meeting of flesh. ‘Are you ill?’
Weed knocked the Wulver’s hand away. ‘I’m fine.’ He sat up abruptly, though he kept his knees pulled up to hide his horrendously painful erection.
‘You are sweating.’ The Wulver crouched to look at him more closely.
Go the fuck away! Weed shrieked internally. Or fuck me. Both are good.
He knew he was panting. His body was taking liberties, getting carried away with itself. Weed tried to hide his suffering by pouring it into the ground, sending a silent scream through his hands into the soil.
The nearest willow tree convulsed. Its boughs snapped to and fro as if caught in a gale, and the Wulver leapt to his feet in alarm. ‘Are you doing this?’ he demanded.
Weed grimaced, reining in his distraught emotions. I didn’t mean to scare you, he told the tree. He hunched over, determined not to speak out loud unless the Wulver commanded it.
The tree settled down and the wolfman’s suspicious gaze swung back to Weed. Weed was sure he was in for a kicking.
The Wulver sat next to him. His large body radiated warmth, and Weed fought the urge to lean into it.
‘You appear to be in distress,’ the Wulver said simply.
Weed almost laughed. Yes. He felt pretty fucking distressed.
When was the last time he’d ever been touched so tenderly? Was this all it took to make him unravel—a few glancing caresses from a wolf’s paw and a comfortable bed?
‘Are you done fishing yet?’ Weed snapped instead. ‘I’m bored. ’
Weed knew he sounded like a child and he didn’t care. Anything to wipe that false compassion out of the beast’s eyes. Anything to make him angry. Anger was familiar territory.
Weed seized hold of the only subject he’d known to make the Wulver irritated before. By chance, it also echoed his current fixation.
‘Shall we shag?’ he announced loudly. He didn’t look the Wulver in the eye, instead letting the words fall in a careless stream from his mouth onto the wind. ‘What with you being a legendary shagger, I reckon it would pass the time well. Better than fishing. I bet you’re ruthless! You could rip me apart with your cock, right? I wouldn’t mind finding out what all the fuss is about…’
His voice dwindled, stolen by the stoic silence of the wolfman. Weed dared to steal a glance and saw the Wulver’s triangular ears had flattened against his head and his eyes were a deeper amber than usual. Were those lupine signs of rage?
Very slowly, and very gently, the Wulver reached out and clasped Weed’s shoulders. For a split second Weed was back in his daydream, about to be pushed onto the grass. But instead, the Wulver remained quite still, seeking out Weed’s gaze before speaking.
‘I don’t understand what ails you, but I do not believe you truly mean these things.’ The Wulver looked up at the nearby willow tree, brow furrowing with thought. ‘Perhaps you are not comfortable in this environment? There are not many trees here.’
This time a laugh did escape Weed’s throat. The beast thought a lack of fucking trees was his problem? Not the magical enslavement, or the lifetime of torment in a human body? That was wild .
The Wulver regarded Weed with bewilderment. ‘And now you are giggling.’
Weed fell on his back, no longer caring that the shape of his hard-on was obvious through his trousers. Seconds ticked by as he laughed, and still the Wulver did nothing but watch him. Weed’s cackles subsided, leaving behind a prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes—whether out of mirth or misery, he didn’t care to wonder. The earth was warm at his back. The sky overhead was blue behind the clouds. Despite everything, it was still easily one of the most peaceful days of his human life.
‘Would you shag me, though?’ Weed asked feebly, staring up at the clouds. He licked his lips, weary with arousal and confusion. ‘You’re so observant. You can tell I’m horny as a bitch in heat, right?’
The Wulver visibly shuddered. ‘Your scent makes your… condition… obvious. But no. Be assured, I shall not take advantage of you.’
‘Pity.’
Weed closed his eyes as the sun emerged from behind a bank of clouds. He reached for the leaves around him, basking in their nourishment, the comfort of photosynthesis.
He’d no idea he’d dropped off to sleep yet again, until a leathery palm gently shook him awake by the elbow.
‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ the Wulver murmured, ‘but we shall lose the light if we don’t get going soon.’
Weed stumbled to his feet, groggy and disoriented. The sun had moved west beyond the walls of the narrow ravine, which was now entirely bathed in shadow. The Wulver’s basket was full to the brim with ugly brown fish.
Weren’t we in the middle of something? Weed’s befuddled brain insisted. Was that really how that interaction had ended? With no comeuppance at all?
He watched the Wulver with suspicion as the beast pulled on his hoodie and hoisted the basket in both arms. The spear was slung over his back on a thin strap.
The wolfman cocked his head in the direction of the cave. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I am if you tell me to be,’ Weed replied sullenly.
The Wulver sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll take that as a yes.’
Weed followed at his maximum allowed distance, ambling as slowly as he could in the Wulver’s wake. Shetland’s peculiar yellow twilight fell around them as they reached the cave, and once inside, the Wulver disappeared straight into his pantry.
Weed poked his head in, reasoning that he hadn’t been told not to. This small chamber was entirely lined with rock-cut shelves across two walls, while a couple of ancient-looking oak barrels next to a stone trough lined the third. The Wulver poured his fishing catch into the trough and looked up as Weed stepped in.
