Chapter 1

What is time? The now, the past, when it all came from muddied waters?

It was a story — a conversation that began centuries ago but it certainly didn’t feel like so. Many of the days and weeks and months and years all began to blur together when the only indication of time was through seasons. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. They passed by, one after another, the sensation of warmth and cold.

Day after day, they moved on senselessly, mindlessly, unintelligently. When one lived for so long, memories would start to blur into shapes and feverish dreams, uncertain if it was something that had happened or if it was simply a figment of its imagination.

Its earliest memory was of snow, of the sky, of the white droplets of frozen water gently floating down from the endless dark expense above. It was looking up, marvelling at the world in a way it had never done so before. The paws laid upon the frozen dirt, the puffs of fog from its breath, the deep ruffles of leaves in the wind.

When did it happen?

It couldn’t remember its birth.

Its creators.

Its purpose.

It had simply been doing what it was meant to do.

There was little else on its mind until that night where it simply was.

“... of the Land,” the being spoke.

It couldn’t remember who it was. Not a name, not a face.

It knew, however, that it was important.

It was a poem, it was a series of things, definitions, criteria, descriptions. There were many words that described it, the hunting, tracking, the things together at some time in somewhere to kill to eat to grow to raise young to be together —

It liked it there, at the glade. It listened patiently, in a way it hadn’t done before. How could it possibly describe the sensation, the feeling, the swelling of emotions that would occur at your own conception? From upon nothing, of free-floating mind-whispers and ethereal jaunts of dreams, it coalesced into what it knew it was.

It was so long ago, it could barely remember it. A fever dream, half-forgotten, something that was old and ancient. But whatever it did, it realized. It was, and it did what it was supposed to do.

Then, time passed some more.

Days, nights, swirls of golden leaves bloomed into icy flowers and reborn into swaths of pink, green and red. The light above changed and shifted constantly in hues of incandescent yellow-orange to demure white-grey.

It did many things.

Things it couldn’t remember. Things it didn’t bother to truly think about. Things that didn’t matter until much time has passed and it thought of the past. It tried to think of other things, of the future, of what it was, of its purpose.

But no matter what it did, its mind was always brought back that night. The moon glowed, its silver light shimmering through the canopy. Trees that were so high up, leaves that were too numerous, trunks that were so wide it felt more like a maze of wooden walls rather than something entirely natural.

And then, somehow, it was alright. It knew it so. It was at home. It was the dance in golden memories, the loveliest lies of all.

There was no need to think of anything else.

It didn’t want to.

The next time it had a thought, a different thing was happening. It was eating — or it was about to. Its lungs heaved, its stride taking it closer and closer to its prey. It felt itself circling around and around the hot-blooded, fleshy thing, its many selves converging to fulfil its ultimate purpose as it must always do at all times forever and ever —

Then, it was falling.

Or at least, it felt like it was.

Then, past the walls, everything was wrong.

It felt as if it had shed all its fur, the warmth stripped from its skin, its legs lethargic. The stars swam and fell down to the earth, sinking deep into the tar pit. It was weighed down by stone, by flesh, by being. Suddenly, it wasn’t, it couldn’t!

It just couldn’t.

It was stricken by a sense of loss. It was limited. It was there and only there.

Sluggish.

It snarled, it panicked, it looked around in the world that it couldn’t recognize. Trees that were too short, things that were too little, days that went by too quickly and the sun that glowed like a candle.

Amidst the confusion, the shifting reality, the un-dream, it was attacked. Small, walking on two legs, covered in things that weren’t them, they strut and bumbled and fall and flop. They glowed dimly as dim-witted beasts do, holding themselves in bundles of thinking flesh, casting their meagre glow across the earth. They held sticks, pointy, and they drove it back, in fear, in anger.

Their intentions were plain, even if it weren’t tearing out of their skulls and oozing black smoke and hate.

Sometimes, they got too near and touched it. Then, strange things happen as part of it became them and part of them became it. Strange, dark fur jutted out of their bodies as they hunched over, the bodies bending away into twisting caricature of beasts, their mouths opening only to let out sounds of panic.

They became something they were, became something like it.

It didn’t like it. They were loud, angry, dangerous, and they hurt.

So it hurt back.

It scattered red across many other muted colours. It ripped their warm entrails across cold stones, pulling apart their flesh like torn leaves amid unforgiving wind. This was what was doing but not what it was meant to do.

It was the first time it did something it wasn’t meant to.

