Archive of Our Own

France, June of 1767

Light flooded through the trees, over the mountain, and across the packed dirt streets as dawn broke. At the base of the hills, a small town slept as the first of several roosters announced the dawn, crowing dutifully with their heads bobbing into the morning air. It was only on the third call that the village began to wake.

In the center of town, in a small but welcoming home, a young girl threw back her covers with a squeal of delight. Her hair spilled haphazardly from its bun as she leapt out of bed. Small, pale hands tore at the front of the wardrobe, pulling it open to reveal a modest selection of jupe and jackets. Grinning wide, she snatched a headcover from the shelf, along with two plain jupe and a shirt, before giggling and racing behind the changing screen.

Across the room, a messy head of muddy hair popped out from beneath the woolen blanket. “Little Katharina,” the boy groaned, “it is far too early to be making so much noise.”

“The sun is up, Christophe,” she argued sweetly. Grabbing at the bottoms of her dressing gown, she pulled it delicately above her head. When it caught at her bun she giggled. With a patience beyond her age, Katharina carefully tugged the hair free. Then she hung the gown over the edge of the screen. “When the world is bathed in light it is the perfect time to rise.”

Christophe whined and turned over to bury his face in his pillow with a morose noise. The straw of his bed creaked in protest.

“Honestly, brother. No woman will marry a man so lazy,” she scolded. “You should follow my example.”

“No man would marry a woman so loud. You should learn from mine,” he drawled back halfheartedly.

Huffing stubbornly, Katharina set about pulling her chemise above her head, tugging it moodily into pace. Then came her jupe. She tied them quickly, but expertly, one after the other. After this came her shirt, jacket, and stockings. Her shoes were clipped on and tested against the floor with two solid thunks with the heel. Finally, she pulled a leather sheath-belt from where it hung on a small hook on the wall.

A quick check to make sure the knife was in its place and the girl grinned. She gave a cursory twirl, ensuring everything was in its place, then stepped out from the screen. The first thing she did was stick her tongue out at her brother. The second was to skip from the room. But the moment her feet landed outside the door, Katharina’s footsteps went light. She kept patiently to the left, as was polite, as she made her way down the small hall and into the kitchen.

“Good morning my little Katharina,” a woman greeted without looking away from where she tended the fireplace. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, Mama,” the girl told her warmly. She maneuvered around the living room to press a polite kiss to her mother’s cheek.

Her mother smiled. “Good. The porridge is ready. Get two bowls from the cabinet, would you?”

“Yes, Mama.” Dutifully rising back to her feet, Katharina carefully made her way around the kitchen and dutifully retrieved two wooden bowls and spoons. Her shoes shuffled quietly against the packed mud floors, scuffing them quietly before she remembered to pick up her feet. She passed off the cutlery with a proud smile.

“Thank you little one,” her mother thanked, taking the bowls from her daughter’s hands before turning back to the pot. She grabbed at the ladle with a soot-stained cloth, lifting it from the kettle to carefully fill the flatware. Handing them back to Katharina, she tapped her shoulder and pointed to the table. “Set them down for me, would you?”

Katharina nodded eagerly, rushing to the table with a wide grin and setting the bowls down before taking her seat.

“Now remember; it’s hot,” her mother told her sweetly, reaching into her apron before sprinkling a dark powder over the top.

Katharina gasped, gazing at the powder with wide, eager eyes. “Cinnamon?” she whispered, staring up at her mother in awe. “I didn’t know the Romani were in town!”

“They passed through yesterday,” her mother replied quietly, taking the seat opposite the girl. “About noon. They could only do a quick pass through. Apparently their daughter had fallen ill.”

“Was it Laural?” Dipping the spoon into her porridge, Katharina began stirring the spice into the mush.

Her mother shook her head, lips turning down at the sides. “It is Roma.”

Katharina’s expression dropped along with her mother’s. “Will she be alright?”

“I hope so.” She smiled, slipping her hand across the table to cradle her daughter’s. “She will be fine. The Romani are a hardy bunch.”

The girl whined. “But she is hardly six years of age. A child.”

Her mother hummed, taking a bite of her porridge. She chewed slowly, then swallowed with an amused grin. “If I remember,  correctly, it was not too long ago that you were her age.”

“Do you know if they will be back in town? I would very much like to see them.”

“Maybe it best not. I know how you feel about their boy.”

“Kem is a true gentleman,” Katharina defended quickly. Her cheeks warmed against the cool morning air as she continued, “What I feel for him is only admiration.”

“You blush when you lie, little one.”

Recoiling at the mention, the girl dug into her porridge, taking great pains to cool it before shoveling large spoonfuls into her mouth.

Across the table, her mother giggled, amused.

…

Skipping along the side of the beaten dirt street, Katharina waved her hand in greeting to the farmer as he wheeled past with his produce. “Bonjour, Monsieur Maurois.”

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Argent,” the man called back politely, tipping his hat. “Out to collect flowers again this morning?”

She nodded eagerly, bonnet shifting against her head. Out of habit she immediately reached up to tug at the strings, only to drop her hand nervously to her side. It is not polite to remove your bonnet in public, she thought to herself. “Yes,” the girl answered, sheepish. “I am.”

The man cast a wary look at the edge of the town, which lead slowly into the hills and gave way to forestry. “Be careful in those woods, now,” he warns her. “Madam Maurois heard a wolf howling last night.”

“I will.”

Snapping the reigns against the back of his mule, the man continued into town.

Katharina watched him go, then glanced about her nervously. The street seemed to be deserted. “No harm done,” she whispered. Then, turning away from town, she made her way slowly up the hill. It was a patient sort of walk. She made absolutely sure her path was clear of all rocks before she took a step, the buckle on her shoe clicking absently with each shift of weight. It was only when her petite heels cleared the third line of trees, when she could no longer see the town behind her as she glanced over her shoulder, that she broke into a run.

She grabbed at her jupe, hiking the skirts up above her knees as she sprinted over roots and rocks and plants. Her hands lingered over the sides of trees and along their branches as she raced through them. Breath heavy and palms streaked with dirt, she came to a wide clearing where the sun shone down over a series of dark wildflowers.

It was at the edge of this clearing that she came to an abrupt pause, lungs heaving and fingers wrapped around a low branch for balance. She threw one hand over her eyes to shade them. And when they had adjusted enough for her to see, the girl giggled and leapt from the roots and into the tall grass. The grass was nearly up to her chest, swatting her arms and legs as she passed. Katharina came across the first thatch of flowers, sawing at them carefully with her knife as she clutched the stem through her outermost jupe, she did not think to check the woods around her for the wolves the farmer had warned her of. If she had, she would have seen the eyes then. It was as if the sky were shining through the forest, two glowing pinpricks in the darkness.

It would have been her first of many warnings for the things to come.

…

When she returned to town, Katharina ducked behind a cottage to observe her appearance in a rain barrel. Her fingers shot up to tuck a few errant strands back into her bonnet. After this she pinched her cheeks, puckered her lips, and smiled prettily for her reflection. It smiled back at her, dimples deep and sweet even as a cascade of blonde hair fell from the cusp of her bonnet as it came loose from the slight motion. She gasped, glancing around nervously before tugging off the article and twirling her hair into a loose bun and tying it into place with a spare length of ribbon. She quickly secured her bonnet over it, carefully tying the strings a bit tighter around her chin.

It was then that she heard it; two women speaking in hushed tones. Stepped around the house and into the street, Katharina watched in surprise as a familiar woman approached Madame Babinaux.

“Please – I’m just looking for my daughter. She’s about the same size as your boy,” the dark-haired woman began, reaching up to push her hair out of her face, revealing studs of brass winking in her ears.

The other woman gave a huff and turned away from the woman. “Do not talk to the gypcian, Philippe,” she warned the boy at her side, barely four, before tugging him down the street. “Best not soil your mind.”

As Madame Babinaux strutted away, Katharina approached at a patient pace. “Bonjour, Madame Hale,” she greeted politely.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Katharina,” the woman replied, her accent pleasantly foreign, turning slowly to look down at the girl. She had a practiced grin on her face; gracious smile as fake as the blush on her cheeks. “How are you?”

“I have heard that your daughter is ill.”

Madame Hale seemed taken aback by her forwardness, but recovered quickly. “Yes. She has not been feeling very well as of late.”

“But just now you said she was missing.”

“She has run off in a feverish state,” the Romani replied, tugging at the knot of her headscarf. Her dark hair shifted with the movement, a few strands falling to frame her dark, handsome face.

Katharina had always admired Thalia Hale’s beauty. She was not fair, like the others claimed made women pleasant to look upon. Like what they claimed made Katharina such a jewel. Madame Hale had a wide mouth, sharp eyes that rose at the corners towards her eyebrows, and skin so dark her the fringes of her eyes could well be the moon. She was the very bark of a mighty oak compared to Katharina’s snowbells; strong and majestic in place of youth and fragility. And behind her face lay a brilliance to be reckoned with. If but she were allowed, the girl would like to look upon Thalia Hale’s face and admire her every day.

It is this that has Katharina distracted for a long moment, slowing her mouth so that she could only reply a few moments later. “And no one has seen her?”

The woman shook her head, scarf falling slightly down her hair at the movement. “No one. At least, no one who will tell me.”

“Why would they not help? That is not a neighborly thing to do,” the girl insisted.

“Yes. But I am not your neighbor, am I?” she remarked.

Katharina looked up into the woman’s eyes for a long moment before shaking her head. “Of course you are.”

Madame Hale giggled. “Little Katharina, you are an utter joy.” Settling her hands politely over her apron, Thalia smiled at the girl, lips sincere and appearing so very soft. “I must go. I wish you a good day.”

“I wish you luck,” the girl called after her. “And please tell Kem ‘Good morning’ for me.”

Thalia offers a wave of a hand in thanks, continuing down the beaten dirt road; her scarf bouncing with every step.

…

“I see you have been gathering those flowers, again.”

Katharina turned away from her task to smile at a man with salted hair as he stepped through the door. The room was warm, bordering on uncomfortably so, and the walls were lined with metalwork. “Good morning, papa,” she greeted sweetly, voice warm with affection. Her attention turned back to hanging the flowers, keeping them perfectly straight against the walls so that they could not touch. Beneath them sat three bottles of clear oil and a large copper pot. “I thought it best to dry the next batch before I begin to run low.

“You have also tended the forge,” he observed, tone proud. “If but your brother could be so helpful.”

“It is not polite to compare your children thus,” she tutted.

“Little Katharina,” he told her affectionately, dropping to his knees and turning her about to face him. He brushed back a lock of her hair that had escaped her bonnet, grinning wide. “My sunshine. One day you will be a good wife, and I will be very sad to lose you.”

“Thank you, papa,” she replied sweetly. As her father rose to his feet, she  snatched the nearest bottle of cloudy oil with a smile.

The man frowned. “And why would you need that?”

“I used my knife today.” Katharina spared her father a small smile over her shoulder before snatching up a pair of small, well-used gloves from the table, along with a cloth. “It needs to be cared for.”

“Well don’t spill,” he warned wearily.

“I am aware, papa,” she teased. “Do not let it touch my skin. Do not breathe it in too long. Do not smear it on my clothes, or illness and pitch bile will follow.”

“That’s right, darling,” her father gushed endearingly, watching her with amusement as she settled not in the chairs in the center of the room, but beneath the table itself with a giggle. “You cannot expect to continue sitting under that table when you are a lady.”

“Ah, but papa,” she laughed, “when I am a lady I will no longer fit beneath this table.”

The man chuckled, amusement curling his face into a wide grin as he nodded approvingly. “This is true enough.”

Katharina watched her father gather iron sand into a bowl before turning her attentions to the contents of her lap. First she pulled on the gloves. They fit evenly across her hands, though they were a bit taut at the palms. Second, she folded the cloth into even eighths. Then, finally, she carefully removed the stopper from the vial, upending it quickly over the fabric before tipping it back right-side-up. She stoppered it quickly. Turning her attention to the cloth, she unsheathed her knife from her belt. The metal shone beneath the light of the fire, glittering dangerously as she brought the cloth to its side. She polished it slowly; methodically. As if missing a single inch would cost her life.

…

It was both abrupt and alarming; the sound of steadily approaching hooves. At first it was no more than a distant thunder. The steady clap of horseshoes against heavy mountain soil. But as time went on the noise grew louder and louder until it passed before the workshop with a deafening roar, accompanied by the fluttering snap of banners.

Katharina’s father set down his tongs, wiping oiled hands on his apron. He approached the door with narrowed eyes. Expression grim, he turned to his daughter and told her firmly, “Stay inside little one.”

“Who is it?” she asked, voice small.

“The King’s men,” he replied. Wiping his hands one last time against his smock, he stepped out of the workshop and into the street. “Stay here,” he repeated darkly with one last glance at his daughter before he rushed into the street.

Men of the village had gathered around the newcomers, watching with wary eyes as they dismounted from their horses. There was a steady stream of murmurs. Strings of gossip making their way through the small crowd as to what could have possibly brought official soldiers of the King to their village. As the men dismounted, their fine buckles ands traps clicking and swishing, they all converged behind the man with a wide hat.

This man turned to the crowd and asked very plainly, “Is the mayor about?”

“I am,” a tall, stately man replied. The villages moved aside as he stepped forward, clearing the way for him to address the soldiers. He tipped his hat politely. “Is something amiss?”

The soldiers did not tip their hats in return.

“We have been tracking a beast from town to town,” the leader imparted firmly. “We have reason to believe it has moved to the outskirts of your… village.” His nose wrinkled, as if something sour had been placed beneath his nose. “We request lodgings and a local hunting party to be called to congress.”

“Of course, of course,” the mayor replied. Turning to Monsieur Argent, he leaned in close to whisper, “Gerard, mind informing the innkeeper of his incoming charges?”

“I will leave now,” he announced, moving to pull away. A hand came up to drag him back, stopping him.

Leaning a touch closer, the mayor told him, “We will need you on this hunt.” He glanced up, meeting his eyes almost warningly. “Arm your sword.”

…

It was at the edge of town that it attacked, leaping on the first human it came across and feeding. Her screams drew the hunters, and before long there was a bullet in its side.

The hunters could not see it fall uselessly to the ground – pushed out of the wolf’s body – as it turned on them.

…

Rushing into his workshop, Gerard reached for the sword hung against the wall and tied it quickly to his waist, sheath bumping twice against his leg before it stilled. Then he reached for a small box, barely the length of his forearm, and pulled it open. inside lay a wide-mouthed gun – smaller than the men’s muskets. He quickly set about twisting his fingers about the grip. It was heavy. Not so heavy as his sword, but heavy enough. Metalwork – intricate, twisting stuff – ran up the side and a wide mouth of the front sagged a bit as he lifted it from the velvet. As he prepped to load the muzzle, he froze as behind him came a shuffle and a knock.

“Why don’t you take your crossbow, Daddy?” Katharina’s small voice asked.

Gerard turned to look at the girl cowering beneath the table, smiling a resigned sort of grimace. “This is not the occasion for a crossbow,” he told her quietly. Turning his attention back to the pistol, he breathed out solemnly through his nose.

She looked to where he was loading the gun and frowned. “I thought you told the man you had not finished it yet.”

“Some things are better left out of the hands of the military,” he dissented, voice so soft she nearly hadn’t heard him. Hoisting the gun in his hands, he grabbed some extra powder and shots from the table and stepped from the room.

Katharina watched, eyes wide, as her father stepped into the shadow of the setting sun. She rushed to the door after him, but made no move to follow. Instead she watched him from the door. At first she expected to see him walk around the corner. That whatever the men were doing, she would not be privy to it.

It was then that the beast, small but spindly like no wolf had been in books and drawings, burst into town, trailed by a small army of men. And it held in its teeth an arm.

Katharina screamed.

“Get back inside!” Gerard snapped, waving his arm for his daughter to retreat.

At this point she gladly did so, yanking the door shut and crawling back beneath the table. She set about oiling her knife in an attempt to drown out the sounds of gunshots and screams. There was a loud rush to the air; like wind, or water, or fire. But Katharina remained where her father had told her.

When she smelled smoke she covered her mouth with her jacket and remained where she was.

When the screams went silent she remained where she was.

When her father neglected to walk through the door when all was over, she remained where she was.

When the roof came down into the workshop, straw twisting and burning and smoking like a furnace, she had no choice but to remain under the table and watch the walls catch. The straw was quick to smolder, but the walls blazed on, and when she realized she would soon suffocate Katharina – small, beautiful Katharina – rushed for the still solid door. It was made of a thicker wood than that of the others. Her father had specifically trecked into the mountains for it, felling a tree and hiring an ox to bring it back. The girl remembered the day well, as it had also made a door for each of their rooms in the house. As she collided with it the hinges gave way in the heat of the fire, and she fell into the street atop it in a heap.

In a moment of utter panic, Katharina jumped carefully to her feet. Her jupe was smeared with soot; eyes still watering from the smoke; lungs straining for fresh air. But through her stupor she could see the wolf circling. It’s eyes shone like the sun, bright and crazed. They were locked on the girl as if curious. As if familiar. But before Katharina’s eyes had cleared it bounded off to the fallen bodies of the hunters. They lay among their weapons, scattered on the ground.

