Chapter Twelve
T he air seemed a little clearer after Weed’s outburst. Arran found himself feeling lighter for it—even if it had taken the best part of an hour to calm his body down and convince it that no carnal activities were about to take place.
If only Weed knew what he was playing with, taunting him like that.
The thought struck Arran that Weed most likely did know, and his acceptance of the danger in it was powerfully provocative. The beast in him enjoyed being provoked. Took it as a challenge.
A challenge Weed had already proven he was capable of delivering.
How delicious. And maddening. And fulfilling. To have been held down by his roots while filling his body with my cum.
A faint snarl curled Arran’s top lip as the thought burned through his mind. Someone who was capable of overpowering him was worthy of being owned by him.
His cock throbbed, threatening to fill again. Arran shook his head feverishly, trying to throw the thoughts out of it. It was all instinct. Primal impulses. He hated to conceive of imposing ownership over Weed.
Weed deserved to be free, in every way.
It had become obvious to Arran that Weed was a free spirit in the purest of forms. He’d utterly misjudged the cocky, mordant little brat he’d first acquired upon killing Elsie.
Weed’s caustic personality was a veneer. His scathing words were mis-directions. What lay underneath was… a charming, peaceful creature with a heart absolutely full of love for the natural world.
Arran had been sucked in by the open joy of Weed’s soul while they foraged the land. With great pleasure, he’d indulged in Weed’s revelations about the secret world of plants. Listened to his animated chatter about the silent and crawling things under their feet, and about the ambitious, busy efforts of things stretching up to touch the sun. Never before had these barren hills seemed so alive as they did under Weed’s scrutiny.
Weed’s eyes—in fact, his whole being—lit up while he talked. As if the unseen chains had dropped from his wrists and allowed him to fly free. He had the attention span of a hummingbird, constantly flitting from tree to tree, touching their boughs, leaping over stones, kicking water from the river.
Arran felt this was Weed’s natural state, to be bouncing around wild terrain without a care in the world. He noticed, too, all the little behaviours that betrayed Weed’s innate kindness.
Weed was careful to avoid stepping on the den of polecats that lived near to Arran’s home, remarking off-hand that the roots told him the mother had born a good litter of kits this year. He’d stopped dead in his tracks as they traversed the bottom of the ravine, allowing a tiny wood mouse to scurry across his path. Later, he caught Arran’s hand reaching to pluck a clump of sheep sorrel; Weed turned over the leaves to reveal butterfly eggs stuck underneath.
It was obvious that Weed cared deeply about the small lives all around him.
Arran suspected Weed didn’t ascribe the same kind of value to his own life. A lie that Elsie and his other masters had likely beaten into him.
Arran vowed to do everything it took to return Weed to his grove in the fae realm. Where he belonged, and where he deserved to be.
‘Why are you called Weed?’ Arran asked, closing the distance to catch up to Weed as he started to pick a winding path down into the ravine.
Weed didn’t miss a step. ‘S’what Elsie called me. No one bothered before then.’
Arran cocked his head, brow wrinkling. ‘She named you?’
‘Dunno if you can really call it a name. Just a word they used for me. Her and Logan.’
Weed’s nonchalance while explaining this was disconcerting. Was he really saying… that his name was little more than an insult he’d been burdened with?
Arran’s nostrils flared; his brow furrowed with quiet outrage. ‘I see.’
Weed glanced back. A brief sense of uncertainty clouded his expression before it morphed into his standard impish grin. ‘Suits me, don’t it? I get everywhere you don’t want me to be.’
‘I was thinking that weeds are very misunderstood plants,’ Arran said gravely, ‘and are often precious if you know their true qualities. Take dandelions…’
A tell-tale whisper of undergrowth warned Arran to dodge before a trail of ivy shot across his path. He frowned at it while Weed continued to amble ahead.
‘Don’t try to school me on dandelions,’ Weed crooned. A flick of his wrist reeled the ivy back in.
Arran trod with caution, half-expecting Weed to have another go at restraining him. ‘Would you prefer I call you something else? Instead of Weed?’