That too hurt, but there wasn’t much else it could do.

Then.

“Wolf,” she spoke.

It didn’t reply. It didn’t know how to.

But it was the second time it listened, it changed, it shifted. It became more of itself at that moment, bits of everything condensing together into something. From the wind that carried the scent to nostrils to hunting its prey to take down the mighty to gleaming snow, it was brought from its largeness to the little frame that it suddenly knew was itself.

It stopped its rampage and regarded how it was together.

As if it was always been that way.

Coalaced, whole.

The person — that it suddenly understood afterwards, was important. Her name was Svanhild. She later gave some other words but those that didn’t matter. They were simply lies to those she didn’t trust.

“You are far from home, aren’t you?” Svanhild asked gently.

It laid its head in her palm, letting the fingers comb through its fur. It was sleeping all along, dreaming and dreaming of a world that no longer quite made sense. Quietly, the two slunk into the woods, away from loud interlopers, from the brandished irons and the screams.

Silence.

It was at home.

Wolf, or Vargulf, was its identity. It was at peace with that distinction, it felt.

“Let’s find you a place to stay.”

It agreed.

They walked, moved. Deeper and deeper into the forest they went until they found a lone log cabin sitting amidst the clearing at night, slightly elevated off the ground. Stars twinkled up above and the leaves shivered. Amidst the trees, blue tainted threads hung between the trunks and branches, small tin bells chimed in the wind at where the dangled.

Tink, tink, tink.

Together, they approached the house, squeezing through the too-small door. A fire was lit under the brick chimney, warmth billowing out against the cold. Vargulf watched the flames shimmered away, its head-scratching the ceiling, its paws laid across the cold floor.

Its ears flickered as it considered the dancing ribbons of yellow and red. In the hands of the humans that attacked it, it had seemed so frightening. Even now, it couldn’t help but feel an aversion to it.

But it was warm.

The girl, as it soon knew, was a good listener, even as Vargulf wasn’t used to telling its story. They sat patiently in a woodland hut, away from all the bloodshed that happened days ago.

Or was it weeks? Months?

It spoke of its past, as much as it could remember. Vargulf told her tales of the moon, of the shifting forest, of the countless lifetimes spent dreaming in the glade. It spoke of the fall, the torturous change in its mind, the sudden blinding disorientation, the claustrophobic walls around its being. It spoke of the humans that attacked it — and for the first time, it felt a strange emotion that it had never once felt. It was strange, it was alien, it sent its heart thumping in its chest with an odd beat.

Anxiousness.

Would Svanhild hold it responsible for slaying so much of her kind? It had torn apart their bodies and it knew those couldn’t be brought back together. The humans were dead, it knew that full well even if it didn’t truly see them as worthwhile creatures.

What manner of beings could think so much but be so weak?

But its worries were all laid to rest. She didn’t blame it.

She brought absolution instead.

“A child mustn’t be held accountable for the horrors inflicted upon it,” She said simply as if the lives that had been lost didn’t matter one bit. With a wary smile, she began telling her own story as it listened and she spoke. It learned.

Vargulf wasn’t a wolf. It wasn’t like its smaller kin, their four legs, their snouts, the furry coat, their teeth. It had all of those and more. Svanhild was just like it, more human than humans, a being that’s only similar in shape but entirely different. Even in her youth, it was more than apparent that she held an unnatural strength within.

Just like me.

Thus, she isolated herself in the forest to live a life where her actions cannot bring ruin. She brought out a loom, fabric laced between her fingers as she weaved under the stars. She asked, “You may stay with me if you so wish. I will not mind.”

It was unsure.

“I’ll speak to them,” she answered firmly, “They will listen.”

It acquiesced, and so it slept, it laid down its head on the wooden boards, smelling of pinewood and listening to the gentle thrum of threads spun and bells. And so, the day passed.

The next morning arrived startlingly quick.

Vargulf didn’t feel like it needed to be protected. It trusted its own strength far more than its fledgeling acquaintance, especially when the girl requested that she talk instead. It was a simple explanation that humans held a grudge against the wolf.

Even if they did attack first, they found some reason to remain angry and fearful. Vargulf itself couldn’t give a damn about the demands of the armed humans and would be happy to take their challenge head-on. Even if it weren’t in its nature to do so, it felt that bloodshed caused in self-defence was more than justified.

Svanhild argued against that.