When the girl’s eyes cleared, the first thing they lay upon were the bodies. Torn. Ripped. Soaked with their own fluids and slowly but surely being devoured.

It came over her like a mantle; a fury so deep Katharina almost didn’t know what to do with it. In her hands was her knife, and she was running. The wolf, so fixated it was on the corpse beneath its lips, did not notice her until the length of her knife was in its side. For a long moment it paid no heed.

But then it fell.

As Katharina watched the creature writhe on the beaten dirt road she felt a sense of pity wash over her. The beast seemed to gleam in the light of the moon; ethereal and beautiful despite its terrifying maw and how it twitched with its last breaths, choking up a dark bile. In the distance came a deep rumble. Howling – at least four voices calling for the sky to come crashing down on their heads.

Behind her, stepping slowly from a nearby house, the Captain stumbled into the street on precarious knees. Katharina didn’t hear him until his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her away from the wolf.

“Are you alright?” he inquired, his voice a touch panicked. “Little girl, are you alright?”

She looked at him with wide, tearful eyes and told him in an uneven, hoarse, warbling tone, “I am, Monsieur.”

“Good…” the man whispered, then glanced to the beast. “Good.” He eyed the small dagger in its side warily before turning back to her. “You are a saint, little one,” he told her. “But you are far too young for such a thing to be known. One of the hunters will be credited with the kill, yes? It will be…” He scanned the road and watched as a man limped out of the shadows. For a moment he struggled, then turned to Katharina to say, “He will be credited. Monsieur Chastel. When we go to the king we will tell him this, and you will be allowed to stay with your family.”

“Monsieur Chastel.” She coughed the name out, voice rough from smoke and unsure with confusion.

Smoothing his hand against the back of her neck, the Captain told her quietly, “We will leave your village in peace, now.”

“And leave us to the wolves?”

“Wolves?” The man smiled; an attempt at reassurance. “There are no wolves now, little one. There was but one, and it is dead.”

“They howled,” she coughed out, wheezing into the sleeve of her shirt before she attempted to speak once more. “They are in the woods. They will come for us.”

“Go to your mother, little one,” the man insisted, then rose to his feet. He motioned to the other man, and together they walked down the street and into the still-standing inn.

Katharina looked around her, at the buildings that had burned. Not just the workshop, but the cafe, and the bakery, and at least five more buildings so damaged she could hardly tell what they had once been. Half the town had burned. There were no men to rebuild it. No men to protect it.

In the distance, wolves howled.

Slowly, Katharina pulled her knife free of the stilled body of the wolf, shuffled over to the body that had once been her father, and cried. It wasn’t too long before her mother appeared, pulling Katharina away from Gerard’s corpse even as her own tears left tracks down her face.

…

Sleeping was a nasty business. Nightmares of blood and wolves. Of howling. Of her father.

The instant Katharina woke she was on her feet. Her brother remained silent, and instead turned quietly to bury his face into his blankets as she dressed behind the screen.

Katharina was loud in the hall, feet no longer silent in the thought of those sleeping. She marched into her father’s store room with grim purpose. Her hands quickly fell upon a small bow – the one he had used to teach her to shoot. Though it was still large in her hands, she carried it with determination. She shoved as many arrows into a quiver as she could, fastening it to her back before stepping into the kitchen and grabbing at a handful of biscuits and a bowl before stomping out the door.

Once in town, she settled herself on the door to her father’s workshop and looked out toward the forest. It was still dark. Hardly two hours had passed since she was last in the square. The houses had burned quick; scorched to the ground and bare of their thatch. She upended her bottle of flower oil into the bowl she had taken from the kitchen and, one by one, dipped the heads of the arrows into it. The moon fell steadily even as she waited, and it was only when it was about to dip beneath the horizon that the wolves came.

They were large; the smallest nearly a hand-width taller than the one Katherina had already slain. And there were five. Five beasts marching through town and towards the bodies strewn across the road.

Furious, the girl loaded the first arrow, and fired. It flew wide, missing the first of the wolves by several feet and burying itself deep in the dirt. They startled.

They charged.

Howling and spitting, hanches carrying them fast toward her, the wolves snarled and ran as the nearly full moon lit their path. Loading another arrow from the quiver beside her foot, Katharina fired.

It missed.

As did the next.

Undeterred, she notched another arrow, drew back the wire, aimed, and fired. This one landed deep in the chest of the largest wolf. The one with eerie eyes that glimmered. For a moment Katharina was sure she was staring into the forge, watching iron being heated to the point of collapse. It crumpled near the bodies of the dead. The others seemed disoriented by this. Seemed furious. One paused to howl as its eyes flashed from that of the sun to the same eerie shade as the first wolf she had killed, and Kate’s next arrow sunk into its esophagus.

“Come on!” she screamed, face full of Hell and fury as she called for a challenge. She quickly took care of the next two, who seemed mindless with rage. She reached for another arrow, the final one that would take out the last, smallest wolf, only for her fingers to knock the quiver to the ground. The arrows scattered, rolling off the door and just out of her reach.

The wolf circled her, as if thinking. It seemed tamer than the others, though its eyes shone like a poisonous flower. Katherina could almost swear it was familiar. Like she knew the beast. But before she could make sense of the feeling, it turned sharply and fled towards the forest. Instinct brought her off the door and onto the beaten ground. Instinct had her reaching down to snatch an arrow from the dirt. Instinct drove her to chase the last beast to the edge of the woods, though it was far faster than her.

As the sun rose, she loaded the bow and aimed at the wolf as it lurched unevenly toward the forest. But as the light reached it, its bones shifted and fur melted away as it lifted itself on two legs and fled, naked and human, into the trees.

Katharina fired, but a last minute hesitation set it flying into a tree with a solid thunk. The sound faded quickly into the background, and she ran back into the town. She looked over the wolves, from the smallest she had slain the day before to the largest that had charged her with the others in tow. About its head was a small, metallic glint. Bending to examine the thing in the largest wolf’s ear, Katharina’s stomach churned to realize it was a piercing. A small stud of brass that made her choke for air even as her mother approached at a sprint, collapsing at her side and laying a hand on her shoulder.

“Little Katharina-” she began, voice shaking.

“Don’t call me that,” the girl snapped, heaving ugly gasps for air as she sobbed into her mother’s apron. “Pa– papa ca… called me th– th– that.”

Gathering her up, Madame Argent carried her through town as every villager came out to see their savior. They paid her respect even as she was held in her mother’s arms, sobbing like a babe.

Before the day was out, the villagers would refer to her only as, “Saint Katharina.”

…

Every day at sundown for the next five years, Katharina would sit at the edge of the forest and wait until dawn for the wolf that had escaped. And at the end of those five years, at the tender age of fifteen, she set out to find it.

France, September of 1776

Drawing a silken robe tight around herself, a young woman with light skin and long hair streaked through with shades of fire strode purposely to a wide, ornate door as someone pounded against it. She tore it open without prelude, leaning against the door frame with a slight grimace. “Kem,” she greeted. Her face betrayed no trace of surprise.

The man on the other side of the door frowned. His hair was cropped short beneath a worn handkerchief, and his shirt and breeches had a great many holes in need of mending.

“Ah, yes. Your name is Derek, now,” she remembered quietly. “That will fool no one,” the woman told him anxiously, eyes roving over his skin, far too dark to be tanned by the sun, and the tones of leaves in his eyes. “Get inside. The neighbors like their talk.”

“Since when does Lydia Martin care for the idle chatter of the peasant folk?”

She sniffed. “I do not.”

“Where are your servants?”

“They are away.”

Derek stepped over the threshold, eyeing the painted ceilings high above him as he made his way into the foyer and the door was closed behind him. “You’ve never sent your servants away before,” he announces dryly. “In fact, I have been under the impression that they live here.”

“They have left under order of quarantine.”

“Quarantine?” He stepped forward, hand hovering over the silk-clad arm. “Are you ill?”

Lydia sidestepped away from the gesture, grimacing. “Of course I have not fallen ill. My father has.”

“And you are immune?”

“We both know very well I am immune to a great many things,Derek.” Silence fell between them before she motioned for him to follow. She led him into a small alcove, where a fire roared in the hearth and the stones were almost a pleasant sort of chilly against the haze of the room. “Why are you here? I thought the sanctuary up North would have been a good fit for you.” With one pale hand, she motioned for him to take a seat as she grabbed at a pair of pot holders to grab at the kettle above the fire.

Derek took the seat with a nearly imperceptible sigh. “They… asked me to worship the Lord Christ,” he informed her quietly. “I decided it would be best to leave.”

Dragging cups from the center of the table towards their seats, Lydia carefully poured the tea. It was fragrant; potent. “And by ‘asked’ I assume you mean-”

“It is best not to talk of such things.”

“You could have lied,” she suggested.

Derek shook his head. “It is more than my faith; it is my blood. I cannot betray that. Not even in jest.” A silence settled between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the popping of wood. “Your clothes,” he noted, motioning towards her robe with confusion. “I have never seen its like before. What is it?”

“It is a gift.” Lydia’s hands find the tie at her back and pull it tighter. “It was a gift from a friend. He said it belonged to his mother before she married. He had no way of keeping it safe, so he gave it to me.” The woman remained quiet for a long time before looking him in the eye and leaning forward.  “I cannot understand why you cannot just stay here,” she implored, hand settling over his.

Derek shook his head. “I would be a rabid dog to lock up at night. We could make excuses of servitude – that I lived in the forest – but the lies would not last long. I cannot put that on you.”

“Kem, it would be my pleasure to have you live here,” she informed him quietly. “I would marry you in a heartbeat were Roma permitted to do so.”

“But we are not,” the Romani in question pointed out, voice solemn.

Again, silence settled between them like a heavy, familiar blanket.

Lydia’s hand retracted. “There was a girl I knew. She lived in town until two years ago. She…” Her voice stalled abruptly. “She knew a man who could control his wolf.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That is not possible.”

“But it is. She sent him to me to tell me of her… passing. He goes by the name of ‘Scott.’”

Something akin to hope began to bud in the man’s eyes, but it was soon met with apprehension. “What kind of man is this ‘Scott?’ Dangerous?”

“Friendly, but reserved. The kind of man you can trust with many lives,” she told him honestly.

Derek nodded, satisfied to find her heart beating a soothing rhythm in her chest. “And how might I find this man?”

“He lives in a cabin south of here. He took in a friend of mine a while back. Another foreigner, like yourself. I do not know if he has any room left – it is a small cabin – but it is the only option I have to give at the moment.”

“It will have to do,” Derek admitted honestly. “Do you have a map?”

She shook her head. “I do not,” she replied him. “The only way to find it is to search the valley where Aconite grows. From there you must follow the smoke.”

France, October of 1778

Stars spread above the world in a kaleidoscope of shining specs, and the moon was dark. Derek knew naught of the moon. He had neither seen it nor felt its light on his skin. But without its light he had no trouble navigating the wilderness. His eyes glowed faintly in the night, glimmering in the dark as they swept over the dirt. It had taken him nearly a month – a month of foraging and backtracking to his clothes every morning – but he had finally found the valley of which Lydia had spoken.

For a while he followed the sound of flowing water, eager to refill his waterskin. Before long he came across a river, flowing swiftly beneath the light of the stars. The water was pleasantly cold. He splashed it across his face with a sigh, eyes landing on the opposite bank. In one great leap, he cleared the river and landed silently on the other side. It was there that Derek found the flower at the base of an oak; small, pale, and smelling of things best forgotten.

“You must never go near this flower, Kem,” his mother insists, waving a hand towards the bush. “It comes in three shades. You must be careful never to touch them.”

He rose, sticks creaking beneath the bare soles of his feet.

In the distance there was a splash and a burble of laughter, and Derek sprinted into the woods. But when no forms came striding through the woods he traced his path back to the water.

The sound came from further downstream, where the water pooled before a series of natural dams. Derek at first took it to be a lake. Further inspection of the edges revealed it, at best, to be a rather large pond. The water seemed to lap at the surrounding soil, wave after wave, and the man figured that the ocean – something he had only heard off – must look something like this. As his eyes lingered over the surface they came upon the source of the noise.

An expanse of pale skin, nearly glowing in the dim light of the stars. It was as if someone had lit a candle in the center of the pond. Floating. Setting the entire clearing into stark relief as it cupped water against its flawless skin. Skin that cannot have been touched by the sun any day of its life.

“There are other creatures in the world, Kem,” his mother tells him sweetly, holding his hand as she tends the fire. Around them, the forest is quiet beneath the empty sky; the new moon. “They share the night just as we do. Live in it. They are not quite human. You, my little one, will know them as soon as you catch their scent.”

Derek stared at the figure in the water for a long moment before closing his eyes and taking a long, careful breath through his nose.

Sweet. Musk. Salt.

The burnt tinge of something extra.

Derek watched on, even as the stars began to fade from the sky. The figure in the water smelled… wrong. It smelled like a small animal. Like prey. Like rain and wood and leafy plants. And as the sun came up over the horizon the man shaded his eyes.

That split second was all the figure needed to disappear.

…

As the sun rises higher into the sky, Derek lifts his head for the fifth time that morning and gives the air a thorough whiff. But much like the last time he is greeted only with trees, water, and the scent of smoke too distant to properly follow. It would be an hour before he found a trail, following it through the trees and finding himself in a small clearing. At the center stood a house. It was rough, and built from whole logs piled one on top of the other.

It was a quaint little location, to put it kindly. The trees were a bit close for safety in a storm. The only real adornments the house had was an axe propped against the wall, settled beside a modest pile of chopped wood and single rain barrel. The door looked as if it needed to be jammed into place to work, instead of sitting on hinges like they would in proper society. There wasn’t so much as a window. But as Derek approached the cabin – the third cabin he had come across in his search for the man Lydia had told him of – he realized there was a buzz to the air. The buzz of something not quite human taking up space and living and breathing.

Nevertheless, when Derek rapped twice upon the door and it opened, revealing a man with skin far darker than is common in those regions. Something he was incredibly surprised to see.

The man seemed just as thrown. “Good morning?” he greeted, unsure.

“Are you Scott?” Derek found himself asking.

The man nodded, as if unsure.

Derek held out a hand, hoping he came across as mostly harmless. “My name is Derek. Lydia Martin sent me.”

Immediately, Scott’s face brightened. “A friend of Lydia’s is a friend of mine,” he informed him softly. He took Derek’s hand, shaking it solidly before stepping to the side of the door and motioning for the man to step into the room. “Come in, come in.”

He was ushered in quickly, out of the frigid breeze that swept through the clearing. Once inside the small cabin, Derek glanced around uneasily. “Lydia claimed you took in a friend of hers,” he announced quietly, glancing from the pile of furs propped up against one wall to a smaller pile barely an arm’s length wide on the opposite side. The room was suffocating; air thick with the heat of the roaring hearth. A slight breeze came from every direction, drifting from unfinished walls of clumsy construction.“Where are they now?”

The man shrugged, waving his hand for Derek to take a seat at the small, modest table as he wedged the door shut. “About.” Once they were both seated at the table, he met the larger man’s gaze with his own. “Now, might I ask why Lydia sent you to me?”

“I was told that you are like me – ruled by the sky,” Derek replied quietly. “But that you do not let it control you.”

Scott smiled. “I come from a place where they do not let you out of the house if you cannot control yourself,” he replies simply. “There it is not so uncommon.”

There came a scratching at the door, insistent and heavy, and the man rose to his feet to answer it. Derek watched as the door was yanked open to admit a cold gust of wind. Then, darting around Scott’s legs, a small fox.

The man grimaced. “You allow an impure creature inside your house?”

Scott looked up from where the fox had settled on the small bundle of furs in the corner, confused. “Impure?”

Derek waved toward the fox, expression grim. “The fox. It licks his hindquarters, does it not?”

Scott stared at him for a long time before asking, “Does your issue stem from the fox or with your religion?”

“It is impure,” he insisted.

“No one is entirely pure, Derek. And while you live here, religion is to be kept private.” The man shifted to stand a bit closer to the chair, leaning forward to take its back into his hands. As he said this, a strip of cord fell from within his shirt, and a small silver crucifix dangled from the gap in the ties.

Derek idly wondered how Scott could afford such a thing. But after the man quickly stuffs it beneath his shirt, he decides not to comment.

Pulling out a chair, the smaller man took his seat once more to look straight into the older man’s eyes. “So, Derek,” he breathed, rolling the name between his teeth as if to test it. “Do you have a trade? Special skills that will help us survive the winter with another mouth to feed?”

“I can hunt,” Derek cajoled, “and cook to an extent. I was taught carpentry as a boy, as well. With proper tools I could make some furniture to sell in town.”

“Provided someone will buy from a foreigner,” Scott supplied suddenly.

A short silence passed between them before the older man nodded, eyes dropping to the dark skin, barely illuminated in the firelight. “True enough,” he admitted. “I can care for myself, if need be. I simply need a safe place to sleep.”

The younger man shook his head. “It’s not just that.” He glanced over at the fox in the corner, gaze narrowing. “The other person who lives here – they must be safe in the cabin before you shift. Your very existence will make the forest change. The deer population will decrease, foliage will increase, and the people in town will be worried when they hear you howl.”

“If it is too much of a burden,” Derek began, rising from his seat. A hand on his arm stopped him.