Weed stopped to pluck a handful of buttercups and tucked them behind his ear. ‘Like what?’
‘Perhaps your dryad name?’
‘We don’t have names.’ Weed sneered as though this was obvious. ‘Do you think trees have names? What would they call themselves?’
‘Maybe, One Who Is Tallest, or One With Broad Leaves,’ Arran suggested.
Weed actually paused to consider this, twirling a flower in his fingers. ‘Okay, but also no. Most plants don’t have any need to describe themselves to each other. The closest they might have is The One That Is Over Here. Or… This One That Is This One. Do you see?’
‘This one that is this one…’ Arran scratched his chin, looking up at the nearest tree. ‘Yes. I feel that is the way some animals perceive themselves. I know I am myself, and I know you are yourself, and beyond that there is no need for labels.’
Weed sidled closer. ‘Is that how Wulvers think of themselves?’
Arran gave a good-natured huff through his nose. ‘If you mean to ask, what was my fae name, I will tell you it.’
He released a complex growl in the Old Tongue; clearly language, but nothing that could be replicated by human vocal chords. ‘If you were to translate to modern English, it might be akin to He Who Watches Silently.’
‘Bit on the nose, isn’t it?’ Weed sniggered before falling into step with him as they reached the bed of the ravine. ‘How did you come to be known as Arran, then?’
‘I chose the name when I grew tired of the ones humans ascribed to me. There are only so many centuries you can bear to be called some variation of Wolf Monster.’
Arran kept his tone passive, but the memory behind the words left a hollow ache in his gut. Even in the fae realm, the moniker of ‘Wulver’ that he shared with others of his species had effectively meant the same thing.
Weeds and Wulvers, he reflected. Both had poor reputations.
Arran found the position of the sun and pointed south-west. ‘The land that is now called the Isle of Arran is where I first set foot in this world. And so it is after the Isle that I have named myself in recent years.’
Weed squinted, as though he thought he might see the island over the steep bank of trees. ‘Is it far?’
‘By human standards, it is a fair distance to travel. But by mine, it is only a matter of time. And I have a great deal of that.’
‘Huh. Wonder if I’ve been.’
They began to climb again, scrambling over rocks. Arran extended a hand to help Weed up, and felt a rush of warmth when he took it. ‘You travelled a great deal with Elsie, I imagine. Were you with her for long?’
‘Forty years or so.’ Weed shrugged. ‘Long enough. Bryce before that, ’til he handed me to Elsie in return for some favour she did him. He didn’t care to have much to do with me, though. Mostly just kept me locked in a cage until he needed some magic herbs growing for his spells and shit.’
Arran slowed, recalling one of his earliest conversations with Weed. He was known for paying attention, and not much escaped it. ‘I thought Bryce caught you for a boggart, whom Elsie killed?’
Weed’s freeze reaction was instant, and also more subtle than his usual flinch. ‘What of it? Boggart, hobgoblin, banshee, human—who cares who owned me first?’
‘You must do,’ Arran said levelly. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t feel the need to lie about it.’
For a split second Weed looked stricken, as though Arran had actually hit him, and he immensely regretted pushing the matter. Then Weed gave an exaggerated shrug which made his coat flap and said, rather sulkily, ‘I have many secrets, wolfie. You should know better than to trust a fae, right?’
‘Perhaps. But I should like to trust this one, if it’s all the same to you.’
This seemed to stump Weed, and he remained silent until the cave entrance loomed large and welcoming in front of them.
Possibly he was lost in thought, and if so they were clearly very weighty thoughts, as they continued to keep Weed quiet while Arran unpacked their foraged haul and carefully arranged everything in the larder, ready to be dried or pickled or turned into jam over the next few days.
Weed sat by the cave entrance to eat, looking out over the narrow gorge bathed in the ethereal twilight of the simmer dim.
With the pale glow outlining his silhouette, Arran felt Weed looked just as ethereal, and rather like a spirit that would not be contained. A nameless spirit; one that might be blown away by the Shetland winds.