“They don’t understand yet,” she said, “The priestesses will send armed men to hunt you. I do not doubt you will prevail —”

Vargulf accepted that.

“But if bloodshed can be avoided, let us try to keep it that way, shall we?” She asked, “I would rather not leave bloodstains in my home or kill my own kinsman.”

Vargulf reluctantly agreed, but it held little faith in humans. In its opinion, albeit limited, most humans were often senselessly aggressive. If they were to attack, it would return the favour without a second thought.

The next day, a group of humans came along. They wore long coverings of white and grey, cowls over their heads and hands hidden within their sleeves. The strode over the fresh snow, leaving nearly nary a mark behind their silent footsteps. Their lanky emerged from the edge of the forests, glowing their glow like wraiths caught in the mist.

More than human, Vargulf understood immediately, similar to itself and Svanhild. Tension bled from their bodies, hazes of ugly red staining the very air near them.

Dangerous.

The bells chimed gently as they crossed the boundary.

“Priestess,” Svanhild spoke, her own arms crossed. She stood at the door, impassive.

“Ansvil Weaver,” the person at the front said. Her congregation paused with her, standing some dozen meters away from the hut. The cowled figure continued, “We see that you have found the rogue Spirit.”

“I have. The threat is contained.”

“And yet, it is not slain. Instead, you harbour it within your home.”

“Indeed.”

The priestess moved her attention away from Svanhild, eyes gazing into the hut itself. Vargulf could feel the attention, the piercing feeling of being looked at, and returned one of its own.

“Reveal yourself,” the priestess commanded, her soft voice directed at it.

Vargulf snarled, the low threatening rumble erupting from its throat as it stirred.

Svanhild whispered, “Will you step out?”

It didn’t quite believe that the humans will simply let it go.

“Trust me, please.”

It hesitated.

It wasn’t a word or idea that it was familiar with yet it couldn’t simply dismiss it. It already owed its contained existence to Svanhild which was already a process that it didn’t understand. Could it bear to listen and obey? To trust a being so different from its very nature?

“They will not harm you, I promise.”

Vargulf snarled to itself. It gathered its courage, its will and rose to its feet. One step at a time, it took its steps out into the daylight.

The was a collection shocked murmurs as the form of Vargulf was revealed to the collection of eyes. It could smell the fear, apprehension, the disquietness at its presence. Svanhild gave it a small nod and smile as it appeared by her side, directing her attention back onto the gathering again.

“A wolf,” the priestess remarked, seemingly unruffled. Vargulf didn’t like the way her eyes moved across its form, holding back its instinct to fight.

“Yes.”

“You’ve bound the Spirit into a wolf,” the priestess repeated, amusement clear in her voice. “You make an interesting play, Weaver.”

“It was innocent, priestess,” Svanhild replied, “The Moonlit Solstice brought it forth, unbound. It was simply in its nature, nor was it its fault when the men from the village respond to its influence on the night of darkness.”

“We gathered so. What is the name that you have bestowed upon it?”

Vargulf.

“Is that so?” the priestess stated, “How unspecific.”

“It is perfectly descriptive of what it was. You’ll see the meaning of its name if you were but to give it a chance.”

There was a moment of silence. Vargulf stirred in unrest, staring down any that gaze directly at it.

“... Perhaps. Perhaps I will, Weaver,” the priestess spoke, her eyes narrowed, “If you are to be its benefactor, you know our conditions.”

“I do,” Svanhild spoke quickly.

“As long as Vargulf lives under your watch, it will never attack unprovoked, it will never kill, nor will it attempt to spread its influence,” she said, “You will be its minder if you so choose to bind it.”

“Of course.”

“Then our business is concluded.”

That was the first time Vargulf met a priestess of Marni-dain. It didn’t grow more pleasant from that point on.

Vargulf soon learned many a thing.

It understood that it was a Spirit, a thing of emotions, composed of many other non-things that had yet to have form. Perhaps in its old home, it would have made a bit more sense to go wandering about with a body that wasn’t quite there. However, ever since that it travelled to the place where these humans were, it had to take on a more physical form.

If Svanhild wasn’t there, it feared that perhaps it would have dissipated, spreading itself so thin as every other being comes across its essence, taking a tiny bit of it into them, becoming twisted.

Now, it was contained, protected. It could finally prance around in a skin that truly belonged to it and no one else.

Gratitude?

It was a good word.