“That is not what I am saying,” Scott chastised him lowly. “I am saying we will need to take precautions. If for whatever reason you cannot eat your fill before you shift, there is a chance you will hunt. If in your other form you accidentally eat one of the flowers in the valley, or drink too close to a crop, you will grow ill and rabid. That is the reality of the situation, and the risk I take harboring you.”

Settling back into his seat, the man sighed slowly. “Is there anything you need done?”

“Chopping wood, for one.”

His perpetual frown deepened. “That is simple, though.”

“Yes, but when I return from the jobs the people in town give me I rarely have the energy.”

“And your companion?”

Scott shook his head. “My companion has not the strength for such tasks.”

Derek looked upon him oddly before nodding. He glanced about the room, taking in the clutter of bowls and tools. “You could also do with a few shelves.”

“It is a deal, then,” the Latino man chirped, offering his hand.

The older man stared at it strangely before taking it. “I can stay?” he asked.

“At no point did I say you could not,” Scott replied easily. “A friend of Lydia’s is a friend of mine.”

…

It was not long before Scott had to leave for town, talking of cleaning out a well and mucking out stables. He invited Derek to use the bed. Derek, however, wasn’t sure it should be called as much. A mass of furs piled one on top of the other beside a wall could hardly be called a luxury. But it was soft enough, and did not smell too horribly, so he did not bother pointing out technicalities. It was far better than sleeping on the ground. And so, sliding beneath the top layer of doeskin, he gave the fox a long look where it perched atop its pile of rabbit skins.

“I do not make it a habit to speak with many animals, so I do not know if you can understand me,” he began, voice rough with exhaustion, “but it would be best you keep your distance from me. I wish not to catch your impurities.”

The fox huffed at this, then turned in its bed to doze to sleep facing the wall. If Derek had not known better he would have called it indignant.

He woke several hours later, warm and well-rested for the first time in what felt like years. Neck complaining, he rose to his feet. It soon healed, and he stepped toward the hearth to ladle some soup from the cauldron into a bowl. At his side, the fox gave a sleepy yip. It stumbled out of the pile of furs as if drunk. Derek was surprised to see such a human motion from an animal, and took a moment to stare. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

The fox yipped again, pawing at his leg insistently.

Glancing down at his food, Derek placed the bowl on the floor. “Do not blame me if it burns your tongue,” he tells it, only to watch in surprise as it takes a moment to sniff the soup before laying down beside the bowl. The man chuckled, surprising himself. “Smart fox,” he mused quietly before ladeling himself another bowl.

After he had eaten his fill, Derek foraged into the forest in search of something to replace what he had taken. He happened upon a ring of mushrooms he recalled were not poisonous and caught a squirrel. He brought these both back to the cabin and added them to the stew before stepping outside and stepping over to the wood axe.

For the following hours, he brought it down with grim determination, splitting the leftovers of a tree that had been dragged to a stump. It’s a steady motion: grab a section of wood, place it, slice it in two, and split the remaining sections. It was easy work, being well rested, but just as Derek’s finishing up the final two sections the axe handle snaps off and he was left with a handful of scraps.

Laughter brought him out of his confusion.

“What could possibly amuse you?” he snapped at the fox wheezing at  him from the door. “This is not a matter to chuckle about.”

The creature continued to wheeze out strange laughter.

Turning to the half-split section of firewood, the man hissed out a bitter, “I am talking to a fox,” before gripping both halves of the wood and tearing it forcefully in twain.

The laughter stopped.

In the distance came the steady crunch of leaves beneath leather shoes, and the unfamiliar sound of approaching footsteps. “I see you have been getting on,” Scott commented as he approached, his shirt – filthy and streaked with grime, much like his pants – thrown over one shoulder. “It is good to see I have left you both in good company.”

Derek fixed the younger man with a dry expression, far from amused. “Welcome back.”

“Good to be home,” Scott replied easily. “I am going to wash up. Mind ladeling up some stew for everyone?”

Nodding cordially, Derek stepped back into the house, grabbing some split wood as he goes. Once inside he threw a log on the fire. It had burned down to hot embers after hours of neglect, and he frowns upon realizing this. The remains glowed faintly, sparking up and sending off a wave of heat as the log hit. He grabbed a small bellows settled atop the mantle, giving the coals some encouragement before tossing in some dry kindling laying about. It catches quickly, and by the time Scott returned to the cabin the fire is in good health, food cooling on the table.

Settling down, the Latino man grinned upon seeing the food already at the table. “I could fast become used to this,” he announced contentedly, settling into the free chair. He leaned over the food, hands pressed together and mumbling a few words in quick prayer over the bowl before digging in.

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek noted silently that the fox didn’t do anything more than sniff his food until Scott finished his prayer.

“Looks like you got all the wood cutting we needed done today,” Scott managed around his third spoonful of stew, dragging Derek’s attention away from the small creature by the fire. “And added mushrooms.” He frowned, lifting a whole head of a fungi from his bowl to stare at it curiously. “I will not lie; I am accustomed to slicing them first.”

Derek did not reply.

Scott chuckled awkwardly, fell silent, and continued eating.

The evening began to pass in relative silence. They ate slowly, with nothing much to do but sit in silence. It was only when his bowl was nearly empty for the second time that the Romani man glanced up and asked, “I was wondering if you might be able to teach me how I might control the shift.”

Setting his spoon down, the wood clacking almost hollowly against the table, Scott leveled him with a grin. “It will not be easy,” he warned him earnestly. “You are no longer a child. Every season that has passed will make gaining control harder.”

“If it is possible, I must try.”

Scott’s eyes slid from the man’s eyes to the stubborn set of his jaw, then back again. “Then we shall try,” he announced formally, rising to his feet.

Derek frowned. “Now?”

“When is a better chance to try?” the younger man asked, humorous. “My mother used to say that the present is the only time work gets done.”

Watching Scott wrench open the front door, Derek settled his spoon into the glob of stew still in his bowl. But as Scott stepped outside the man paused. Snatching up his bowl, he settled it on the floor for the fox. “Eat up,” he encouraged it, glancing from the fox’s bowl – licked clean – to the creature settled on its haunches beside the fire.

Never before had an animal looked at him with such venomous eyes.

As Derek stepped out into the clearing, Scott smiled a friendly sort of way, though he seemed tense. The sky was ablaze as the sun sunk beneath the horizon. And there, at the edges of Derek’s awareness, was the tug. The tug from the east and the sky and the Earth. It seemed as if the world beneath his feet was spinning, spinning, threatening to give out.

“Ojos brillantes,” Scott murmured under his breath, staring into the man’s eyes glistening with the light of the sky in their depths. “Esto será más difícil de lo que creía.”

Derek frowned. “No sabía que usted habla espanol,” he informed the younger man, accent clumsy and rough.

The Latino man grinned, teeth a brilliant contrast against the dark shades of his skin. “Es mi lengua materna.”

It was then that the Romani fell to his knees, groaning as the transformation began to take hold. Winter, he recalled suddenly. The sun sets sooner.

“Moonrise is approaching,” Scott told him, voice unnaturally clear in his ear. “Pretend the sun is rising. Envision it in your thoughts.”

“Moonrise?” Derek gasped, confused. He glanced up at the smaller man with a grimace. “What-” The Romani man cut off with a scream as he felt for the first time the pain of shifting bone and muscle. “What is this?” he gasped as his arm popped out of place.

“You have never fought it before,” Scott told him quietly. “Every full moon that has passed has made it harder.”

Gasping wetly, Derek curled in upon himself as he felt fur split through his skin, his face reshaping into a muzzle. That was when Scott descended, cradling the Romani man in his arms. “Think of pain,” he tells him softly. “Pain keeps you human,” he continues, hands light against Derek’s hair. “It keeps you human even when nothing else will anchor you.” Scott’s hands moved to grab at the man’s shoulders, but Derek had already darted away, shucking his shirt off onto the ground and pants slipping to the dirt as his hindquarters stretched and cracked.

Into the forest he raced, growling and spitting, his mouth curled into a delicate “o” as he as he howled. But as he changed he saw for the first time a sliver of light in the night sky.

…

Derek woke to a violent beam of sunlight slanting through the trees and into his eyes. Around him, the Earth was cold and hard, frost dusting the edges of leaves and grass. In the distance a single bird chirped. Then another, and another. The man’s hand came up to shade his eyes as he groaned pitifully, only to snap away as it smeared something wet across his face.

Blood.

He stared, alarmed, at the color staining his hands. It was sticky; congealed. Across his knuckles it had dried and begun to flake. Derek’s stomach heaved, and that was when he realized something rather alarming.

He was full.

The man jumped to his feet, clinging to a nearby tree as he emptied whatever he had eaten the night before onto the ground. It came out a mess of blood and undigested meat. Chunks of it splattered to the ground, seemingly unchewed. Once he was done heaving, Derek tossed dirt and a clump of grass over the mess before glancing about him for what he hoped was the source of his meal.

Relief burned through him at the sight of the wide, glossy eyes of a deer.

Or, rather, what remained of one.

Not a human, he thought to himself, though the realization was bitter sweet. He glanced down to find small sections of the creature’s intestines spattered across his chest, nude in the morning sun. Heaving a sigh, he took hold of the deer’s remains and hefted what he could over his shoulder. Lifting his nose to the air, the man took a hefty whiff.

At first there was only the metallic edge of blood. The heavy scent of death and the beginnings of decay. But before long he could make out the subtle hints of smoke coming from the east. By the time the sun shone bright over the valley, Derek had come to the cabin, tugging on his breeches that had been carefully folded by the front door.

“How was your night?” Scott asked as the older man wrenched the door open.

The Romani leveled him with a distressed look. “I have killed a pure creature,” he answered solemnly, carefully sliding the remains of the deer to the floor. Its small antlers scraped against the floor as they settled, leaving a large gash through the dirt in its wake.

Whistling, impressed, the younger man nodded appreciatively, ignorant to his companion’s morose tone. He looked over the deer remains, gaze lingering on the haunch and belly. “This should keep us fed for more than a week.” Stepping over to the fire, he reached for a small bag sitting atop the stone mantle and tossed it at Derek. “Salt what you can,” he said as the man caught the bag easily. “Do not worry about using too much. I will get more in town today.”

Head dipping politely in reply, Derek took a seat by the fire and gathered the deer pelt towards him. As he adjusted his seat, he found a knife thrust towards his face, and he flinched back out of instinct.

“Just…” Scott sighed. “Take the knife, Derek,” he tells the older man. “It will make preparation and skinning easier.”

Staring at it, apprehensive, the older man hesitantly took the offered knife. It was iron; heavy and cold.

“The squirrel you skinned yesterday was rough,” Scott informed him. “I figured this might help.”

When Derek made no reply, they fell into silence, and the Latino man gathered his things before scratching the sleeping fox briefly behind the ears and stepping out the door. The entire cabin shook in his wake as the door was slammed shut behind him. Through the cracks in the wall, Derek could hear him walking across the clearing and into the trees. It was only when the footsteps faded that he decided to bring the knife to the deer pelt, scraping away the first bit of meat.

It was a long while before the pelt was anywhere near removed. Derek had long lost all sense of time, focussing intently on his task. He placed some meat in the stew, and skewered some on sticks to angle over the fire. Before long the smell of steadily roasting meat and burning juices filled the room as they dripped onto the fire. Derek only looked up from his work when the fox began to whine, nudging his elbow and hopping over to the fire, where the skewered meat had steadily begun to catch. Lunging for the sticks, the Romani man blowed steadily across the pieces that had caught until the flames had been smothered.

Back in his pile of furs, the fox snickered.

Tossing a stick of the meat towards it, Derek watched in amusement as it snapped it up eagerly, making noises in the back of its throat as it tore at the flesh beneath its paws. It did so very neatly, sliding them off the stick before digging in. The Romani man was rather impressed by this. “You are quite intelligent for such an impure creature,” he told it. “Mayhaps upon your death you may have the fortune to be reincarnated as a donkey.” The fox ignored him. Suddenly, the man recalled the way Scott had scratched behind its ears that morning. How the fox had preened under the attention. So Derek reached forward, unthinking, to slip his fingers behind one of its ears.

He should have been expecting the teeth that sunk into his hand. Should have expected the incisors to clamp down on his fingers as he tried to draw his hand away with a wail. The fox growled around the digits, staring up at him with narrowed eyes, posture gone stiff, jaw clamping down on its prisoner.

Derek’s free hand shot forward. It clamped mercilessly around the creature’s snout, attempting to pull its jaws apart. But despite his efforts it remained fast. Drawing his hand back with a grimace, the Romani man brought his hand down across its nose in a precise, hard swat.

The fox recoiled with a yelp, teeth coming neatly out of the wound as it retreated clumsily until its hindquarters thumped against the wall and it fell to its side. There it whined, attempting to make itself as small as possible.

“It is best not to bite the hand that feeds you,” Derek snapped vindictively.

For the rest of the evening, the fox refused to come near the Romani man.

France, November of 1778

Staring into the glass of sweet wine in his hand, Derek frowned. “We are unable to become inebriated,” he announced dryly. “There is no purpose for this brew.”

“We are celebrating, Derek,” Scott replied, raising his glass to the older man. A single snowflake settles into the wine, melting on contact. “It has been a month since you first arrived. It is an important anniversary.”

Glancing around the clearing, eyes lingering on the piles of snow, Derek thought of the day one month before; of the night he was allowed to walk as a man. Finding the flowers. Finding the pond.

Finding the nymph.

His mind suddenly wandered to the figure in the pond; the pale back with a constellation of moles. The lithe hips. Trim waist. The moment had passed all-too-quickly, but the Romani man remembered it in vivid detail. It had felt, for those few minutes, as if he had found something rare and beautiful. Something no one else had seen. It lingered in his thoughts, seemingly eternal.

“Derek?”

The man startled, looking back to his companion with a wide open mouth.

Scott laughed. “You are distracted. This is a first.”

“My apologies.”

Sipping at his wine with a pleasant expression, the Latino man leaned forward to press his elbows into his knees. “There is nothing to apologize for. But might I ask what occupied your thoughts?”

“Nothing of note,” Derek lied.

Scott laughed at this. “Your heart betrays you, but if you wish not to share I will not pry.”

The older man inclined his head politely. “You have my thanks.” They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. “Your friend seems to have disappeared tonight.”

“One’s decision to disappear is one’s own.”

Snow fell silently around them before Derek spoke again. “I find it strange that you should speak of the fox in such high regard. As if it were human.”

“My companion is no ordinary fox,” the Latino man replied easily.

“I realize it is rather smart, yes, but a fox is a fox.”

“Unless it is a 狐.”

Derek frowned. “A… keet-soo-nay?” he attempted, curious. “How is that different from a fox?”

“They are similar in looks, yes. But 狐 hail from a land called…” Scott paused. “I only know the word for their country in their language – 日本.”

“So they are smarter?” the older man asked, curious. “These keet-soo-nays?”

Scott laughed. “As smart – if not smarter – than many humans. Maybe you will be allowed to see, someday.”

“And when might that be?”

“A day that is not now, to be sure,” Scott replied, “for our 狐 has made itself scarce.”

Settling further against the cabin wall so that he might view the snow better, Derek took a sip of his wine. “You are a strange man, Scott.”

“As are you, Derek,” the younger man replied. “As are you.”

…

The following morning, Derek woke to a pounding in his head and hearty laughter as he fell out of bed.

“You should not have drunk so much, my friend,” Scott teased him as the Romani man staggered to his feet. “We may not be capable of drunken escapades, but this does not excuse us from thirst.”

As the younger man left, Derek rolled back into bed with a groan and welcomed sleep.

…

Waking to the sound of yelping was by far one of Derek’s favorite methods of coming to. However, this was only when held to the standard of events such as finding himself nude in the middle of a foreign wood or jumping awake with the desiccated corpse of a forest animal smeared across his stomach. So when the man rolled of the bed of furs and onto the floor with a growl, the fox was far from intimidated by the lack of venom in his voice. It continued to paw at the door, yipping and whining until the man could stagger to his feet.

“Patience is a virtue,” the man grumbled as he stumbled to the door. He watched with bleary eyes as – upon the door being wrenched open – the fox darted from between his legs and into the woods. Derek watched it with half-lidded eyes. It was far too early for such energy.

Retreating back into the house, Derek grabbed a wooden bowl and filled it with stew. He idly recalled the sweet fruits his mother would bring him from town when he was a boy. Dates, figs, and the occasional bundle of grapes. Even as he grabbed at his spoon his mouth began to water at the memory of biting into the sweet flesh of fruit. Eating around pits before spitting them out as far as they could go, competing against his sisters.

When he took his first bite of stew Derek nearly spit it out. He had been expecting the sweetness of a fig, and the salt in the stew had thrown him off guard.

He jumped as claws started scraping at the door.

After the initial panic wore off, Derek rose to his feet to let the fox in. As he yanked the door open it strode around his legs and straight to its bed of furs.

“I have hopes that you may never breed,” Derek commented. “Mayhaps then your arrogance may die with you.”

The fox’s hackles rose at this, and it growled menacingly at Derek.

The man blinked owlishly, taken aback. “You can understand me completely,” he marvelled quietly. He watched with bated breath as the creature nodded. “Scott said a thing last night that makes me wonder about you – that you will tell me when you are ready.” He paused, curiosity in the very lines of his face as he stared down at the fox. “Tell me; are you capable of speech?”

