Page 34 of The Wulver's Bond
‘Dunno if you can really call it a name. Just a word they used for me. Her and Logan.’
Weed’s nonchalance while explaining this was disconcerting. Was he really saying… that his name was little more than an insult he’d been burdened with?
Arran’s nostrils flared; his brow furrowed with quiet outrage. ‘I see.’
Weed glanced back. A brief sense of uncertainty clouded his expression before it morphed into his standard impish grin. ‘Suits me, don’t it? I get everywhere you don’t want me to be.’
‘I was thinking that weeds are very misunderstood plants,’ Arran said gravely, ‘and are often precious if you know their true qualities. Take dandelions…’
A tell-tale whisper of undergrowth warned Arran to dodge before a trail of ivy shot across his path. He frowned at it while Weed continued to amble ahead.
‘Don’t try to schoolmeon dandelions,’ Weed crooned. A flick of his wrist reeled the ivy back in.
Arran trod with caution, half-expecting Weed to have another go at restraining him. ‘Would you prefer I call you something else? Instead of Weed?’
Weed stopped to pluck a handful of buttercups and tucked them behind his ear. ‘Like what?’
‘Perhaps your dryad name?’
‘We don’t have names.’ Weed sneered as though this was obvious. ‘Do you think trees have names? What would they call themselves?’
‘Maybe, One Who Is Tallest, or One With Broad Leaves,’ Arran suggested.
Weed actually paused to consider this, twirling a flower in his fingers. ‘Okay, but also no. Most plants don’t have any need to describe themselves to each other. The closest they might have is The One That Is Over Here. Or… This One That Is This One. Do you see?’
‘This one that is this one…’ Arran scratched his chin, looking up at the nearest tree. ‘Yes. I feel that is the way some animals perceive themselves. I know I am myself, and I know you are yourself, and beyond that there is no need for labels.’
Weed sidled closer. ‘Is that how Wulvers think of themselves?’
Arran gave a good-natured huff through his nose. ‘If you mean to ask, what was my fae name, I will tell you it.’
He released a complex growl in the Old Tongue; clearly language, but nothing that could be replicated by human vocal chords. ‘If you were to translate to modern English, it might be akin to He Who Watches Silently.’
‘Bit on the nose, isn’t it?’ Weed sniggered before falling into step with him as they reached the bed of the ravine. ‘How did you come to be known as Arran, then?’
‘I chose the name when I grew tired of the ones humans ascribed to me. There are only so many centuries you can bear to be called some variation of Wolf Monster.’
Arran kept his tone passive, but the memory behind the words left a hollow ache in his gut. Even in the fae realm, themoniker of ‘Wulver’ that he shared with others of his species had effectively meant the same thing.
Weeds and Wulvers, he reflected. Both had poor reputations.
Arran found the position of the sun and pointed south-west. ‘The land that is now called the Isle of Arran is where I first set foot in this world. And so it is after the Isle that I have named myself in recent years.’
Weed squinted, as though he thought he might see the island over the steep bank of trees. ‘Is it far?’
‘By human standards, it is a fair distance to travel. But by mine, it is only a matter of time. And I have a great deal of that.’
‘Huh. Wonder if I’ve been.’
They began to climb again, scrambling over rocks. Arran extended a hand to help Weed up, and felt a rush of warmth when he took it. ‘You travelled a great deal with Elsie, I imagine. Were you with her for long?’
‘Forty years or so.’ Weed shrugged. ‘Long enough. Bryce before that, ’til he handed me to Elsie in return for some favour she did him. He didn’t care to have much to do with me, though. Mostly just kept me locked in a cage until he needed some magic herbs growing for his spells and shit.’
Arran slowed, recalling one of his earliest conversations with Weed. He was known for paying attention, and not much escaped it. ‘I thought Bryce caught you for a boggart, whom Elsie killed?’
Weed’s freeze reaction was instant, and also more subtle than his usual flinch. ‘What of it? Boggart, hobgoblin, banshee, human—who cares who owned me first?’
‘You must do,’ Arran said levelly. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t feel the need to lie about it.’