It grew accustomed to the woods where it marked as its territory. It gathered the smaller white-coated beings called wolves, its lesser, fleshy kin. They hunted, they lived, they bred and they spent their lives as wolves were meant to be. All the same, Vargulf held itself to a sense of higher purpose that was given.

Svanhild, of course, was important.

She would wander from the den every now and then, returning with the scent of various strange humans. She explained the humans too lived together, building their own dens of hundreds strong.

And as part of them, Svanhild too felt she had a duty to them.

That was understandable.

A pack protects its own, and as it turned out, there were plenty of dangerous things out there that almost no one else could see, much less interact with. Behind each person, as long as they walked on the dirt, eat from the dirt, lived in the dirt, there would always be something trailing behind. They cast bits and pieces of themselves out all the time, wishing for this and that, hoping for things to happen or not happening, praying to a god or a spirit for something.

And when they do, these little thoughts leaked, congealed and pooled into these curious orbs. Spirits, like Vargulf itself, and it too found itself leaving behind a trail of these curious little bits of things behind wherever and whenever.

It hadn’t happened before, but it soon got used to it. Svanhild told him that these too were Spirits, just very different.

Some of these Spirits, however, Varguld was told to be harmful. To be angry, to wish for ruin and destruction and pain. Even if Svanhild hadn’t told it about them, it found them disturbing all the same. They were ugly, unseemly, and Vargulf liked nothing more than hunting them down.

Svanhild didn’t complain when it popped the smoky dark spirits under its claws, letting these lingering Spirits to flutter off into the world around them. If its activities help those around it, then so be it, thus it made a point to purpose track down any of these aberrant Spirits that congealed from the dark thoughts of those that lived upon this strange land.

Vargulf knew its identity, and these beings didn’t. So, for the time that came after, Vargulf lived its life as it was meant to. Things weren’t all that bad, however. Occasionally, Svanhild would gather a basket full of small, glowing Spirits that sang of joy, wishes and hope.

Those were pleasant. Vargulf allowed them to make nests in the rafters. They would laugh and seep their essence into the air, and the day would seem just a little brighter.

Sometimes, humans would travel deep into the woods. They were often varied. Some were looking for a fight, some were seeking the aid of Svanhild, some were simply lost. Whilst the first few times were novel, the visits soon became an annoyance.

“No, we don’t eat them.”

Vargulf disagreed.

Svanhild did her thing with the threads. She tugged on them, guiding people closer or away with the bells strewn across the forest. If she didn’t want to see them, they wouldn’t find her. The ones that did come to her, however, were often interesting.

However, Svanhild asked it to not show itself, because Vargulf would scare them away. It didn’t like the request but it did it anyway. Humans were all so jumpy. With that in mind, Vargulf often had to lurk in the very edges of the clearing, listening to the varied stories that the humans work up to.

Sometimes, it was a sob story of a child lost in the woods. Sometimes, it was because a human got sick. Sometimes, it was because some rampant Spirit was haunting some far-off village or hamlet from the town. They would always come to ask for help — help that the priestess could not or would not provide.

Svanhild would never turn down a request, but she always asked for something in return. A doll, a vase, a shoe, a comb. Some tidbits that meant something to whoever requested the service. The humans weren’t pleased with that, of course, but they never say no. It’s only natural that they must give something in return for whatever that Svanhild did, Vargulf thought to itself.

Svanhild treasured the tributes. She would sometimes use it in her rituals too for whatever reason. Laying them down in her circles to help a broken heart, a wounded limb, a hateful love. With her odd little strings, thimbles and needles, she wove the problems away. The lost will mysteriously find its way, the evil will perish — Vargulf helped.

It liked helping.

The priestess came by again, as she often did.

It was nothing consequential.

Svanhild called it diplomatic relations but Vargulf disagreed on that. The woman glowed lines of vague blue and red, smelling of some other Spirit not itself.

Powerful Spirits.

Vargulf didn’t like it.

Even if it were only an exchange of food and words, the priestess reeked of danger. Svanhild later told Vargulf that the priestess is one who serves the gods, acting as their hands in mortal affairs, that Vargulf could sense her connections to them.

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Vargulf didn’t say anything about what it thought of these gods. From simply being near them, it could sense the ancient presence lurking just beyond, anchoring themselves to the priestess. They, however, were not here, not in the way Vargulf was.

It asked.

Svanhild gave it an odd look before sitting the Spirit down and launching to a lecture. The world that they were in was known as the mortal realms, where flesh and blood beings wander — like humans and beasts. Vargulf, as told by Svanhild, was from the Spirit realms, somewhere just above or below, revealed in moonlit-groves or silver-moth hazes.