The fox yawned, smacked its lips, and curled up into a ball.

“If you really can understand me, I should like to apologize.”

No reply came.

France, August 1780

Sinking slowly beneath the horizon, the sun set the sky afire as Scott’s figure finally strode towards the cabin.

“You are late,” Derek called without looking up from the small block of wood he had been shaping. He peered curiously at his tool. How had it managed to chip? Iron should not chip against wood. Mayhaps he was being too rough with it.

“My apologies. I was held up,” the Latino man replied, settling his sack beside where Derek was perched. He eyed the stump for a moment before looking up at the man. “Are you ready?”

Placing the unfinished drawer beside its shattered twin on the stump, Derek tore his shirt off before settling onto the ground and crossing his legs.

Before long, Scott joined him. “What should we talk about today?”

“The trees,” the older man suggested. “They smell nice today.”

“Ah, but the trees cannot stop you from shifting.”

With his silence, Derek agreed.

“How about we talk about your family?” Scott suggested. He smiled amusedly as the fox strode up to him and snuggled into his lap. “What are they like?”

In the distance, a bird chirped. For all of a moment the Romani man allowed himself to be distracted. To pretend he had not heard his companion. But the moment passed quickly, and before long he was sighing dejectedly. “My mother was beautiful.”

“You say that as if it were a burden,” the younger man murmured.

“She is dead.”

Pause came after his admission. Scott stared at him, taken aback, oblivious to the fox peeking its head curiously around the corner of the cabin. It watched them with wide eyes, curious.

“My condolences,” Scott offered solemnly. “You must have loved her very much.”

“She would wake me in the mornings,” Derek continued. “When the sun rose she would find me. She would shake me awake, call me her little sun. Her lover of the world. Without fail, every day. But one day she was just…” He trailed off, voice cracking. “Just lying there, and I could not bury her because I had been seen. I had no clothes, no sense of direction, no family to tell me how to live – I do not know how I survived without her.”

The younger man nodded, eyes slanting away from the man to eye the last of the light fading from the sky. He knew, without a doubt, that should he climb a tree he would be able to see the moon rising in the distance. “What of your other family?” he asked, turning his attention back to the man. An eager smile spread across his lips. “I think I recall you mentioning them.”

“I had two sisters. The youngest, Roma, and the eldest…” He cleared his throat. “She preferred to be called Laura, her second name. My father was a quiet man, and my uncle – my mother’s brother – had issues with authority. He always wanted to settle down somewhere, take control of a small village, and enforce a curfew so that we were never to worry about killing those who did not break the rules.”

Scott’s grin dropped away. “Take control?” he asked, shocked. “Why-”

Derek shook his head before continuing in a bitter tone. “My uncle was never the sanest sort. Always scheming. To my knowledge, he is the one who managed to arrange our family’s banishment from Spain. I was too young to recall, but my mother tells me that he held a man at knifepoint. Demanded we be given horses and cows and a cottage to live in. That he could not suffer his peoples to be ill-fed and poor. My uncle-” Derek suddenly cut off, voice drowning in his throat as his eyes began to glimmer in the night.

“Do not allow yourself to grow angry,” the Latino man hissed insistently. “Anger is what makes you change.” He reached forward slowly, settling what he hoped was a calming hand on the older man’s shoulder as he quaked and whined, bones snapping in and out of place for the transformation. For all of a moment he grew distracted by a flash in the corner of his eyes, the fox growing closer; pawing up to them with narrowed eyes and slightly bared teeth.

Derek lunged for the exposed bit of throat, face feral and arms stuck halfway through his transformation.

Scott had only a second to react, flinching back before a long, pale body shot forward and collided with the Romani man’s side. The two bodies fell to the ground in a mess of limbs and hisses.

Gasping weakly, Derek found himself assaulted by the world around him. It was brighter even than the day; smells and sounds a potent mess as they assaulted him. Skin, smooth and tender, pressed against his torso. A delicious sort of friction that made his head reel and body sing. It nearly made him want to vomit, even as the skin rose away from him and he was given freedom from the sensation. And, once he had enough thoughts to gather about in his head, he turned to face his attacker.

Standing over him was a man; nearly as tall as himself, he guessed, with broad shoulders and a dusting of moles across his face, arms, and chest. He was bare as a babe, body exposed to the elements and paler than the crawling aconite flowers that peppered the valley. And yet despite all this Derek’s gaze was drawn to the man’s eyes. Slanted, as if away from the sun, and a richer color than the most brilliant pelts.

A dark haired woman tosses nuts in a bowl, crushing them evenly with a pestle. But upon spying the boy watching her from afar she draws to a pause.  Holding the tool out for the boy to take, she smiles sweetly. “Would you like to try, Kem?”

He nods eagerly, rushing forward to climb into his mother’s lap and stare down at the contents of the bowl. “What is this?” he asks, unable to look away from the rich color before him.

“We are making Almond Butter, little one,” she tells him sweetly. “It is what your elder sister and I put on our bread every morning.

The memory came and stayed, remaining, he guessed, somewhere in his stomach. For there was a weight there that seemed to tether him to the ground. For a moment Derek thought the memory might rip right through his body and fall out of him.

Above him, the man sniffed. Without saying a thing he stepped away. Making his way to the cabin, he walked through the front door and into the house with a stiff swagger.

“You have found your anchor,” Scott informed him proudly. “Or the beginnings of one.”

Derek glanced up, surprised. “I-”

The Latino man shook his head. “Do not tell me what weighs you down,” he denied simply, offering his hand for the older man to take. “Keep it inside. Allow it to tie you to the Earth. Only when you no longer need that tie will you be able to share it.”

Nodding weakly, the Romani man took the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. After he regained his footing, he inclined his head toward the cabin. “That man. You knew him.”

“You know him too. He is our friend, the fox.”

“In all the years we have lived together,” Derek mumbled to the younger man, “You did not mention your companion was…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

“It was not my secret to share,” Scott replied.

Derek stared at him oddly, confused. “You did not slip once.”

“I am used to secrets.”

When they both retired inside, it was to find dinner had been laid out, and the fox – now returned to his smaller form, had eaten and curled into his bundle of furs.

Throughout the meal, Derek eyed it – him – warily.

…

When Scott arrived home the following evening, he brought with him a modest bottle of whisky in his satchel, brandishing it in his hands as he approached the cabin. “We shall have a small party tonight,” he announced grandly across the clearing, “to celebrate your discovery of an anchor.”

Derek glanced up from the now finished drawer. “We do not yet know if it will hold,” he muttered skeptically, loud enough so that he knew Scott would hear it. “It could just as easily be a fluke.”

“No, no,” the Latino man laughed, wagging his hand as he approached. “This is an incredible breakthrough. We must acknowledge it for what it is.”

Glancing over the bottle warily, the Romani man asked, “What is that?”

Scott blinked. “It is whisky.”

“What is whisky?”

“You have never had whisky?”

They stood in silence for a long moment before Derek hesitantly replied, “No?”

Scott laughed. “Well, this should be an experience, then.” Clapping his hand on the man’s shoulder, Scott tugged him toward the cottage. “Come. It is a new moon tonight. You will not change.”

“You still have to explain such a thing to me. What is the moon?”

“It is the sun at night.”

“You say that, but if the night had a sun it would not be so dark.”

Scott chuckled. “That is true.”

They stepped through the propped-open door and into the cabin, where the fox – no longer human – watched them curiously. But when its eyes laid upon the bottle of whisky it jumped up from its bed to crowd around Scott’s legs. It yipped happily, leaping into the air nearly as high as their chests as they made their way to the table.

“Yes, yes, you will get some,” the Latino man told the fox, laughing heartily. “Though you will have to be a man for this.”

The fox stopped jumping. It turned its eyes to Derek to observe him warily.

“You have until sundown to decide,” Scott informed the fox, twisting a bit of metal into the cork atop the bottle before tearing it out with a loud, hollow noise. Setting it on the table, he set about putting his things away. His satchel went beside the door, his shoes under the table, and finally he traded off his shirt for one with fewer sweat stains.

Derek, figuring this was something more of a formal occasion, switched off his shirt at well. He realized suddenly that he would have to do laundry soon. This was what he was thinking when Scott told him to sit at the table. When the sun stopped shining through the front door. When the roaring of the fire became their only light.

When a man Derek had once thought a nymph rose to his feet in the corner.

Averting his eyes in courtesy as the fox dressed, the Romani man found himself battling confusion. There were so many questions rolling around in his head that he could not focus on a single one. Why did this stranger take the form of a fox? How did he? Was he cursed? Was he a witch? Or was he something else, like them? He suddenly recalled what Scott had called the stranger years before; 狐.

If only Derek knew what it meant.

Pulling up the endtable to use as a seat, the fox joined them at the table.

“Derek,” Scott said, motioning toward the man with his hand, then at the stranger, “this is Stiles. Stiles, you already know Derek.”

“Yes, I am aware of Derek,” he replied snootily. “I am also aware that he thinks that I should be lucky to die and be reincarnated as an ass.”

“When did I…” Derek trailed off, confused, only to recall suddenly that he had made such a comment. Years before when he was still new to the cabin. “Donkeys are a noble creature,” Derek rebutted, still confused but slightly flustered. “They are dignified and pure. Why do you take such offence?”

“To be compared to an ass and come out the lesser is a grave insult.”

“I assure you, I meant no insult.”

“Still. You should be kinder to creatures smaller than yourself,” Stiles insisted as the rabbit he had caught for their supper boiled over the fire.

“Who wants whisky?” Scott suggested nervously.

…

“Reaching for things is incredibly difficult,” Stiles slurred, staring up at the ceiling with a grimace. “As well as seeing. There are naught but two shades of color. It makes things difficult to tell apart.”

Scott nodded along, pouring Stiles another glass. The fox sits up to sip slowly at his cup, giggling a bit. Derek and the younger man had given up drinking in lieu of watching Stiles grow inebriated. The Romani man had learned a lot about his usually silent companion in the previous hour. About how he was a fox by day, human by night, and did not age beyond adolescence. How his hair grew very slowly, and it was easier to keep it clean if it were shorn close to his head.

“Squirrels have a very foul temperament. Did you know that?” the fox continued, looking over at his companions. He fell back onto the bed, groaning. “Of course not. How could you? Those bastards and their fluffy tails. Little teeth. Their silly little dens.”

Derek bit back a laugh. Scott did not.

“Do not dare laugh at me – I have been bitten by their like twice. Though it is hardly as painful as the time you caught my tail in the door.”

The Romani man frowned, leaning over to whisper, “When did this happen?” in Scott’s ear.

“About a month before you arrived,” he replied.

“Rain,” Stiles added suddenly.

Derek and Scott waited, but there seemed to be no explanation for this particular outburst.

He continued on, ignorant to his confused companions. “Townspeople are the worst. Children do not seem to know how to pet animals. How hard must it be to remember such a thing? Follow the line of the fur. It is highly unpleasant otherwise.

“And the adults, the adults! They say the strangest things when they think they are in confidence. Though, by and large, the strangest confession I have ever received was in Ireland. I was hiding out in a barn when a man confessed to killing his twin brother in order to marry his brother’s wife and take up his shop. He made himself out to be very shady for several weeks, changed the way he spoke, killed his brother, put upon his clothes, and made it look like self defense before adopting his old speech.

“Clever, yes, but incredibly demented. It is so strange that you both should be so peaceful. It is in your nature to follow the pull of the moon and slaughter whatever creature crosses your path. And yet you never speak of murder or pain; only of everyday things. Wells; woodworking; food; repairs for the Winter. Humans seem far more monstrous to me.”

Blinking suddenly, Derek’s eyes latched onto Stiles’ face. Truly, no man would say such a thing. Between a creature that slaughters every night and a creature that slaughters once, the fox would choose the latter? It made no sense to the man. But before he could open his mouth to speak, to ask for clarification, Stiles had already continued.

“Nothing tastes the same, either. Meat is far more appetising, and fruits and grasses are delicious. Strawberries in particular are an experience in itself. And yet, should I attempt to eat them in my human form my throat swells closed and my eyes begin to water. But they are far too difficult to eat as a fox, lolling about my mouth and falling to the floor before I can properly enjoy them.” Rolling onto his side, the man sighed. He grabbed at one of the books littering the floor, pulled it to his chest and fell, quite suddenly, asleep.

For a long while, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. It popped and sang and roared in Derek’s ears as he looked upon the man in Scott’s bed. So quiet. So pale. His eyes similar to Derek’s parent’s – twisting up at the edges and setting his eyelashes at an elegant angle. Lashes so dark they were at stark relief with skin the Romani man realized suddenly had never seen sunlight. Yet his eyes were not sunken, and his fingers were not sickly thin, like the women he had seen in town who stayed away from the light for their beauty routine. Whatever made Stiles different kept these things at bay. Kept him healthy.

“Hungry?” Scott asked, bringing the man out of his reverie.

Derek turned away from the bed, glancing over at where the Latino man was ladling stew into two bowls. “Yes, please,” he agreed, settling himself in the chair so that he would not have to face the fox. “We will have to go hunting again soon.”

Glancing into the cauldron, the Latino man hummed. “Yes, it is getting a bit low. Should we get some vegetables from the village as well? And maybe some fruit? Your repairs have been fetching quite a bit for us lately. We can afford it.”

“Are you sure?” Derek asked, even as his mouth began to water at the thought of domestic fruits. “I was under the impression that they overcharge you.”

“They do,” Scott admitted. “But your face tells me that you agree.”

The older man blinked. “You would do that for me?”

“Oh course. You are my friend.”

…

Early the next morning, Derek woke before Scott and began to fell another tree. The ax was light in his hands as he worked, slamming it against the base over and over until the Latino man stepped from the cottage.

“Good morning, Derek,” he called between strikes. “You have started early today.”

“It would not do to waste a day I have been given,” the older man replied, slamming the ax with a bit more force into the wood.

“True enough,” Scott noted. “I wish you luck in your endeavors.”

“And to you,” Derek called after the man as he made his way down the beaten dirt path that lead towards town.

It was several hours before the fox came out of the house, and longer still before Derek realized he was being watching. At first it was a flash of color out of the corner of his eye, and when he turned he found his audience staring with rapt attention as he paused mid-swing. He remembered suddenly the human form the creature had taken the night before, and wondered if maybe its intelligence carried over into the day. But instead of asking he turned back to his work. There was a tingle along his spine, racing up and down his body until he was filled with nervous energy. So nervous the ax began to slip from his sweaty fingers.

Angry, the man dropped the ax to grab at the mostly-chopped tree. Slotting his fingers between the grooves where the wood had been shorn away, he groaned and heaved. It followed like a mere sapling. Branches snapped and twitched as the trunk fell to the ground, angled away from the house. A few of the remaining squirrels scampered out from the branches and fled towards the surrounding forest. Behind the man came a yip, and Derek looked back at the cabin to find the fox pacing in front, ears twitching.

Stiles was impressed.

Wiping his hands on his breeches, Derek grabbed his ax and started working at the base, cutting a large section from the bottom of what remained of the tree. He attempted to ignore the churning in his gut.

The sensation, while unpleasant, wasn’t necessarily unwelcome.

Derek found that he liked it.

Later that night, by the fire, Stiles would ask him what he was building.

“A bookshelf,” he would reply, “for the books about the cabin.”

Stiles smiled, fell silent, and would not meet Derek’s eyes for the remainder of the evening.

The Romani man didn’t understand why, but this made his stomach flutter just as it had in the clearing.

…

Night had long-since fallen when Derek realized the fire had begun to burn low. When he stepped outside to grab firewood for the hearth and saw it for the first time; hanging in the sky like an omen. Ducking back into the house, the Romani man slammed the door before him, breath short in his lungs.

“What is the matter?” Scott asked, rising from his seat to approach the startled man.

“There is a demon in the sky,” he replied fearfully. “It smiles at the world and plans to eat it.”

In the corner, Stiles giggled.

Derek frowned. “This is not a jest. There is a demon in the sky and-”

“Be calm, friend,” Scott commanded, motioning with his hands towards the dirt floor. “Let us go outside and we can address this demon. Do you think yourself able?”

“Of course I am able. I simply fear for the villagers, and for Stiles. They cannot defend themselves as well from a creature so large as this.”

Again, Stiles snorted.

“Is there something you find funny, friend?” the Romani man snapped.

“Now, now, leave him be,” Scott soothed. “Open the door. Show me this demon of yours.”

The larger man blinked slowly at this, then nodded. He turned back to the door. “It is evil,” he drawled slowly, easing the door open. “I can sense it.” Out the wood popped, and the two stared at the crescent of light high in the sky. Derek lifted his finger to point at it. “There,” he said. “There it hangs like a simple decoration. The great mouth.”

“Derek, that is the moon.”

The Romani man’s jaw fell open, and he looked upon Scott with surprise. “What?”

“The moon. It hangs in the sky, the sun of the night. I have mentioned it before, have I not?”

“You have.”

Back in the cabin, Stiles snorted loudly and broke into laughter.

Patting Derek’s back, Scott pushed him out into the night. “It changes shape throughout the month; waning and waxing each day until they sky is empty or full. When it is empty, you do not change. When it is full, even I am tempted to run into the woods and shift.”

