Page 9 of The Wulver's Bond
Arran tried to not dwell on the fervour in his tone. Weed’s earlier explanation of his ability to survive starvation had disturbed him greatly. No doubt the knowledge had come from experience.
At the back of the living chamber was another passage that led to a smaller space which Arran used for stores. He retrieved from it an armful of firewood, along with a jar of fish pemmican and a bundle of dried seaweed.
Weed inspected these ingredients while Arran laid a fire in the stone hearth that was hewn into the cave wall. Arran was quietly proud of all his construction within the cave, but the fireplace especially. It represented a decade’s worth of work to chip out the smooth, domed recess for the fire, and for the painstaking drilling of the hole for the chimney—completed long before electricity and power tools were on the horizon.
Once Arran had a nice blaze crackling in the hearth, he hung a cast iron pot on a hook over the fire and filled it with water.
‘What is that stuff?’ Weed asked, watching Arran crumble the hard cakes of pemmican into the pot.
‘Dried fish and berries, pounded with sheep fat. It keeps for a long time.’ The water turned an unappetising greyish-brown as Arran stirred it. He hoped it wouldn’t put Weed off. ‘I’m sorry it isn’t much. I haven’t been home in months, so there is nothing fresh in my larder.’
‘Doesn’t bother me.’ Weed nibbled a piece of the dried seaweed, apparently curious of the taste.
Arran plucked it from his hands and added it to the stew. ‘It shall taste better when cooked. Is there still water in your canteen?’
Weed dug through the rucksack they’d taken from the hunters and shook the metal flask in Arran’s direction. It sloshed loudly, sounding about half-full. Good. They wouldn’t have to collect more until the morning. What else would a human need?
Visitors to Arran’s cave were exceedingly rare, and he certainly couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked for someone, let alone had them stay the night. Even if Weed himself wasn’t human, it seemed like his body was.
‘There is a latrine outside,’ Arran said gruffly, nodding back to the cave entrance. ‘I will show you later. I think your leash should allow you to leave the cave as you please. You do not need to ask my permission, in case that is not obvious.’
Weed fluttered his eyelashes. ‘My, my, I get to shit when I want to? You’ve thought ofeverything.’
Arran grunted in return. Weed could be as sarcastic as he liked; Arran would look after him as best he could, whether Weed liked it or not. He was deeply unsettled by the prospect of having mastery over another being. Even if that being was Weed, who had been previously trying to kill him.
Weed looked remarkably delicate, but Arran had observed this appearance hid a steely strength beneath—much like the roots he conjured. Despite Weed’s boyish looks he could easily be several hundred years old, and that would still be young for a dryad.
These things made Weed simultaneously the most foreign person Arran had ever entertained in his home, and also the most similar.
Arran had to keep reminding himself of this, that looks were deceiving and he shouldn’t allow Weed an ounce of his trust. As a rule, most fae creatures were as likely to stab you in the back as shake your hand. Deceit was second-nature to them.
And yet.
After serving up the stew, Arran watched the way Weed ate.
Weed shovelled the watery porridge into his mouth like a starving man. In contrast to his earlier display of pleasure while eating the granola bars—during which it hadn’t escaped Arran that Weed was endeavouring to make the act sound like he was both giving and receiving the best blow job of all time—this meal he ate with a quiet urgency, scraping his bowl clean and then licking it spotless. Weed ate like someone who didn’t know whenhis next meal was going to come along. Like someone who was afraid he might not get another one at all.
Actions had a tendency to reveal the truth about a person, if you observed them for long enough.
‘There are seconds, if you would like some,’ Arran said.
Weed held out his bowl silently. Arran refilled it to the brim, and watched Weed demolish that helping as well.
After dinner, Arran gathered the bowls and spoons inside the cooled cooking pot, ready to be washed the next day after he’d had a chance to collect water from the stream. He left Weed by the fire while he unpacked his rucksack and made a list of the chores he’d need to do tomorrow.
He expected Weed to go back to nosing through his cave, and belongings, once again. But Weed didn’t stir from his spot on the floor. After twenty minutes, soft snores indicated he’d fallen asleep—still sat upright, with his chin tucked onto his chest. Arran glanced over, and was taken aback by the changed sight of him.
Weed didn’t look nearly so malicious while at rest. Perhaps it was the firelight softening his features, Arran told himself. Weed’s mouth, normally twisted into a spiteful smirk, now looked soft and gentle, blowing out calm breaths through wind-chapped lips. His messy fringe of auburn hair hung over his eyes, and this detail somehow made Weed seem vulnerable. He was a captive, after all.
A small measure of sympathy kindled in Arran’s heart. He huffed quietly and set about arranging Weed’s bedding into a comfortable nest on the floor. Then he picked up the sleeping fae—who was completely out cold—and settled him into it. Weed snorted in his sleep and turned over under the blanket, unconsciously burrowing into the fleeces.
Arran watched him a while longer, pondering their shared situation.
He pulled out his mobile phone. It was a chunky, rugged thing, kept charged via a small solar power bank that hung from his rucksack while travelling. There were very few people in the world who Arran could rightfully call a friend, and this modern machine was a gift from one of them: Cameron Walker, the lone Witch of the Highlands.
Arran had never had reason to own such a device until recently. The witch had more or less pressed him into it, so that they might be able to contact one another should trouble ever arise in their respective corners of the Highlands and Islands. Arran certainly hadn’t expected to find himself contemplating its use so very soon. Should he warn the witch of his predicament?
The Walker witch was young and inexperienced, but he meant well and had inherited some decent power from his bloodline. And he did, at least, have a proven track record in the breaking of curses. Taking Weed to visit him was the obvious course of action.