Gods were even further away, and so they say.

It was all too confusing for it, so it didn’t ask again. That was fine for it, however, as long as the gods didn’t bother it, it wouldn’t care about their presence.

Then one day, Svanhild changed. In some odd way, Vargulf had been expecting it. The woman, slightly older now, had returned to the cabin smelling of an unfamiliar scent, a smile on her face. She was dressed differently as well, clothing herself in garbs of the normal humans that occasionally walked through the forest, her hair bland and absent of the colourful weaves that normally bind them.

Most of all, the scent she carried was strong.

A male human.

“Do you know what love is?” Svanhild asked. She had been pacing in the cabin for a minute now, muttering under her breath. Vargulf didn’t interrupt her or ask for an explanation. With the number of thoughts she was casting out of her at every moment, it was clear enough she had something quite peculiar on her mind.

To that question, however, Vargulf shook its head. It didn’t need to think about such things in its life and wasn’t about to.

“Have you ever cared about someone so much that you wished to see them at every moment?” She kept speaking, too excited to even boil water at the stove for tea, “That when you see them, it felt as if your heart is jumping out of your chest?”

Vargulf wasn’t a romantic individual, but it could appreciate the sentiment. It thought back to all the beings it had represented, their numbers, the love between each of them as family. There was no doubt that they were genuine, but it hardly felt that such a thing would apply to what Svanhild was trying to express.

“Vargulf, I think he’s the one!” Svanhild whispered, “What should I do?”

Vargulf didn’t have an answer that would satisfy her. It thought about simply telling her to do whatever she wished, but that might come across as a bit thoughtless so it held its words to itself.

However, it didn’t understand why it would be such an issue. Svanhild is strong, knowledgeable, kind, and an established human and many other words that could describe her. There shouldn’t be any reason for simply saying no to her, it would be foolish to even consider it.

The woman was not reassured by it.

“I’m…” Svanhild was hesitant, “I’m not quite part of the people.”

That made even less sense.

She could only smile sadly, “I’m the girl in the woods, Vargulf. I’m not the kind of person that would sew clothes, clean the house, plough the land. The common folk respect me, yes, but there’s always that fear.”

Vargulf felt that it was unfortunate and was at a loss as to how it could possibly help. It was a hunter of beasts, not a connoisseur of love. No amount of words would somehow grant it the wisdom to advise its friend in such alien matters. However, it did decide to wait patiently and listen, even if that was the least it could do.

It was interested, at least, in what possibly could capture the heart of someone as grounded as Svanhild.

“Oh, he’s a soldier,” she replied, staring off into the fire as if the memories of their brief time together would resurface in the flames, “Armour and all, beard, young, handsome. You’ll approve, I think.”

It doubted so.

Vargulf’s experience with people considering themselves warriors were not the most illustrious interactions it had in its life.

“He’s not like that,” Svanhild scolded, “He’s special. I could feel it, even the Spirits gather around him.”

It could only mimic a shrug in response to that.

On a shelf, a Spirit of love giggled and swooned.

The man’s name was Anskein. He had introduced himself when Svanhild finally got around to bring him to the woods for a visit. Just like most humans, he had the characteristic four limbs, particularly hairy head and covering himself in bits and pieces of things that weren’t him. Beads of black stone hung from his hair, a severe face, fingers curling and uncurling.

Honestly, Vargulf failed to see anything of importance within this particular human. Maybe it wasn’t meant to, it was a wolf, after all. It leaned in closer, sniffing.

Blood.

Iron, tangy. Sweat, tension.

Salt, unknown, ocean.

Danger.

This man wasn’t weak, perhaps. Vargulf couldn’t be a judge of something like that. However, there was a certain resonance between the two — a similar characteristic that Vargulf could sense. They were alike, the wolf soon realized.

“This… is Vargulf?” he asked, leaning slightly closer to Svanhild, eyes still trained on the humongous wolf.

“Yes,” she answered cheerfully.

“It is… certainly big.”

Vargulf huffed, letting its breath blow his hair back. Svanhild laughed at the way Anskein’s hair stood up on its end.

As it turned out, Anskein was a hunter — and not one of mere beasts, apparently. He came from another island — a bigger one, taking pride in his abilities to pursue prey of monstrous abilities into the uncharted wilds with nothing but its flimsy human weapons.