“Then this is what makes me a monster?” the older man asked. “This ‘moon?’”

Scott’s expression sobered. “We are not monsters, Derek. We have monsters in us, but whether or not we act in their  best interest or ours sets us apart from the real ones.”

…

It was nearly a week before Derek had troubles controlling his shift. When the moon began to grow fat in the sky he stared at it from where he was crouched, half naked, beneath the overhang of the cottage. Prepared to shift at any moment.

France, December 1780

Snow had fallen lightly as Derek stood just outside the cottage, braced against the bit of wall closest to the wood chopping stump. His nose was rosy in the night air. His fingers shook from the icy breeze. His lungs rattled with every foggy breath. But still he stood there, feet planted deep in the snow with his claws sharp and his eyes bright.

It was like this that Stiles found him, bundled in extra shirts and furs. One of which he draped across the Romani’s shoulders.

“My thanks,” the dark-skinned man muttered.

“I wish there was a way I could stop from shifting,” the fox shared, startling his companion.

Derek stared a moment before opening his jaw, then shut it again.

Stiles chuckled. “Admittedly, your perils are far worse than mine. For example, my particular condition has… perks.”

“Perks?” Derek repeated, confused.

Glancing over at the man, the fox turned mischievous eyes on his hand. He brought it to eye height. There was nothing special about it. Just a simple, ordinary fist. But open uncurling his fingers to reveal his palm, Stiles bore a single, intense flame burning along his skin. Then, with a single snap of his wrist, it disappeared.

Derek grabbed the hand, examining it quickly for burns before asking curiously, “How did you manage such a thing?”

“When 狐 reach a certain age we are granted a tail for surviving so long. With that tail comes special abilities, and with each tail added we grow more and more powerful.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it is not polite to ask someone about themselves when you offer them nothing in return.”

“And what would you like to ask?”

“You do not strike me as a ‘Derek,’” he segwayed, wasting no time. “Ruler of men.’ That is what it means, no? Not a name I would expect a Romani woman to name her son.”

Derek refrained from answering for a long moment, before finally whispering, “Kem.”

“Kem?” the fox parroted, amused. “What does such a name mean?”

“Sunlight. He who loves.”

“And do you shine, Derek?”

“No.”

“Then do you love?”

Derek remained silent at this, jaw going tight at the question. Did he love? It was certainly straightforward. His mother was dead. His sisters and uncle, dead. Katharina was lost to him. Scott was no sort of option, and Stiles… The man’s breath hitched at this. What of Stiles? “And what of your name?” he redirected quickly, turning the focus away from himself.

The fox grinned proudly as he announced, “連人.”

The Romani man frowned. “Pardon?”

“連. 人.” Stiles repeated it slowly this time, as if that would help. “It was my grandfather’s name on my mother’s side.” But when the larger man simply continued to look towards him with an expression of utter confusion, the fox laughed. “Do not worry. Just call me Stiles. I will call you Derek.”

It was when the fox said his name, the snow drifting to muffle the entire world around them, that Derek first felt the urge to take Stiles’ hand in his and hold it. But, like many urges that would follow, he ignored it.

France, May 1781

Scott had rented a mule and a cart to bring the hutch Derek had made to town.

The mule was not fond of Derek.

Though it did seem to find his elbow tasty.

Wrenching the skin of his arm forcefully out of the mouth of the mule, Derek took hold of the reigns once more before turning back to Scott. “Do you think perchance you could take hold of the reigns for a while?”

“I could hardly do a better job than you are currently doing, my friend,” he replied, his smile broad.

Road crunching beneath his shoes, Derek grumbled miserably as the mule took another snap at his arm.

Back in the wagon, Scott fought back a giggle.

…

“Madame Mardou,” Derek greeted as a woman stepped outside her house to greet them.

The woman sniffed. “Monsieur Hale. Monsieur McCall,” she greeted in reply, nodding with stiff politeness as they drew up to the door. Her eyes lingered on their faces and the exposed skin of their arms, frowning openly at the sun in their complexions. “When you called upon me yesterday I had not believed it was done.”

“Derek is a quick hand,” Scott told her sweetly.

Jerking his arm away as the mule snapped at it one last time, Derek was almost sad to agree.

The Latino man jumped from the wagon and onto the dirt road. But before he could move any closer to the hutch with Derek, the woman tutted.

“Do not unload just yet,” the woman demanded sharply. “I wish to inspect my purchase.” Circling the wagon, Madame Mardou’s skirts rustled elegantly as she walked, back straight and head held high. Her bonnet bobbed as she bent to inspect the corners and drawers of the hutch. After a reasonably long time, she straightened with raised eyebrows. “It all seems to be in order,” she announced, voice chipped. “It is to be taken into the kitchen and placed between the counter and my mother’s chair. I will go to retrieve your payment.”

Unloading the hutch was a slow business, and when it was finally arranged as the woman had requested she had returned with a small sack that jingled as she moved. When Derek’s hands were no longer full, she offered it with a put-upon sigh. “Here,” she offered firmly. “The payment for your services.”

The Romani man nodded, taking the pouch with a cordial nod. His expression melted from a professional slate to a frown, however, as he tested its weird. Glancing to the woman, then the bag, then back to to the woman he asked, “May I?”

“If you feel it is necessary.”

Peering into the bag, Derek frowned as the counted the coins and turned his face up to the woman. “Madame Mardou, your generosity is most admirable, but I cannot accept this.”

“It is not generosity,” the woman snapped, face burning with a brilliant flush at the insinuation. “I have paid you what you are owed. What you are owed is the hutch’s worth. No more, no less. I will not short-change you like the others do. Paying less for something than it is worth is bad luck, and that is all I shall hear from that mouth of yours.”

Derek’s jaw seemed to come loose of its own accord, but he quickly clenched it back into place.

“Now go,” she commanded regally, though her face still burned as her eyes seemed to caress the lines of the Romani man’s face. Her hand flipped delicately in the direction of the foyer. “Your work here is done.”

Ushering his companion out the door, Scott bid Madame Mardou a quiet “Adieu,” before they were out in the street, making their way further into town to return the mule and cart. It was only once they were headed back toward the cabin that either of them spoke. “She thinks your features pleasant,” the Latino man noted simply.

Derek frowned. “What good are features when your skin damns you?”

France, October 1782

Hearth hot and stew bubbling, the cabin smelled sweetly of cooking meat and vegetables. It was a pleasant sort of smell, rich with wild spices and herbs. In the corner, the fox yipped appreciatively as Derek leaned over the cauldron to stir.

The man glanced over, amusement shining through his eyes. “You like that?”

Stiles nodded eagerly.

Turning back to the cauldron, Derek shrugged. “I had not thought myself much of a cook until recently. Not compared to my sisters.” He hummed happily, taking a large and satisfying breath above the stew. “It is a strange thing to consider.”

Jumping from his pile of furs, the fox wound around the man’s legs with a whine, pawing at his shins before settling onto his haunches.

“Would you like to hear of them?” the Romani man asked, earning a whine in reply. He sighed wistfully. Settling the spoon back on the hearth, Derek stepped toward the table to collapse in one of the chairs. “My elder sister…” He paused as Stiles took a seat on the chair opposite, barely managing to stare over the table. “She preferred to be called ‘Laura,’ her second name. She was very… quiet. Quick to defend, and quick to anger. We would go into towns, and she would pick fights with men three times her size.

“Our family would always have to leave when she laid them out with a single strike. She was powerful, our Laura. Strong in a way many grown men can only dream. And, if I may say so myself, she was a vision. Beautiful like our mother, with naturally rosy lips and a pleasant complexion. Many a man came to court her, but the law doesn’t allow our kind to marry.

“Mind you, we still do. Private ceremonies. Free of any papers that might bind our hands. But society requires you to have paper to back it up; exchanged tokens; names forsaken in writing. We are not allowed such a courtesy, and Laura feared she would never marry. It is…” The man sighed. “She was right, I see.”

Stiles yipped, but Derek ignored him.

“Laura was rather good at cooking, even from a young age, and Roma was no different. Roma was my younger sister. In town we called her ‘Cora;’ her second name. Though in some we did not have to. Roma was always getting into things. Cupboards; food; locked trunks. She would find a way in if you told her not to, and find a way out when told to stay. There was no door that remained closed to her. And then, one day… she ate something that made her…” His voice broke, cracking and catching until he cleared his throat. “She found something in the woods that changed her and we never saw her again.”

The fox remained silent at this, still in its chair as if moving would hurt.

And then he did, body snapping in, out, and apart as his limbs burst from thick fur and Stiles, human Stiles, sat before him with a grim expression. Derek turned away, grabbing at the long wooden spoon and focussing once more on the stew.

Rising from the chair, Stiles grabbed at the clothes folded neatly at the base of the larger mess of furs. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes dragging across the larger man’s back and the breadth of his shoulders. Eyes falling to the floor, the fox cleared his throat. “Scott is late,” he observed quietly, pulling on the breeches and buttoning them slowly. “I should go out to meet him.”

“He would like that,” the darker skinned man agreed, refusing to look away from the cauldron.

Stiles slipped on his shirt, moved toward the door, stepped into his shoes, and shoulders his way out of the cabin. It took a few good pushes before the wood gave way, but give it did.

For the first time in a long while, Derek was alone.

It felt uncomfortable. Like there was something itching beneath his skin, but he had no idea how to scratch it.

Thankfully it didn’t last long.

Crashing heavily through the door, Stiles and Scott tumbled to the floor in a mess of limbs and shouts. At first Derek thought them to be playing; messing around like they often did on well-lit nights when there was nothing pressing to be done. But as Stiles rushed to his feet to slam the door shut, Scott staggered to the table, his fist clenched beside his shoulder and his shirt drenched with dark blood.

The Romani man jumped to his feet, grabbing a ruined shirt from where it had been discarded beside the hearth and the kettle above it. This he placed on the table to cool before settling opposite the Latino man. “What happened?”

“I was attacked,” he gasped, pulling his hand away to reveal the stump of an arrow. “I need you to pull it out.”

Derek shook his head. “I do not believe I am best for the job.”

“First we must weaken whatever is poisoning him,” Stiles pointed out, drawing beside the both of them to steal their attention. “You should be healing. You are not.” He turned to the Romani man, expression grave. “Stay with him,” he ordered. “I will be back soon.”

Rising from his seat, Derek gripped Stiles’ arm tight as he approached the door. “You cannot leave,” he told him evenly. “Whoever shot Scott must still be out there.”

“And we do not have time to wait for safety,” the fox snapped, ripping his arm out of the man’s hold. “I will be back soon.” With this final assurance, Stiles shoved his shoulder into the door, opening it wide for him to pass.

Derek closed it in his wake, turning to the cloth and water. After wetting down the remains of the shirt, he turned to Scott with a sigh. “I do not know much of medicine,” he admitted quietly.

“Neither do I,” the Latino man replied breathily. “That is Stiles’ strong suit.”

…

By the time Stiles returned brandishing a bouquet of the dark bell flowers Thalia had warned Derek away from as a boy, Scott had fallen asleep in his chair.

Derek stared at him, skeptical. “That will only serve to make him worse.”

“The trees, the animals, the sky – they all have spirits. They all live in this big, scary world, and they all need to eat and sleep and breathe and die. Even the rocks.” Stiles’ hand plucked lightly at a wide petal, and he smiled at it before turning to meet Derek’s gaze with his. “It is important to remember that we have a connection to each and every one, and that they will tell us what we need when times are dire.” Placing the bouquet onto the table, he gestured to where the shirt was bundled against the arrow. “First you will need to pull that out.”

Glancing to the man passed out in the chair, the Romani man shook his head. “Surely you know more, therefore can do better.”

“I do not work with my hands,” Stiles reminded him evenly. “I would not have the strength to do it without them shaking.”

Derek looked at him for a long while before leaning forward to remove the cloth damp with blood. The fox’s hand fell over his, stalling his fingers even as they settled over the splintered shaft of the arrow.

“On my count,” he commanded, moving his hand away to grab at the flowers. “One…” He took a breath.

“Two,” the wolf continued for him when he fell silent for too long.

Stiles took a deep breath, then hissed a skeptical, “Three.”

Derek’s hand wrapped around the base of where the arrow met skin and tore it out without ceremony. In an instant there were long fingered, pale hands where his had been, pressing flowers smoldering with a tender flame in the hole left in the arrow’s wake.

Beneath the hands, Scott thrashed. Whined. Howled. The sound shook the room until it felt like Derek’s ears would shatter. But eventually the man fell silent, clutching the slowly healing wound between gasps for air. It was not long before the man settled back in his chair, the raspy whisper of his lungs deafening over the crackle of the fire. Looking from Stiles to Derek, he smiled weakly. “You have my thanks,” he told them.

“Is it her? Are we going to have to leave?” the fox requested suddenly, tone quiet.

Slowly, the Latino man nodded.

Stiles stormed from the room, shouldering out the door and into the night.

Derek watched him go, confused, before turning to Scott, expression as flat as ever. “Her?”

The younger man sighed. “Saint Argent. She goes by ‘Kate.’ For the last five years she has been on my tail, following me everywhere I went in hopes of killing me.”

“But why?” Shifting to the side, the Romani man settled into the other chair.

“She knows I am a wolf,” he replied quietly. “That is how she got her title; by hunting and killing the wolves that slaughtered village after village. Though I know not if they were our kind or natural wolves, she thinks me to be the last remaining member of the pack that killed her father.”

Derek bit his tongue to keep the words “but you are not” from flying from his lips. Only once a silence had settled did he speak. “Do you know why she hunts you particularly? Why she is so convinced you are a wolf?”

The younger man smiled. “Look at my eyes,” he said simply, then gazed into the fire. Derek watched in amazement as they grew alight, shining like the sun even in the shadow of the cabin. “Our eyes respond to torchlight,” he supplied. “Something she learned from her travels.”

“I have never noticed.”

“Neither had I before Allison warned me.”

“Allison?”

Scott sighed. “She was… She was to be my wife. She was burned at the stake. Witchcraft seems to be looked upon less favorably here than in my homeland.”

Derek held his tongue.

“It was naught but a spell to draw her soul’s match to her; it brought me all the way from Scotland, where I sought my father. That is why I came to this land; to look for him. But instead I found her.”

“Do you regret it?”

Scott laughed. “Not for a second.” Slowly, his smile fell away. “Go speak with Stiles for me, will you?” He rose to his feet, falling onto the pile of furs in the corner of the room with a groan. “

With nothing else to do as the younger man fell into a deep, soundless sleep, Derek stepped toward the door and out into the clearing. Stiles was nowhere to be seen. Stepping back inside, Derek slipped his shoes on before venturing towards the woods. Around him the world was dark, shadows cropping up from trees and bushes and what few animals the remained awake beneath the light of the crescent moon.

In the distance there was a small, unfortunate sound.

Slipping silently through the woods, Derek eventually came across the pond he had first crossed on his way to find Scott, years before. The moon was in full view in the sky, the stars pinpricks of polished silver among the smears of light the colors of flowers along the dark ceiling of the world. It as there, beneath a tree, that he found Stiles. His shoulders shook with silent sobs. Eyes watered with tears.

Derek settled his hand on the man’s shoulder, he tried not to take offense when Stiles flinched away.

Wiping away the tears with a shaky hand, the man sighed. “Am I not allowed to worry for my friend?” he gasped, meeting Derek’s eyes in a challenge.

The wolf froze. His gaze locked with Stiles’, but not in challenge. His attention was on the color of the fox’s eyes; how they had darkened and yet shone with an inner light.

Derek ran a comb through Cora’s long, fine hair with a smile. “It makes little sense to comb it so often,” the girl whined as he found another knot. “It will just get tangled again.” Usually one to agree with his young sister, the boy hesitated to reply; too busy admiring the strands as they seemed to glisten in the early morning light.

Stiles hand waved before his eyes. “Are you listening?” he called, frowning. “It is not polite to ignore someone speaking to you.”

Taking a step away from the man suddenly standing rather close, Derek turned his face away as it began to flush. “My apologies.”

The fox scoffed. “You are a strange man,” he said not for the first time.

“Do you need more time?” Derek asked, attempting to divert the topic as he finally plucked up the courage to look Stiles in the eye. It was strange. Almost terrifying to do so. It felt as if there was something sewn into his limbs and torso that vibrated and sang.

Stiles laughed. “Yes,” he informed him a bit too loudly. “You do not look it, but you are a good friend.”

Frowning as the fox retreated into the trees, Derek started after him angrily. “What is that supposed to mean?”

…

Wrapped in a bundle of furs, Scott stood beside Derek as he worked at a small pile of laundry.

“Why do you wash shirts and breeches in separate buckets?” he asked suddenly, lips turned down as his eyes glanced between the two wash stations.

“Not pure,” Derek murmured.

“Nothing is pure for you,” the man scoffed.

The older man shrugged.  “The Earth is pure. Plants and trees are pure.”

Scott rolled his eyes at this.

“Is there a reason you’re out of bed,” Derek asked, not bothering to look up from his chore.

“I was wondering where my clothes were.”

“You are recovering from an injury. Such a state does not require clothes.”

“Derek-”

Scrubbing two sections of a particularly dark stain against one another, the Romani man grunted. “If you so much as entertain the thought that you can leave Stiles and me here you can forget it. Go back to bed.”