‘Tonight we shall have a good meal of trout, if you are up to it,’ he said, nodding at the fish. ‘And tomorrow I shall smoke and pickle the rest. I shall teach you how, if you would like.’
Weed noted the carefully organised rows of tinned food and foil packaged MRE pouches that would make any doomsday-prepper proud. These filled about half the shelf space, while the rest of the pantry looked conspicuously bare. A number of empty glass jars and bottles suggested they were awaiting new contents, and a large sheaf of waxed paper was neatly stacked at one end.
‘What’s in these?’ Weed asked, pointing at the barrels.
‘One is for water. One is for salt.’
‘That’s a lot of salt.’
‘Yes. I use it sparingly. Sometimes for cooking. But mostly for preserving food.’ The Wulver selected the biggest fish from the trough and motioned for Weed to follow him back into the main chamber.
He didn’t seem to require Weed’s assistance while gutting the fish, nor did he appear to care whether Weed showed any interest in it, either. So Weed left the Wulver to his dinner, and nosed through his bookshelf instead.
The books all had very practical and boring titles, covering subjects as dull as predicting the weather, coastal foraging, and maritime sailing. An old Shetland Almanac was particularly well-thumbed with lots of hand-written notes scrawled in the margins. The notes Weed could decipher related mainly to vegetable growing seasons and island topography.
Weed replaced the volume with a yawn. What silly lengths humans had to go to just to understand the particulars of growing their food. But then, he supposed, they couldn’t go ahead and ask a carrot what its preferred soil conditions would be, or what its favourite music was. (As a rule, anything with a heavy bass tended to go down well with root vegetables, as Weed had learned during his many scattered conversations with them.)
Weed’s mind wandered to Logan’s rucksack, and the radio hidden at the bottom of it. The Wulver still appeared to be busy. What harm would come from messing around with it for a while?
He grabbed the bag and lugged it to the cave entrance. Being around a corner, it at least afforded him some small measure of privacy.
First, he opened one of the protein bars and took a small, deeply appreciative bite. His stomach gave no complaints this time. Weed wrapped it up carefully and tucked the rest away for another time. Next, the radio.
At first glance the dials and buttons were just as impenetrable as before, but now Weed had the time to examine it properly. By merit of randomly pressing and twisting, he hit upon the volume dial which turned it on. It blasted static into his face.
Weed snickered, quickly turning it down. Next, he tried messing with the channels, or frequencies, or whatever they were called. All it seemed to do was change the texture of the static. Fleetingly he thought he caught a fragment of speech, or a note of music, but it was gone just as quickly. He tried pressing the button on the side and speaking into it, but if anyone heard him, Weed was none the wiser.
Eventually the cold evening air drove him to put the radio away. Weed retreated into the living space and sat musing on the absurdity of a communication device that wouldn’t let him communicate.
How interesting that humans were listening to each other all the time, and yet their network of conversation was virtually impenetrable to him. Perhaps that’s how it was for them with plants. The world was constantly abuzz with information, in even the quietest winter meadow, when all seemed dry and dead above ground. But roots continued striving. Beneath, the earth was raucous with the sounds of survival.
Weed was lost in such thoughts when the Wulver served a steaming plate of fish in front of him, alongside a cup of nettle tea—and in fact, he’d been so peacefully distracted that the interruption gave him a shock.
‘What’s this?’ Weed snapped reflexively, to cover the way he’d jumped away from the Wulver’s paws.
‘Dinner.’ The wolfman gave him a shrewd look. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘You sneak around,’ Weed muttered. ‘On those soft paws of yours.’ He shot a glare at the Wulver’s feet: big, padded things covered in shorter, velvety fur. With claws retracted, they looked as soft as a gigantic bunny’s.
‘I shall try to sneak more loudly in future,’ the Wulver said wryly. He retreated with his own plate to the opposite corner of the cave.
Weirdly, with no one looming over him, Weed struggled to enjoy his food. He picked at the meal half-heartedly, even though for such an ugly fish it tasted beautiful on the inside. He wasn’t used to having space . Or the option to eat as slowly or as quickly as he liked.
He snuck a glance at the Wulver, who appeared to be enjoying his fish and paying Weed no mind whatsoever. After he was finished, the wolfman selected a book from the shelf—Weed made out the words Jams, Pickles, and Preserves on the faded spine—and proceeded to lounge on his bed, nose-deep in its pages.
‘What should I do?’ Weed spoke, breaking the silence.
The Wulver turned a page. ‘Whatever you like.’
Weed pouted, finding this unhelpful. He groped for the comfort of nearby florae, but the chatter of plants and their roots was distant, obscured by the thick walls of rock. Nearest, he felt the presence of the honeysuckle hanging outside the cave entrance.
If he’d been in a more impish mood, Weed might have taken liberties with the Wulver’s answer and used it as an excuse to call the creeping plant inside to wreak some mischief.
But something about the calmness permeating the cave was oppressive. Weed couldn’t shake the tension that clung to him like a fine mist on his skin.
Eventually he went and lay down on his fleece pile by the fire. Weed stared at the cave ceiling for what felt like hours, until he heard the soft snap of the Wulver’s book, and then sounds of him raking the fire to spread the ashes. The lanterns were turned off, and Weed was left to stare into the dark.