In Vargulf’s opinion, it was a miracle the man was still alive.

The story was simple. Anskein heard of a witch living in the woods, one not of the priestess. He also heard of the white beast that dwelled in the forest. In a spur of action, he decided to board a ship and sailed to the island in search of a new hunt.

Turned out, he found the love of his life there instead.

Vargulf couldn’t care less for his story. The only thing that mattered to it is if Svanhild would be happy with this man. In its opinion, it was all too quick, too sudden and it couldn’t even begin to start trusting this new figure.

Reproachfully, it stared at the man, daring him to disappoint.

“Don’t be silly,” Svanhild said to it.

“You understand what it’s saying?” Anskein asked, glancing from wolf to person, “Because I’m not hearing anything.”

Vargulf preened its superiority pointedly.

Anskein moved in.

Vargulf took it as a sign to find somewhere of its own to live. It knew what its duties were and staying around wouldn’t be good.

And so it told itself.

Vargulf returned to the hut, one day, to the crying of a child. Time had passed and seasons upon seasons passed. It was difficult to count and to remember, but it simply decided it couldn’t bear the loneliness anymore thus it trudged its way back. Pass the lines of threads laid strewn across the trees, the soft bells chiming to its return.

It was intrigued.

“Welcome back, Vargulf.”

Svanhild was there. There was a baby lying in her arms, blonde of hair and slight in figure, sobbing away its meaningless cries. Vargulf could smell the scent of Svanhild, the blood that ran in the child’s veins, the tangled web of emotions that strung the two together.

Child?

“Things do change when you aren’t looking,” Svanhild said, patting the head of the child, leaning in to whisper words of comfort, “It has been some years since I last saw you proper. Come closer.”

Vargulf obeyed, its eyes firmly trained on the infant and flickered back to her.

“Anskein is hunting,” Svanhild smiled, “The blood calls to him, always. Can’t keep him cooped up for too long. See? We’re bound together now.”

She tugged a small pendant from around her neck — one of the many that hung from it. This one bore a circle insignia of some sort, a woven orb with a tuft of dark hair within. A single line, nearly invisible, led from it and out into the woods, into the town, pass the ocean. Even if it was faint, it was strong.

Vargulf nodded back and gave the child a meaningful look.

“This here,” Svanhild attempted to turn the child around, to let it see the massive wolf before the two but she resisted, struggling to bury her face into the coat, “Is Jarundil. She’s just afraid. Your presence is difficult for one so young to handle, would you not agree?”

It huffed at that. The baby resembled her mother, blonde hair, soft coils that hid her face. Through the differences, however, Vargulf could feel the connection between the two, the small piece of Svanhild within the child beyond just flesh and blood.

“You didn’t quite expect the years to pass by so quickly, did you?” Svanhild asked, a smile on her lips, “Us mortals do not do things by half, you’ll find. But that’s enough about me. How’s life for you, my friend?”

Vargulf sat on its haunches, glancing back into the woods and thought deeply. It truly hadn’t done much — not things it would have naturally done anyway. Such a question caught it slightly off guard and it didn’t have much of an answer in return. Hunting, eating, protecting, patrolling, simple things.

“Haven’t started a family somewhere yet? You’ve been around for some time as well, you know.” Svanhild teased.

It didn’t, but it did know it was changing.

Day by day, it was aware of it becoming, of it changing, of it being grounded. It would never lose its nature as a Spirit but it was apparent that something was happening. Its weight felt heavier, the wind more real, the flesh and blood it consumes more filling. In many ways, the Spirit known as Vargulf was seeping into the wolf just as much the other way around.

Family, most of all, wasn’t quite something it had thought about.

“You want to know why I gave you the form of a wolf?”

Vargulf nodded.

It had been wondering for a while now but hadn’t arrived at a satisfactory conclusion yet.

Svanhild stared out, her legs dangling from the porch, “I had thought about it. A wolf, a bear, an owl, all of them would fit, wouldn’t they? They are, after all, beings of the hunt. You could have taken to their identity like any other.”

She paused, waiting for Vargulf to give an indication it was listening, then talked again.

“I gave you the form of a wolf because they are the closest to us humans. We aren’t made to be alone, to be so far apart. With a wolf, you would be much more… inclined, for kinship, less wary,” Svanhild resumed, “You might find it manipulative, but I did believe out of every vessel I could have provided, the wolf would be a good choice.”