“Derek, my presence here will only put you both in danger,” Scott argued. “I can no longer go into town. I will only be a burden. It is best if I leave, and for that I need my clothes.”

“If I recall, two years ago you took me in despite the position it put you in. You are a good man,” Derek told him simply. “Now I shall take care of you.”

The Latino man gaped, staring down at him in surprise. “You are serious,” he marvels.

“You speak as if the idea of helping someone who cannot help themselves is a foreign one.” His tone was light. Teasing, almost. “If I have learned anything from you during our time together, that is possibly the second most important lesson I have learned.”

Scott smiled, tension melting from his shoulders. “Oh yes? And what is the first?”

“How to properly skin a squirrel.”

…

Just as Derek stepped into town for supplies a storm blew in. The heavens opened up, releasing a thick, brutal downpour that beat the Earth and drenched him in seconds. He was quick to duck beneath the overhang of the general store, peering out from beneath the straw roof with a grimace. Wiping his face down with the handkerchief in his pocket, he stepped into the store with a roll of his shoulders, attempting to relax the stiff line of his neck. He quickly located an ax handle, along with a large container of salt, before making his way to the counter.

“How much do I owe you, Monsieur Sauveterre?” Derek asked, reaching to the sack tied about his waist. It jangled with coin as he moved.

Monsieur Sauveterre simply shook his head. “I will not sell to you, foreigner,” he drawled.

The wolf froze, hand settled against his coin pouch in preparation to open it. “I do not see the issue. You were willing to sell to Scott.”

“Scott’s parentage was questionable. I have every right to refuse a sale to a gyptienne. Now get out of my shop,” he scoffed.

For a long while the wolf could only stare, shocked. It had been so long since he had been treated with such derision. Such contempt. It was strange; as if he had been living the last two years inside a bubble where nothing of the world’s prejudices could touch him. But when the realities of the world finally seemed to sink in he stormed out. Though he did so quietly, unaware of the dark eyes following him as he left.

He walked quickly out of the village, anger showing through the claws that he kept so carefully curled into his palm. It had been so long since he’d shown during the day; since he was a child. But as he stormed away from the village, behind him came the rushing of feet; the splatter of mud as it was slapped with light but sturdy shoes. And as a hand came upon his shoulder and wheeled him around, it took more control than Derek thought he ever imagined he could have to reign in his other side.

But his anger fell away, as before him stood a small, beautiful woman holding out to him one of the small satchels the general store sold salt in. Her jupe were spattered with mud, the skirts hanging heavy and damp about her legs. Her dress had risen up over the skirts, catching about her waist, but she seemed not to care. Highly embroidered stockings had been ruined with mud. The shoes, fine and undoubtedly expensive, were in a similar condition.

“I could only buy the salt without arousing suspicion,” she told him breathlessly. “In the meantime, I will ask my brother if you might borrow our ax if yours is broken.”

For a moment Derek was utterly stunned, but he quickly remembered himself and reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you for the salt?”

The woman laughed, shoving the bag into his hands before he could say any more. “Consider it an apology,” she insisted, her voice soft and earnest, “for having to deal with such unpleasant company, if only for a second.”

Around them the rain crashed down, and Derek stared down at the woman, feeling something familiar stirring in his stomach.

“Was there anything else you needed in town?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “I could not possibly ask you a favor after you have done this for me.”

“Good sir, the longer it takes me to convince you to let me aide you, the longer I shall be out here in this horrid storm.” Glancing up at the sky, she hummed amusedly as a streak of lightning cracked down to the Earth in the distance. “I might even catch my death.”

Derek’s eyes widened at this. “You would not-”

“It is up to you,” she murmured, eyes meeting his. “My life is in your hands.”

…

Arms laden with salt, several shirts and breeches wrapped in oiled cloth, a pair of work boots, and the ax from the woman’s own yard, Derek turned on his heel to face the stranger with thanks on his lips and apology in his eyes.

“It was no trouble, I assure you,” she told him for what must have been the sixth time. “It was simply the neighborly thing to do. Though it would be nice to know the name of the man with whom I have spent so pleasant an evening.”

“Derek,” he replied easily, a wide smile splitting his lips.

The woman laughed. “The stranger smiles,” she teased. “And what a pleasant thing it is.”

“And what is your name?” he asked, the nervous coil in his stomach furling even tighter.

Her smile was kind, almost surprised, and so very appealing as it softly reached for her eyes. “Katharina Argent. Everyone calls me Kate.”

Derek’s smile dropped as the coil in his stomach turned to iron.

Kate sighed. “I see you have heard of me,” she monotonously drawled. “Please do not allow that to ruin the day we’ve had.”

But it was ruined, as the man recalled with vivid clarity the sound of an arrow sinking deep into a tree in his way. Of Scott scream as he yanked the projectile from his shoulder. When Stiles worriedly asked if they were going to leave.

Her smiles was back, but it was more strained this time. “You should not mind the locals. They are closed minded. They cannot understand what it is like to be in a new place where no one knows your face. The paranoia that follows them. The fear that haunts you. If you need anything, anything at all, just call upon me,” she told him, heart perfectly even as she spoke. “I have taken up residence in a house at the edge of town with my brother. We plan to stay a while.”

“I will, thank you.” His voice is quiet, almost completely overwhelmed by the crash of rain and thunder. Waving her adieu, he turned to walk down the road toward the cabin, feeling with every step the weight of what had just transpired.

You wanted to marry her once, he recalled with sudden clarity. And she is just as kind and beautiful as she was then.

France, November of 1784

Pulling his shirt and breeches back into place, Derek rolled out of the pile of furs in the corner to slip to the ground. His arms shot above his head as he stretched, heaving a large, wide yawn before glancing around the room to find it empty. He stepped forward with a sigh and pushed open the door. Once outside he shields his eyes with a hiss as the light assaults him. As they adjust, he finds himself peering at a small colorful blur prancing around a sea of light. And when he can finally see, the man nearly laughs.

Stiles is leaping through the snow, burrowing beneath it and throwing his body fully into the larger piles that litter the clearing. He pauses for a moment to shake some ice from his nose. But before long he’s back at it, rolling through the piles and occasionally snapping at them playfully with his teeth.

“I had not anticipated it would snow so much,” Scott commented.

Derek’s head shot around so that he might look upon the man.

He was nestled beneath the overhang of the roof, leaning against the frozen rain barrel. “Foraging may prove difficult.”

“Then we will buy produce from the town,” Derek pointed out. “We have the funds.”

Scott sighed, then nodded. “I am not used to such luxuries. It will take time to adapt.” The man frowned, shook out his handkerchief, then retreated back inside after grabbing a single block of wood.

The Romani man remained as he was, watching Stiles romp happily through the snow with a feeling of content filling him up. It seemed to warm him to his very toes, bare as they were against the icy ground.

…

Kate’s front door is painted with a crest, but Derek knows not what it means. Nor has he known what it meant in all the time he had known her. But as he knocks he finds himself staring at it closely. It seems to be a flower, but he cannot be sure.

She answers with a smile before long, her dress neat and expensive. “Derek,” she greets warmly.

“I was wondering if you might accompany me to the bakery,” he asked, feeling a bit sheepish. “I will buy you something of your choice for your trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all,” she replied. Her lips curled into an earnest smile. She took a moment to slip on her shoes, but before long they were walking through town, a respectable distance between the two of them. “Madame Allard’s new wardrobe is very much admired,” she gossiped sweetly. “Word has gotten ‘round that many a neighbor now wishes to commission you for work.”

The man nodded in acknowledgement. “Do they now?”

“They are starting to like you, Derek,” she whispered as they passed by a small crowd of children. “I know it.”

…

His arms full of a small selection of bread – and a small surprise – Derek made his way toward the cabin with a nearly imperceptible skip in his step. The sun was still high in the sky, scattering over the snow. As the man made his way toward the front door, adjusting the package in his hands so that he might knock, he rapped his knuckles three times against the wood. But as the door opened to reveal Scott there came a cry from the woods. A yelp of sorts that echoed in a most familiar way.

“That sounded like Stiles,” Scott observed with a note of terror.

Shoving the bundle into the younger man’s arms, Derek whispered for him to stay in the cabin as he sprinted into the woods, homing quickly in on the faint sound of whines. He came across them quickly; hunters grappling with Stiles’ small limbs, bows draped across their backs. An arrow protruded from Stiles’ leg, which bled sluggishly.

Derek advanced, fury plain on his face. “Get away from him,” he snapped, and not for the first time in his life he wished for his reedy, natural tenor to deepen.

The men jump away, startled, but the larger one soon began to laugh. “And what will you do to us, gyptienne? Curse us for hurting a fox?”

Stepping up to him, the wolf took the stranger by the scruff of his jacket and lifted him clean from the ground. “I need no magic, no silly incantations to drop you for injuring my hunting companion.” He dropped the man, throwing him back into the snow. “Now leave, and if I find you near my home again, may your God help you should I decide to stick one of my own arrows in your haunch.”

The men scrambled to their feet, racing into the woods without looking back.

Turning toward Stiles, Derek carefully gathered the fox into his arms. “You are going to be fine,” he insisted, taking great care to step lightly back toward the cabin. It wasn’t long before he was shouldering open the front door and telling Scott to get some water boiling. “What do we do?” he asked when they had wrapped a warm, damp cloth around the shaft of the arrow. “It… It is clean through. He might bleed too much if we take it out now.”

“I vote that we wait until night has fallen,” Scott suggested quietly. “Stiles will be able to tell us what to do then.”

The Romani man nodded. Then, for all of a second, he turned his eyes on Stiles.

He was heaving for breath, and seemed to be cold, though Derek knew not why. It was warm in the cabin; almost unbearable after being outside for so long. But the man snatched up a fur from the small pile Stiles used as a bed in the corner, placing it carefully over the fox’s side.

Several hours later, when Scott had laid down for bed, the sun sunk beneath the horizon and there was a loud crack as Stiles fell off the table and onto the floor, human once more. The man groaned, snapping the head off the arrow before sliding it out of his leg.

Derek watched in awe as, much like his own wounds, it closed quickly. He took Stiles’ face in his hands, looking into the fox’s bleary eyes as he asked, “Are you alright?”

Stiles laughed weakly. “I have had far worse than this,” he drawled, sounding much like the night Scott had brought home wine.

“Far worse?” Derek frowned. “When?”

“Many summers ago. Likely decades.”

“Dec…” The man stared down at his companion skeptically. “You cannot be any older than Scott.”

“Scott is twenty-two,” Stiles pointed out helpfully.

“So that would make you around twenty-one? Twenty?”

Stiles snickered. “Depends. What year is it?”

Derek stared at his companion for a long moment, and he realized abruptly that said companion was nude. A flush fought its wait up his cheeks, and he grabbed at one of the furs at the end of Scott’s bed to toss it over Stiles’ groin. “It is the year 1784,” he replied as calmly as he found possible.

The fox nodded amusedly. “That would make me one-hundred nineteen come this next Spring.”

As he grabbed for another pelt, Derek went still. For a long minute the only sounds were that of the first and Scott’s gentle snores. Turning back to the fox, the man glared. “Surely you jest.”

Stiles shook his head. “My kind tend to live far longer than humans. My mother, for example, was nearly five-hundred when I was born.”

“That is not possible.”

“So says the man who changes his form to that of a wolf when the sky is filled with the moon.”

Derek felt the laugh bubbling up from his throat even before he heard it. “You are always ready with a surprise,” he told the man before him.

They sat in silence for a while after that, until the fire burned low in the hearth, and Derek took this time to memorize the strange, almost tender look on Stiles’ face. It felt almost private. Like it was a look reserved just for the wolf in that particular moment in time. And, not knowing how he had prompted such a thing, the wolf chose to enjoy the older man’s face as long as he were permitted. Not for the first time his gaze was drawn to the upwards swoop at the corner of Stiles’ eyes; a feature that felt almost eerily familiar among pale skin and broad bones.

France, December 1784

Derek’s walk into town the following morning was pleasant, with the sun surprisingly warm against his face and the wind a gentle whisper against his clothes. The snow had fallen thick over the ground. A thin layer of ice left a bright sheen across the top, but it easily gave way under the man’s boot. The village was quiet as he approached, chimneys smoking cheerily in the early morning light. And as he made his way into town they quietly awoke. Drawing up to one of the houses at the end of the row, Derek slipped through the gate and knocked.

A man drew the door open with a yawn. “Good morning, Derek,” the man droned around a long exhale. “Come to rent my mule?”

“Yes, Monsieur Savage. And your cart as well.”

The man nodded, then blinked sleepily up at Derek before smiling weakly. “She is in the barn. Leave the money with my wife; I believe she is tending the chickens.”

After bidding the man a quick thank you, the Romani circled the house and found himself beside a small barn. Gripping the handle, he let himself in swiftly as to not let the air in.

“Derek,” a woman greeted somewhat warmly. Her skin was tinged with hints of bark; of rich soil. So very similar to Derek’s own, and yet so very different.

“Madame Savage,” he greeted sweetly. “I have come to rent your mule.”

Reaching beneath a chicken, the woman smiled. “Why can you never visit to simply visit? Your company would be much appreciated.”

“I might be tempted to take you up on that offer,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe once the Winter has passed.” Stepping up to one of the gates, he stared down at the mule that came to meet him, nearly as tall as he with strong lines of muscle. He turned back to Madame Savage, taking a small breath for courage before he spoke. “I have a companion who blisters in the sun. Mayhaps I could visit for supper some night with him.”

“Blisters in the sun?” she gasped, surprised. She turned from the chickens with a look of genuine woe. “What an unfortunate boy! Of course you must bring him.”

Turning back to the mule with an almost imperceptible grin, Derek unlatched the gate and led it toward the cart. And when its harness was cinched into place he left a small pile of coins on post by the door. “The money is here,” he said, directing the woman’s attention to the coins. “My thanks, again.”

…

The mule had never been fond of tromping through snow, but Derek found that he could offset this reluctance by walking in front of the beast. It followed behind him at a good pace, occasionally snapping at his elbow or hand. Once or twice it was rewarded for its efforts with bits of flesh and shouts of outrage. But should Derek get a good speed he would usually escape unscathed. And should he not, any damage done would heal before too long.

Derek and the mule made good time, arriving home before an hour had passed. The mule was tied to the wood-chopping stump and given a small bowl of water to drink from as Derek knocked on the door. Scott answered before too long, stretching and yawning. “That was quick,” he commented as he stepped to the side, allowing Stiles to race out into the snow.

Stepping to the side, the Romani man took hold of a freshly finished wardrobe that sat beneath the overhang of the house, kicking aside wood scraps and ice as he settled his feet. Opposite him, Scott grabbed the other side. Between the two of them it took mere seconds to get it settled into the wagon. They used a length of rope that lay in the bed to tie it down, affixing it firmly so that it might not move.

As Derek untied the mule, carefully avoiding its wandering teeth, Scott laughed.

“It is good to see my unfortunate situation amuses you,” the Romani man drawled.

“I laugh at your companion,” Scott corrected him.

Turning toward the man with confusion in his eyes, Derek’s gaze was drawn immediately to the fox perched happily atop the wardrobe, tail swinging back and forth.

“It seems he would like to go into town with you.”

Stiles yelped at this, nodding fervently.

Derek snorted a small, nearly imperceptible laugh before announcing quietly, “I see no problem with this.” He grabbed the mule’s reins and lead it slowly away from the cabin. “Au revoir, Scott.”

“Au revoir, Derek.”

At first there is nothing of note about the walk. The mule followed Derek’s steps almost exactly, occasionally making a go at the man’s hand or arm, and snow drifted silently from the overcast sky.

Then, without any sort of warning, there came a great whine, and the Romani man spun in place with alarm. His gaze landed on Stile, watching him arc through the air from where he had been perched upon the wardrobe and land with a lupine sort of giggle in a larger pile of snow. For a while he watched the fox squeal and roll about the flurries. But then a sharp reminder came upon his elbow in the form of teeth. Yanking his arm out of the mule’s grasp, Derek jumped forward a bit before continuing forward. “Do not let yourself fall behind,” the man warned his companion.

Stiles yipped in reply, hopping back to his feet before darting up onto the thin layer of ice atop the snow belly-first. He snickered as it held, and slid forward several feet using his paws to push him forward. It looked much like he was swimming. But then the snow gave way to icy Earth, and Stiles continued beside the cart on foot.

Glancing back, Derek was surprised to find Stiles closing in on him. He passed the cart, the mule, and when he drew even with the wolf he slowed. The fox looked up at him and seemed to smile. Yipping happily, his tail began to wag.

A warmth filled Derek at the sight. It budded deep in his stomach, much like the night they had stayed up late together, staring into each others eyes as if the moment had stretched into forever as if they were frozen in it. It was a gentle sort of feeling. Sweet and soft, with insects buzzing about his stomach like a hive. But Derek figured they would not be bees or locusts. No; these felt sweeter. Like lady beetles.

Yes, the Romani man thought to himself. Like the lady beetles that land upon your arm, that they might take your illness from you.

When the town came into view in the distance, Stiles seemed to rein himself in. He walked closer to Derek, nearly tripping the man on many an occasion.

“You are too close,” the man told him upon the fourth occurrence.

Stiles whined, then edged even closer.

