Page 35 of The Wulver's Bond
For a split second Weed looked stricken, as though Arran had actually hit him, and he immensely regretted pushing the matter. Then Weed gave an exaggerated shrug which made hiscoat flap and said, rather sulkily, ‘I havemanysecrets, wolfie. You should know better than to trust a fae, right?’
‘Perhaps. But I should like to trust this one, if it’s all the same to you.’
This seemed to stump Weed, and he remained silent until the cave entrance loomed large and welcoming in front of them.
Possibly he was lost in thought, and if so they were clearly very weighty thoughts, as they continued to keep Weed quiet while Arran unpacked their foraged haul and carefully arranged everything in the larder, ready to be dried or pickled or turned into jam over the next few days.
Weed sat by the cave entrance to eat, looking out over the narrow gorge bathed in the ethereal twilight of the simmer dim.
With the pale glow outlining his silhouette, Arran felt Weed looked just as ethereal, and rather like a spirit that would not be contained. A nameless spirit; one that might be blown away by the Shetland winds.
Chapter Thirteen
Another week passed, and it seemed to Weed that he and the Wulver settled into a kind of rhythm. With his wretched breakdown behind him and his libido at leastanswered,if not whollysatisfied, Weed finally began to slowly let go of the idea that he was subservient to Arran. If anything, an outsider might think the opposite was true.
Arran always rose early and prepared breakfast while Weed slept late. He didn’t ask Weed to assist in his chores, but usually found him looking over his shoulder anyway.
Most days, the wolfman invited Weed on a foraging hike with him—and if Weed said no, they didn’t. One day, when the sun was glaring in a blue sky, Weed decided to test the Wulver’s patience and spent the entire day draped over a mossy patch of rocks in the sunshine. When Arran asked what he was doing, Weed dryly replied, ‘Photosynthesising.’
Arran left him to it. Weed returned to the shade of the cave with the strangest feeling of agency bubbling through his mind. He’d chosen his activities for an entire day. No one had stopped him. Arran was content that he was content.
The next day, he asked to go foraging. Arran smiled and suggested they take their time, seeing as the larder was no longer bare. They trekked over rugged cliffs and across stark hillsides, a landscape framed by the sea. Weed found heappreciated Shetland’s wild beauty, even if it appeared harsh and unforgiving at first glance.
It was while staring out over the glittering ocean that Arran’s peculiar question returned to Weed. If he dared to admit it, it had been at the back of his mind the whole time.
Would he prefer a different name?
What would he call himself, if he were free to do so?
Dryads had no need for names in their native form. They knew who they were, and who the others were, and that was that. The rest was life: the growing of it, the symbiosis of it.
But humans found names powerful.
‘Weed’, he felt, was apt for himself. He was stubborn and unwanted. Nasty in his words. Wretched in his actions. An ugly creature.
It hadn’t always been that way.
And, in Arran’s peaceful company, Weed was beginning to think it didn’t always have to be.
One evening Weed dozed lightly in his bed, listening with half an ear to the sounds of Arran working. The wolfman was fixing a small basket, weaving in new strands of marram grass to repair a hole in its side. Despite his large paws, the Wulver’s motions were nimble. His sleek face was patient with concentration as he cut away rotten sections and folded new blades of grass in and out.
Weed slipped into dream with this image in his mind, of a made thing being unmade and mended. In the dream he flowed into the spirit of a bank of marram grass. It suited him, being coarse and spiky. His long, tangled roots held an entire dune together, like lacework within the sand.
The dune changed shape, taking Weed with it. It soared upward, turned a rich green, and transformed in a blink into his old grove. The one that he and They had shared. He and his former consort. Two nameless ghosts of the fae forest.
In a realm so sharp, Weed and They had crafted something soft. Together the pair sprouted a grove of trees, tended it with love. The leaves grew broad and green instead of cold silver. The ground was spongy with moss, dotted with mushrooms, and the tree trunks covered in placid lichens. Where Weed was a dryad of plants, They were a dryad of organisms that existed between the space of plant and animal: lichens, fungi, algae.
But then, over time, his consort’s creations began to dominate Weed’s. Their mycelia spread, hidden underground, invading and overtaking Weed’s root systems. Strangling his plants.
In his sleep, Weed began to choke.
He’d recognised the parasitic nature of Them too late. Even when it became obvious, when the trees were turning black and withered, Weed was blinded by devotion. He begged and pleaded with Them. He promised to be better. He’d do anything to save the grove. Anything to make Them happy.
Anything?his consort asked.
Anything,Weed agreed.
The face of Bryce the hunter reared in his dream, cruel and ugly. Weed stepped willingly into a trap, to appease the spirit he loved.
