Page 56 of The Wulver's Bond
No.
He can’t mean that.
Arran wrenched against his restraints, snapping the frail grass roots with ease. He had to make Moss understand.
‘I will never let you go!’ Arran all but roared in his face. ‘You will never be free of me, Moss! If you try to run from me I shall hunt you for the rest of time. You will bemineuntil youdie.’
‘Yep,’ Moss replied, shocking him to a standstill. ‘I heard you the first time. I’ve thought about it. And I choose it. I choose you, Arran.’
The pale roots holding Arran fell away. Moss rose a little on his mound so he was looking down on Arran, and crossed his arms. ‘What about you, wolfie? What doyouchoose?’
Arran realised his teeth were bared. His heart stormed, a chaotic squall of longing. The beast tensed, ready to pounce. Moss’s eyes bored into him, seeing the truth of him.
Flòraidh’s passing had left such a deep scar, but not nearly as deep as the ones Arran had inflicted on himself. Who did he really have to blame for his loneliness? Whose choice was it to live in isolation? To flee the warmth of what friends and family he had left, and fade into nothing in the dark?
And yet here was Moss, extending a rope to pull him back into the light.
Arran grasped a length of the thin grass roots and looped them in a collar around his neck. He held the leash out to Moss, trembling. ‘I don’t choose, Moss. Iamyours. My life is yours. My heart is yours. To crush or to cherish.’
Moss took the leash reverently. He stroked the line of Arran’s jaw and chuckled. ‘That’s the real deal, isn’t it, wolfie? After allthat talk of not wanting to hurt me. You’re more afraid of being hurt by me.’
‘Because of you, not by you,’ Arran replied softly. ‘I could not bear to lose you, or see you suffer. I fear you will suffer in a life with me, Moss.’
Moss swooped down. He buried his face in Arran’s neck, arms holding on tight around him. Roots mirrored his fervent embrace, swarming over their bodies to lock them together.
‘I’ve tried love without suffering, and it turned out to be fake,’ Moss whispered in Arran’s ear. ‘I don’t want cold fae perfection. I want whatever this messy shit between us is.’
Arran gripped Moss back, grateful and awed by him. His tail began to wag.
‘Besides, I’m not some wilting rose dropping petals when the days turn bitter,’ Moss continued, tangling his fingers in Arran’s fur. ‘I’m a pervasive dandelion. I’m gonna keep coming back no matter what you do to me.’
Arran released a soul-rending growl. ‘I will treasure you for eternity, Moss. I will shelter and sustain you. Your roots are my roots, and I shall do everything I can to nourish them.’
‘That’s some good plant talk, wolfie,’ Moss cackled, and finally they parted. His eyes flicked to Ruth’s grave and his fingers stroked over Arran’s cheeks again. ‘Can we go home, now?’
Yes.
‘Yes,’ Arran growled with his beast in unison. He caught hold of Moss’s wrist, tracing the rope tattoo. ‘Even if we cannot break this, Moss, we shall redefine it. I will own you, and that is deeper than any mortal magic.’
Moss’s pupils dilated, his chest hitching. ‘Yes, please.’
Moss tugged on the spindly leash and let it disintegrate around Arran’s neck. Arran felt it there still, a spiritual tether, warm and comforting against his throat.
He retrieved the basket meant for Ruth and bowed to her grave. ‘Thank you for the years of kindness and company.’
Moss fell into step with him as he left the garden. Arran automatically shortened his stride to make it easier for Moss to keep up. They pushed headfirst into the Shetland wind, with the ocean crashing below and the sky cloudless and serene overhead.
Arran’s heart was full, his clamouring mind finally at peace. After millennia of being uprooted and wandering, always an outsider looking in, he finally belonged in the world again. He belonged with Moss. He belongedtoMoss.
And he would until the end of his days.
Chapter Twenty
Moss strode over the Shetland moors like they belonged to him. His joy seeped into the roots beneath his feet, sharing it with all the flora for miles around. They sang back to him, hardy buds and thorns quivering in the wind. The sodden grasses bristled at his approach, sending ripples over the hillsides as he and his Wulver drew nearer to home.
Moss could barely contain himself; he felt larger than he’d ever felt in his human skin. Larger even than when he’d co-existed with Them, not realising just how diminished he’d become under Their barrage of false adulation. Next to Arran, Moss was Himself.
I Am Here, he proclaimed to the heathers and the scurvy grass. I Am This One, heard the sea pinks all the way out on the cliffs and the sandworts far down by the rocky shore.