They stepped into town, the fox following all too closely at the man’s heels as they approached one of the larger homes. Knocking thrice upon the door, Derek waited patiently for an answer until the door opened to reveal Madame Mardou in a plain, but exquisite dress.

“Derek,” she greeted somewhat warmly. “You have finished it already? I am impressed.”

“It was an enjoyable project,” he replied politely, motioning to the wardrobe. “I may need your husband to help me lift it.”

“Help? However did you get it in there?”

“Very carefully,” is his vague reply. “But I doubt I can do such a thing again without straining my back.”

Nodding, the woman turned to toward the house and called, “Jac, you are needed!”

Before long a large man with a full, well cared-for beard that was as bushy as it was long stepped up behind her, looking the Romani man over with a strained smile. “You must be Derek,” he grunted.

“Monsieur Mardou,” the younger man greeted a bit more politely.

The man held out a hand in offering, and for a long moment Derek simply stared at it before clasping it with his own. Their hands were suddenly gridlocked, Monsieur Mardou bearing down hard with his palm and fingers until Derek nearly cried out, only to return in equal measure. Though he was careful to avoid breaking any of the older man’s bones, he did not go too easy. But when they pulled away he was surprised to find the man with an easy grin. “It is good to see men your age with a hand like that,” he laughed. “Too many have gone soft.”

“Jac, my wardrobe,” Madame Mardou reminded him, tone playful but firm.

“Ah, yes,” her husband murmured, turning to the cart.

“Would you not like to examine it first?” Derek asked as the man stepped around him and Madame Mardou dropped a sack of coin in his hand.

“I trust your work,” she told him, managing to sound incredibly haughty as she did so. The woman watched them closely as they unloaded the wardrobe, then stepped aside to let them into the house. Once it had been placed in the bedroom, Derek stepped back outside, nearly stepping on Stiles as he left.

Madame Mardou huffed. “What is a fox doing here?”

“He is mine,” Derek defended quickly, face flushing at the words. “My apologies, Madame.”

“Yours?” she asked, surprised, before humming quietly. Her distaste melted away into amusement. “He is quite the sight. I thought his fur too neat to be wild. Quite beautiful to be sure. May I?” She leaned toward Stiles, offering her hand slowly.

Glancing over at his smaller companion, Derek shrugged. “If he will let you.”

Nodding, the woman took a slow stew toward the fox.

Stiles was apprehensive at first, but slowly leaned toward Madame Mardou, sniffing her hand experimentally. He shivered as he picked apart the scents: smoky meats, sweet fruits, and the sour tang of imported tobacco. But her hand was soft as it brushed against his fur. The woman’s fingers combed through his hair, parting it away from his ears before scratching behind them until, unbidden, a gentle purr poured through his teeth.

“Beautiful,” the woman said again, pulling away with a smile. “And some of the softest fur I have felt. It must be so nice to be clad in something so comfortable. Though I imagine Summer must be terrible.”

Shaking himself off as Madame Mardou pulled away, Stiles trod over to Derek’s side with a satisfied yawn.

Inclining his head politely, the Romani man gripped his headkerchief as it suddenly attempted to come undone. “It has been a pleasure, Madame,” he told her earnestly, quickly tying the ends of the fabric.

“As it has,” she agreed with a smile. “Should I require new furniture, you will be made aware.”

Bidding each other a formal farewell, the three stepped over to the door and the foreign men left.

“Madame Mardou has an experienced eye,” Derek told Stiles a ways further down the road, holding on to the reins of the mule with a careful hand. Slowly, he felt a flush build up through his neck. “Though it is reassuring to know she recognizes a true beauty before her.”

Stiles’ feet slowed, and he fell behind the larger man until he was nearly behind the car.

Derek glanced back with a frown. Have I ruined it? he wondered for a long, fearful instance. “Come along then,” he called instead. “I cannot go about leaving you around town.”

Perking up a bit, the fox sprinted to the man’s side, being careful not to attract the attention of the mule.

They were not walking for long when a woman approached, her hair spun from sunlight itself. “Derek,” she greeted sweetly, settling beside him in his hasty stride as easily as if she were breathing. “What brings you to town today?”

“Bonjour, Kate. I am here on a commission,” he informed her politely. “Madame Mardou was in need of a new wardrobe.”

The woman laughed, her head thrown back and curls swinging from side to side beneath her bonnet. “I am beginning to be of the opinion that she breaks her furniture with a purpose.”

“Kate,” the man scolded.

She laughed again.

By Derek’s heels, Stiles drew back beside the cart. But once they arrived at the Savage’s house and the mule and cart had been returned, the fox had nothing with which to hide behind as the sun began to set. And so Kate turned upon him with a saccharine smile and a piece of jerky.

Stiles growled.

“Is he always so hostile?” the woman asked, pulling away with a grimace.

“Yes,” Derek lied. When they approached the road out of town, he faced the woman with a carefully practiced smile. “Adieu, my friend.”

“Adieu,” she replied easily, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

At their side, Stiles barked.

Derek frowned, glancing down at his companion in surprise. It was a sound he could hardly recall hearing. Such hostility was something he had never before associated with the fox.

Kate sighed. “He is quite possessive.”

“Yes, he is,” the man agreed, turning to her with his usual blank expression in hope that it masked his surprise. Waving to her quickly, he turned out of town and began to make his way down the road.

After they had traveled about a mile, Stiles yipped.

Turning to his companion, Derek frowned. The fox was shaking, his fur soaked and his nose touched with ice. Rushing to his friend, the Romani man dropped to his knees. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Is it too cold?”

Stiles yipped again, taking a shaky step toward Derek as a bitter breeze blew through the narrow road, curling around their faces and limbs to snap at their skin. Even the wolf flinched away, putting his back to the wind. Undoing his jacket, he reached forward and took the fox into his arms before rising. Much to his surprise, Stiles didn’t fight it. Instead the fox gave a satisfied sort of sigh as the man’s jacket was settled over him. Settling into the Romani’s arms, he stretched and turned and twisted until its nose was jammed in the slot between Derek’s torso and arm, breathing the man’s scent as if it were air.

For a moment Derek pretended to resettle himself in his shoes, though he was really examining his luck. Curled into his arms, Stiles looked like he belonged. He had already fallen asleep. Something Derek knew to be very dangerous, but he could not bring himself to wake the man. So, instead, he leaned over the fox to give him as much cover from the wind as possible before jogging as evenly as he could toward the cabin. Snow whipped eagerly into his mouth and eyes. He would have to take a moment to blink it away and spit whenever it got too terrible, but on he went.

“You breath from your mouth,” Roma noted in her small voice. “But Daddy says not to do that.”

“It is not polite,” Laura added with a grin. “But it suits him. Derek’s a mouth breather.”

Derek laughed. It had been a while since such memories had arisen. They no longer came with the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach and a sour taste in his mouth. The whole affair had been pleasant. And as Derek glanced down at the fox, his eyes shut tight against the world, he realized slowly why that was.

He did not wake his companion until they arrived at the house, whispering a soft, “We are here,” and jostling the fox a bit until he blinked awake. They were a few meters from the door yet, and the snow was coming down heavily.

Stiles made a yowling sound as he yawned, then leaned upwards to sniff Derek’s face. He quickly recoiled, squirming out of his arms until the man set him to the ground. But when the man turned towards the house, he felt a hand against his shoulder, wheeling him around.

From then on time seemed to stop.

Pale, pale skin, wrapped in nothing but Derek’s jacket. Speckles the shades of the earth and trees dotting his arms and face and legs that the Romani man tried very hard to keep his eyes from straying to. Eyes, bright and clear even in the light of the moon, staring at him.

Those eyes, coming closer.

Derek gasped as he found his lungs suddenly empty as hands found the sides of his neck. The fox was leaning closer, and closer, and closer...

Then there was skin.

Soft, speckled skin pressed just above the beard of his cheek. Derek could feel so many things he had never been aware of before. Of just how large Stiles’ hands were. The eyelashes that brushed just before his ear. A heart, beating strong and even beneath a broad and lightly muscled chest. They were nearly flush together, cheek to cheek in the snow, and it was in and of itself a realization.

When Stiles pulled away, Derek wanted nothing more than to drag him back.

“There,” the fox announced confidently, though his face was flushed with embarrassment. “You no longer smell like her.” And with this said, the older man stepped around his companion and toward the cabin.

Derek did not watch him go, all too aware of the frantic thunder of his heart at the thought that he might see something he was not meant to. All he would have to do was turn. The curve of Stiles’ skin would be for him to see; for him to memorize. But Derek realized something very important in those few seconds.

There was a knock, some conversation, and then Scott was calling for him. “Derek? Aren’t you coming in?”

“No,” he shouted back, turning to face the man. “I have something to do. I will return later.”

“Something to do? At this time of night?”

Derek just nodded.

Scott shrugged. “Very well,” he muttered just loud enough to be heard over the wind before closing the door.

Grabbing the jacket Stiles had discarded to the ground, Derek swung it over his shoulders and approached the cabin with heavy steps. But instead of making his way to the door he grabbed at the ax leaning against the wall before setting out into the forest.

France, April of 1785

Rising from a crouch, Derek stepped back to admire his handiwork. He looked over the overhang of the roof, and the walls where the corners met. He looked over the windows and their shutters, smacking them a few times to assure they would not be blow off in a storm. They slapped neatly into place with a thick, deep clack. The door hung straight on its hinges, and swung shut with no sign of resistance. Assured all was sound, he stepped further away to admire the entire project. As the sun rose his eyes scanned over the line of the chimney, the walls, the door, and the windows. He turned his head, curious.

Everything sagged slightly to the left.

The man smiled, stuffing his thumbs into the hem of his pants. “Stiles will love you,” he murmured to himself, finally satisfied.

…

Mouth falling open wide in a lazy yawn, Stiles smacked his lips before he snuggled deeper into his furs. While it didn’t do much to block out the light filtering through the walls, it did go a long way to make him comfortable.

That was when the door blew open, and a cool breeze flitted through the room.

“Scott,” Derek greeted. He sounded off. Uneasy.

“Derek,” Scott replied slowly, confused. “Where have you been all night?”

“Is he asleep?”

“Why?”

“I…” He trailed off. There was the clatter of footsteps. Scraping of chairs. “Deseo su permiso para pedir la mano de Stiles en matrimonio.”

There was a long silence, and beneath his pile of furs Stiles nearly stopped breathing. That had been his name. Why would they talk about him in a way only he wouldn’t understand?

“Usted está bromeando.”

“Yo no hago bromas.”

“Los hombres no se pueden casar con otros hombres , Derek.” Scott seemed exasperated.

Derek, calmer than Stiles had ever heard him, replied, “Entonces es bueno que el es un zorro y yo soy un lobo.”

The Latino man sighed. It was long; almost angered. “No me refiero a eso . ¿Por qué tiene que preguntarlo a mì, de todos modos?”

“Es costumbre pedir el permiso a los padres de tu prometido ,antes de preguntar a alguien de casarse contigo.  Dado que Stiles no tiene ni padre ni madre , usted era el único candidato.”

“El es casi noventa años mayor que yo.” It was almost as if Scott were embarrassed; a swift departure from how he had been just seconds before.

“Usted es su mejor amigo. Supongo que vosotros–”

“¿Vosotros?”

“Si. Vosotros.”

“¿Usted quiere decir 'ustedes?’”

“No, quiero decir 'vosotros.'”

“No, ustedes!” Scott insisted.

“Vosotros,’ Derek droned quietly.

“Ustedes!” the Latino man shouted.

“Vamos afuera, donde el volumen no será un problema.”

…

Once outside, Scott slapped the door shut with perhaps too much enthusiasm before he turned to Derek with a grimace. “Are you out of your mind?”

Derek shrugged. “Vosotros is how I learned-”

“No, no,” the younger man interrupted, exasperated. “I… Do you…” He seemed to scramble for words, hands running through the hair that had begun to grow very long atop his head; nearly to his shoulders. “Do you really mean it?”

“Mean what in particular?”

“That you wish to marry him.”

Taking a slow, nervous breath, Derek nodded once. “If only you give your permission.”

For a long time Scott could only stare. His mind raced from side to side as he attempted to work out how and why Derek hoped to marry Stiles. “There is no priest to join you.”

“My customs require no priest.”

“Stiles is not a woman,” the Latino man protested at last. “Marriage is between a man and a woman. It is not-”

“Scott,” Derek interrupted, voice quiet and gentle, “whatever happened to leaving religion at the door?”

“This is not religion. It is your machismo at stake, my friend.”

“I know not what this ‘machismo’ is,” the older man began, suddenly venomous, “but if I have to lose it to be with Stiles, then it could not have been so great to begin with.”

Scott gaped. In the following seconds Derek was privy to a series of emotions as they crossed the younger man’s face: anger, distraught, contemplation, hollow realization, and finally resignation. And when the emotions ceased the shorter man looked him in the eye and demanded, “Do you love him?”

Instead of answering, Derek turned and walked toward the forest.

…

Their short trek through the forest ended with mild exclamations of shock and disbelief.

“For my people, it is a tradition for the man to provide for their wife. This includes a place to live. Food and water. Of course, there is a room for you, as well, should you like it.”

Scott made a noise of surprise as Derek pulled open the front door of the small cottage before them to reveal a modest threshold, and as they stepped into the room he realized there was no breeze to be felt. Not even from the shutters. “Derek,” he squeaked. “Derek, did you build this?”

Stepping over to the three doors along the back wall, the man threw open the center door to reveal a long, narrow walkway leading straight out to a small building just off the back of the house. “Outhouse,” he narrated somewhat proudly before closing it and moving to the next door. “Your bedroom.”

Scott peered in, surprised to find it already prepped with an appropriately sized mattress of straw, along with a small wardrobe. “How long have you been working on all this?” he found himself asking, even as the door was closed and the final was opened to reveal a larger room with a wide straw mattress and a similar wardrobe.

“A few months,” the man admitted finally. “Should he say no, I have two smaller beds prepared but…” He trailed off, face flushing with color. “I dare to dream.”

Scott stared. Not at the house or the modest furniture or of the well-built chimney (or the gentle slope everything had, favoring the left,) but at the man who had built them all. Leave religion at the door, he thought to himself before announcing, “You have my permission.”

Beside him, the man flushed.

“Now what?”

“I do not know,” Derek admitted. “I had not thought this far.”

…

The remainder of the day was spent in separation. Scott stayed with Stiles in the cottage, and Derek finally set about chopping wood for the fire in the new house. But when the sun finally fell behind the horizon, the Romani man returned and settled at the table with his companions.

Stiles glanced between them, smacking his lips as if to taste the tension in the air. “Is this to do with what transpired this morning?”

Scott glanced to Derek, allowing him to answer.

The Romani man nodded, expression grave. “We were… I was wondering what you thought of our living arrangement at present.”

“What?”

Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table as he asked, “Are you content with the way things are?”

Stiles blinked curiously, glancing between the two younger men as if suspicious. “Is this a trap?”

The Romani man stared at him for a long moment before answering quietly, “No.”

Leaning back in his chair, Scott groaned.

Derek stared down at the tabletop, his hands nudging furiously together beneath it as he worked up enough courage to look Stiles in the eye and announce, “I realize this is rather forward, but I was wondering if I might have your hands.”

Stiles’ eyes remained even with his as he protested with a rather confused, “But I need them.”

“No, I…” The Romani man sighed, shoulders cringing inward. “I was hoping that we might take a step together-”

“But that would-”

Scott stood from the table, drawing all attentions to him, and turned on Stiles with determination. “Derek wishes to ask for your hand in marriage. Do you give it?”

Silence settled, heavy and pervasive.

Stepping politely around the pair, the Latino man left.

Even after Scott had left, Derek and Stiles sat in silence. The fire crackling in the hearth was the only noise for a long while, until the older man finally opened his mouth to speak.

His eyes were wide as he asked, “Are you serious?”

Rising hastily from his seat, Derek made for the door. A hand in his dragged him back. He spun, facing the fox with a mix of confused surprise. Then, slowly, he fell back into his chair.

They said nothing as they turned, unconsciously, to mirror each other. Remained silent even as Stiles slid their hands together, intertwining their fingers.

Stiles flushed, leaning forward to hide the silly grin that spread across his face like a rash and lit his eyes.

Derek smiled.

France, June of 1785

Taking his knife to the loaf of bread, Scott presented Stiles and Derek with their own slices, looking more than a little uncomfortable as he placed them on their knees. Sprinkling a pinch of salt over the tops, he pulled away and settled on the bed of furs not a few feet away.

Staring down at the bread, Derek and Stiles slowly reached for the other’s knee to grab the food placed upon it. And as they brought it to their lips, their eyes met.

When they next breathed the mingling scents of bread and boiling stew, they were married.

…

Stumbling over a large branch, Stiles hissed as Derek caught him. “I still do not understand why I must be blindfolded.”

“It is a surprise,” the Romani man insisted, taking his husband a bit more firmly by the hand and guiding him around a particularly large tree.

“Are we talking a pleasant surprise or a bad surprise?” Stiles inquired skeptically. “You do not already have a wife and three children, do you?”

“No,” the man deadpanned.

“You must reconsider this lack of humor you are sporting, or I might separate us,” Stiles teased.

Derek drew to a stop, and for a moment seemed to consider a reply, only to gently untie the strip of fabric fastened about Stiles’ eyes.

The fox shaded his eyes against the light of the moon as they adjusted, pupils blowing wide, then shrinking all too quickly as he gazed upon the house of Derek’s making for the first time.

“Do you like it?” Derek’s voice shook with nerves, and he shifted from side to side as he awaited the reply.

Stiles took in the shutters; the door; the chimney. He took in the odd shape betraying multiple rooms; the thatch of the roof; how everything seemed to slant to the left. And after he had processed it all he announced, “It is perfect.”

His husband’s face filled with color at the praise. “Not nearly as perfect as I had hoped to give you.”

The fox looked toward the younger man with wide eyes. “I have married a romantic,” he realized aloud with some surprise. He stepped toward Derek, grin plain on his lips, before gently pressing them to the taller man’s cheek.

Derek startled, but before he could make sense of the heat on his cheek and the brush of a hand against his neck Stiles had already sauntered off toward the house, pulling the door open with a cheer. “It does not stick,” he whispered to himself. Turning to the Romani man, Stiles shouts with entirely necessary enthusiasm, “The door does not stick!”

Standing for a moment in awe, the larger man was slow to follow his intended. He first stopped off at the wood pile. For a moment he dawdled, taking maybe a bit too much amusement in the noises coming from within the house. Of Stiles slamming into the wall, or getting his finger stuck in a shutter, or tripping over some thresh. Derek had never been privy to such moments of clumsiness before. Scott had mentioned them on many an occasion, but Stiles seemed all too calm around him.

It was something he hoped the man would trust him enough to show, in time.

Finally, Derek made his way into the house, placing a single piece of wood into the hearth before placing the others to the side of the brick enclosure. He turned just in time to catch Stiles’ hand shooting away from his face. Picking, perhaps, at the small pustule at the tip of his chin.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Derek asked, stepping away from the hearth.

Stiles stepped forward all too eagerly. His palm lit, and into the fireplace went a small ball of light that caught the wood alight in an instant, and they soon had a roaring fire.

Tossing another section of wood into the hearth, Derek turned to Stiles with a nearly imperceptible grin.

In the light of the fire, the fox turned to him with a wide, playful grin. One that seemed to fall way at the sight of Derek’s lips upturned just so. His heart was audible to them both, slamming against his ribs as if in a flight response. So when he lunged forward neither of them were surprised.

Derek caught the older man in his arms, gripping him beneath his pits and pulling their torsos flush together. It was hot. Nearly too hot for comfort. But then Stiles’ hands were fumbling at the lacings of his shirt, pulling it apart and pushing it to the side as much as he could to get his hands on the wolf’s chest. Derek found himself pulling away, and he stripped the article before his own fingers began to work at the fox’s. Heat made him hasty. Made his fingers clumsy. Before long Stiles was batting his hands away, unlacing his shirt and tugging it over his head before – after what seemed like an eternity – they leaned forward and their lips met.

It was fire. Lightning. Everything Derek had imagined, racing through his body like a sweet song would run through his ears. Lips lingered across his nose; his cheeks; his eyes before finally finding his mouth, tangling with his and leaving him with naught but endearments running through his mind.

When Stiles moved to step closer his knees nearly buckled. Derek was on it in an instant, snatching up his thighs and wrapping long, lithe legs about his waist before striding purposefully over to the furthermost door against the back wall, throwing it open to reveal the wide straw bed crowned by a single deer pelt. The wolf dropped his husband atop the thickest patch of fur, hands smoothing across the pale bare torso before him. His hands stood out in stark relief against the bright tones of the older man’s skin. A dark smear of shadow.

Seeing Derek’s attention wander, Stiles grabbed at the man’s hands, pulled them away, and placed a gentle kiss against each individual finger. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“You are too fair a being to be with me,” the wolf ground out, suddenly regretful.

Stiles grabbed at the hands that fought to tear away, laughing a touch too blatantly. “Really? I had thought you far too handsome to take an interest in me. You are so strong; so smart and talented. And I – little, defenseless me who cannot so much as go into the sun – was the one who would have to approach you. You, with your dark hair and your dark skin and your dark, dark eyes. I had daydreamed of holding your hand, occasionally, and mayhaps a stolen kiss or two. But to think you would propose…” He sighed, his voice a touch distant. “I did not wish to get hopes up that might be dashed as quickly as they came.”

For this Derek kissed him as sound and thorough as he was able. He moved away to mouth at the man’s neck, and was rewarded with more praise.

“I have always loved your skin,” Stiles confessed. “The moment I saw you as a human I knew I would have to take the form more often. I had to see you more often. All I could think of for a long while was how perfect our hands might look with our fingers intertwined. With your palm in mine and my fingers beside yours, holding each other in…” He gasped as the younger man nibbled at the hollow of his throat, hips naturally thrusting upwards.

It was as if a dam had broken. Within seconds they were fumbling with the buttons of their breeches, shucking them to the floor along with their loincloths. Stiles was quick to get a hand around their erections, pumping quick and desperate as they thrust into the curve of the others’ hip. Their mouths descended upon each other without mercy, tongues sweeping out in a strange, unusual dance neither remembered from what their parents had told them of sex.

Before long they both spilled across Stiles’ belly, but they continued to kiss for hours. Trailing lips along skin and fingers through hair until the sun threatened to spill over the horizon.

France, August 1786

“Are you married, Monsieur Derek?”

The man in question glances over at his companion, Katharina Argent, and attempts valiantly not to hasten his pace. His eyes turned to the horizon, observing the sky as it bloomed into life as the sun sunk below the far edge of the Earth. “Why the sudden interest?” he asked as across the way a store worker lit a lantern before the shop, and Derek’s eyes lingered on this as well before turning back to the woman.

It took him a long moment to realize his mistake as the woman’s gaze hardened.

He sprints for the road, but he knows the cabin cannot keep him safe from this.

…

Tearing open the front door, Derek nearly collided with the far wall as he shouted, “We have to leave!”

His husband was at his side in an instant as Scott hovered somewhere along the fringes of the room. “Are you alright, my sunshine?”

“She saw my eyes,” the Romani man announced, looking straight at the other wolf with an expression of open panic. “She saw my eyes and she knows what I am. We have to go. Now.”

…

They had barely stepped out the door when Kate descended, arrows thudding neatly into the front door before they slammed it shut, sprinting for the rear entrance and sprinting into the woods.

It was not long before Derek lost track of the others.

When the sun rose he found Scott by the stream, washing his face, but even after searching the woods he could not find his husband.

Germany, March 1792

With the air gone still, and the noise of the city pale beside the silence, Derek sometimes imagined he could hear Stiles. As if his skin were not any further than inches away, and his breath was hissing passed the Romani’s ear. But as soon as someone would approach, or speak in a nearby room, the spell would be broken and Derek would remember all too vividly the sinking sensation in his stomach when he had screamed his mouth raw in a forest many miles away, only to find nothing.

Shifting a sack of flour to the side, Derek greeted the newcomer warmly. They replied with a halfhearted roll of the eyes.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked, straightening one more bag before turning all of his attention to the woman.

She froze in her tracks at the words, stilted and thick with accent, then turned to him with a grimace. “I will not require your assistance,” she snapped. Turning towards the counter, she approached the fair woman beside the cash box. “Frau Erica, where might your parsnips be?”

“Along the back wall,” Erica replied a touch too sweetly. “To your left as you approach the cabbage.”

“Thank you.” Disappearing into the aisles, the woman passed out of sight in a huff.

“Cheery woman, is she not?” Erica noted, the touch of sarcasm in her voice nearly so light Derek could barely make it out.

“We cannot fault her for how she was raised,” he drawled quietly.

“Yes, but we can certainly judge her for it,” the woman whispered back just before their customer rounded the aisles. “Did you find everything Frau Helmmeir?”

“Yes, in fact, I did,” the customer replied easily. “No thanks to your shop boy. Honestly, he’s not to kind of help you should be hiring. How is he to help if he can barely speak the language.”

Derek glanced over just in time to see Erica’s faux smile slip into something furious before it was masked with a coy grin. “But you must admit,” she cooed conspiratorially, “that he is very fine to look upon.”

Frau Helmmier flushed, her mouth falling open as if in shock before she reluctantly nodded. Handing over a few coins, she fled the store with the parsnips in hand.

Only when the door had snapped shut and the customer was out of sight did Erica break into laughter.”So she can admit you are handsome, but to treat you as such? Preposterous.”

“You did not have to do that,” Derek noted, voice tense. “I did not need-”

“Oh, tish,” the woman interrupted. “That… lady treated you as she might have treated my husband, God rest his soul. She deserves every bit of my teasing. At least that is how I see it.”

“It is not polite. You will lose customers.”

“Then I will get new customers. Nicer customers,” she said, as if it were so easy.

Derek turned back to the flour with an exasperated breath. “If only such business practices were practical.”

Rolling her eyes, the woman began to sort through a bag of small hooks. It was a long while before she looked up, then chortled amusedly. “Derek,” she called, “you have been arranging those bags for the last half hour.”

The man seemed to come to himself, slightly bewildered. “Have I?”

“You are much like my late husband that way. So earnest, yet so distractible. He was the quiet sort, much like you. You might have liked him, Herr Derek.” Giggling, the woman waved him off. “Go on; have your day. Your work will still be here tomorrow.”

…

As Derek passed through town he did so quietly, greeting none of the passerby and keeping his face well-obscured beneath the brim of his shabby cap. He approached one particular shop with his head low. Above the street hung a sign that read, “Uhrmacher.” The letters were familiar, but to the man the words were as foreign as they came. Gibberish at best.

Pushing the door open and stepping into the shop, his eyes landed on the two men at the counter. One – pale and thin with the signs of age – remained focused on his word. The other was Scott.

“Derek,” the younger man greeted in surprise. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Erica let me out early as I could not concentrate,” he replied in French rather than stumble over the German.

Scott nodded slowly, then turned to his master and asked in smooth German, “Sir, may I show my friend the leftover stones from last week’s project?”

The pale man gave a dismissive wave with his hand in reply.

Pointing Derek’s attention toward a locked case, the Latino man retrieved a small skeleton key from his pocket and opened it to reveal a series of delicate looking instruments, a small pile of coins, a sheet of paper Derek could only assume was a deed or license of some sort, and a small array of jewels. It was the jewels that Scott’s hand turned to, plucking a small pale one from the batch before closing and locking the case. “This,” he said, turning to Romani, “is a diamond.” He turned, holding it up to the light leaking through the shuttered windows.

Derek’s eyes widened briefly as the display of colors across the floor and ceiling.

“When cut correctly it separates sunlight,” Scott narrated quietly. “This one is flawed, so it could not be used in a watch case for a customer of ours.”

“Flawed?” Derek asked. “Most curious.”

“And it is as strong as it is beautiful.”

Ireland, January of 1793

The air was still and silent. The sky full of clouds and the Earth cold with snow. At the base of a tree a squirrel approached a fallen nut, eyeing it critically as a fox examined it in much the same way from a bush. It squatted low to the ground, haunches tight. Refusing to move until the right moment.

Tail twitching, the squirrel snatched at the nut and began to force it into its mouth.

Sprinting out of the brush, Stiles leaped at the squirrel, trapping it’s head in his jaws and carefully snapping its neck.

…

Trotting purposefully into town with a slew of small furry carcasses thrown across his back, Stiles approached the door to one of the smaller houses and yelped. It was not long before a small girl pulled the door open, cheeks sunken and skin a sickly pallor. She brightened at the fox, her eyes snapping straight to one of the larger squirrels. “A stór,” she gasped as she reached for the largest body, “you shouldn’t have.” Turning immediately back into the house, she cried, “Mama! We have food!”

Stiles yipped, appeased, before turning down the street. The next house was small, though a bit larger than the first, and the door was in light disrepair. It jostled about its hinges as the fox scratched at it, hissing and creaking as it swayed within the frame. But after a few minutes of this he began to bark, throwing himself against the door and yelping for a response. The squirrels lay in the dirt, forgotten, as he began to charge the door, attempting to throw it open.

Before long a man came out of the house across the way, striding to the fox with grim determination before kicking in the door.

On the floor was a man: limp, cold, and unmoving.

…

The procession of men was neither long nor short; simply enough to carry a single casket through town and into the hills. There was no merrymaking, as would usually accompany a funeral. No surplus of food. There was no food to be given.

Stiles did not know what would usually accompany a funeral, but he realized along with the villagers that it would not likely be the last wake before the season was over. And with this in mind he raced into the brush, teeth bared and feet silent against the cold, hard Earth.

…

It was several hours before the fox returned to the town, bearing gifts of four squirrels and a badger. He was welcomed with open arms, and when the sun sunk beneath the Earth he was brought breeches and a shirt, invited to a bonfire, and whispered stories of his youth to the smaller children of town.

When the villagers were in bed, he sat by the coals of the fire, sipping from a glass of distilled liquor, whispering to the occasional flames that shot up from the wood.

“He was beautiful, and he was mine,” he murmured, similar to how he had spoken to the children before. Then his hands touched at one of the nearest twigs and set it alight. It was a different sort of flame; a brilliant flare of color that matched the tone of Stiles’ eyes. “I wonder if he might ever find me here.”

Germany, July 1794

Shooting straight out of bed, Derek clutched his chest and gasped for air. He tossed his blankets to the side. Everything was too hot. Too bright. Too strong. There was a beating in his chest that pulsed and sang, tugging his heart

“Are you alright?” Scott asked, emerging from his mess of blankets across the room. “Is it your chest again?”

“Go back to sleep, Scott,” the Romani man insisted, fingers twisted in his shirt.

Silence passed, filled only by the desperate whine of Derek’s lungs.

“You should follow it,” the Latino man suggested.

“That is the silliest thing I have ever heard.”

“But what if it is Stiles?”

Ireland, October 1795

His feet cold, arms heavy, Derek approached a small village with a sack of his things thrown over his shoulder. His breeches were smeared with mud, and sticks had been twisted into his hair. But as he approached the town with the cold Earth beneath this feet and the stars shining above his head, he felt the heat in his stomach grow stronger and stronger, until he finally approached a bonfire at the center of town and he felt his heart attempt to burst as the sight of his husband laughing, making jokes in the strange, native language of the land.

Derek’s mouth fell open, and a gasp hinged at the edge of his lip as he thought of calling out to the man he called beloved. But it fell closed, and instead he approached.

The fox noticed him only when the light of the fire warmed his skin. Stiles seemed oddly fixated on the sticks burning beneath his outstretched hands, but what attention he could spare was on Derek as he strode forward. He leaned to the side, whispering to a young girl in that strange language. And when she replied his hands fell to his side and he rose to his feet.

As his arms wound around Derek’s shoulders, and his face fell into the larger man’s neck, Stiles burst into long, relieved sobs that seemed to shake the very Earth beneath their feet. The villagers around them averted their eyes. Out of disgust or respect, the men would never know.

…

They retired not to the house Stiles had been staying, but to the brush. Derek propped a few sticks up with a blanket to make a makeshift tent, and together they climbed beneath the sheets and kissed until the sun began to warm the edges of the sky. It was then that Derek presented it; the diamond.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, staring at the earring with unmasked curiosity.

“A diamond,” the Romani man replied, bringing his fingers up to Stiles’ flawless ear. “May I?”

The fox frowned, but tilted his head slightly to the side with a shrug. He hissed as thick, sharp nails pierced it, and a bit of metal was shoved through. Within second the bleeding stopped. Within minutes it healed completely. “What does it do?” he inquired curiously, leaning into Derek’s side and dragging the blankets over them with a sharp bout of shivers.

“When cut correctly it scatters sunlight.”

Stiles drew back, surprised. “Really?”

“I thought it might help you fight your shift,” Derek admitted weakly. “You said once that you wished you could control it.”

Hands coming up to grip his ear, the fox took a deep even breath as his hand began to glow. “Let us give it some help, then,” he muttered, and when his hand came away the diamond gave a dull flash of light before its insides grew still.

Derek watched in awe as his husband’s eyes opened wide, burning like tender coals before growing quiet. Then, twining their hands together, they stepped out of the tent.

In the distance, the sky began to light.

Stiles remained human.

The clouds blushed faintly.

And Stiles remained human.

When the sun was high in the sky, Stiles took a deep, awed breath. “All this time I thought the sky was as the moon,” he marvelled quietly. “Pale and sharp.”

The remained there for the remainder of the day, and as the sun set the sky was set ablaze with color. It seemed to be stolen straight from the petals in the forest; an array of every shade of the Gerbera flower. They lit the snow around them as if it were a painting.

“It is so beautiful,” Stiles muttered, voice cracking, emotion rising suddenly to the surface. He swiped at his eyes quickly.

Derek glanced happily over at his husband. His expression, usually closed, was bright as day. A smile was plain on his face, turning his mouth upwards. He stared down at the man beside him with blatant adoration before he took a smooth, calm breath and tugged the smaller man tighter into his side.

They continued to watch the sky, breathing clouds into the night air, as it faded from petals in the woods to a the deep, unfathomable shade Stiles had only seen in Derek’s eyes as they glowed on dark nights. Only when all the stars greeted them did they stand and go inside the makeshift tent; when the heavens above them were nothing more than pinpricks of polished silver in the dark.

The End