Vargulf didn’t know how to reply to that. It hadn’t thought about it that way before as it never needed to.

It looked down at the baby, shying away from it, and had a new feeling. Protectiveness, family. Svanhild had her own flock to look after now, and Vargulf could not bear to cling onto her forever.

It needed time to consider.

The next time it came back to the hut, it was greeted with the sight of two children running through flower petals. Spring had returned and red-orange-green splotches sprouted from the dirt. Jarundil and one younger, male. Smoke rose gently from the newly constructed chimney, puffs of grey floating away in the wind.

It could hear quiet chatter inside the hut.

“Wolf!” Jarundil pointed at it, the second child hiding behind her.

Vargulf indicated that she was correct.

The conversation stopped, rustling, and a figure came out, followed by the larger form of Anskein.

“Vargulf!” Svanhild exclaimed, “It’s been many days!”

Vargulf nodded, letting down the gift it had prepared in its jaws. The corpse of the elk was laid at their feet and should feed them for the coming time. It hadn’t done so in the past and felt rather rude in hindsight, so it decided to imitate all those humans that came before.

Svanhild wasn’t quite too sure what she was supposed to do with it, but that’s fine. Their conversation lasted long past supper and into the dead of night.

Jarundil was the daughter, and Thomen was the son, younger. The girl remembered Vargulf from all those years ago when she was still shivering in fright. Now, emboldened with the fearlessness of youth, walked up to the wolf and asked to touch its fur.

Under the watchful eye of Anskein, Vargulf allowed the child to touch its years, running her fingers through its fur. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and it made Jarundil happy and thus, Svanhild.

So Vargulf bore with it.

The happiness didn’t last long.

Then.

Summertime didn’t necessitate a change in garb for those in service to the gods, it seemed. She was alone this time, casually striding the small garden Svanhild had planted around the hut. Herbs, spices, things for use.

Vargulf watched from afar. While it was fairly sure it abided by the rules, it was nevertheless wary of the priestess figure. Even more than usual, the robed figure radiated lines of red, blue, green, complicated feelings. Even its fur stood up on its ends as it regarded the approaching figure.

Something was wrong.

It knew it deep in its heart that something was coming — days and months before. The air grew thick, uncomfortable, the songs of birds and insects dimming and the colours of the wild less vibrant. Even if the mortals didn’t realize it, Vargulf could feel the presence of something looming.

Even though its visits were sparse, it felt an all-encompassing need to return to the hut that day.

“Ansvil Weaver,” she spoke, tension clear in her voice.

Svanhild regarded her carefully, before replying, “Priestess. What brings you here today?”

“Danger encroaches on our borders,” the priestess spoke blithely, “The Dreamers dreamt of evil from beyond the sea, their false god and emperor setting their sight upon this land.”

“It is known, then?”

Even Svanhild could feel it.

“It is.”

There was a profound silence, a cold and absolute statement. The children were in the hut, cradled in the arms of Anskein. Soft words of comfort were whispered, senseless mutterings.

“What is it that you need, then?” Svanhild asked, her eyes narrowing, “How much time do we have?”

“Seven days, perhaps less. We will need every man and women that could fight.” the priestess’ terms were simple, “And help from every source we can find.”

“The gods?”

“The gods will have their own battle to fight,” she shook her head, “This is ours to defend.”

“Then bring us there,” Anskein stood out from the hut, pushing the two children behind, “Who leads the battle?”

“Anskein!” Svanhild cautioned.

“We assume that there is a plan for defence, yes?” the man crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, “If the Zweits are to come here as an army —”

Anskein was a warrior.

Older now, a streak of grey in his hair. Even so, he would never back down from an enemy, especially if his children were at stake. Svanhild too, wouldn’t even entertain the idea of cowardice.

They both knew each other too well to consider talking themselves down.

How could Vargulf help? All these talks of warfare and bloodshed were not of its kind. It was the hunt, slinking through the woods, the bestial nature of all things. It knew it wouldn’t fare well in the cities, in war, in such senseless violence beyond survival.

Even so, it too wouldn’t back down from such a challenge. For family, it would do much — too much, perhaps.

Svanhild spent time weaving, unspooling the decade’s worth of work and stringing them into the woods. Blue and green threads laced in between the trees, bells tinkling. With Vargulf’s help, they forced the woods into obeying, even if it were simply for a day.

The ships were spotted offshore on a suitably gloomy day.

Anskein had left for battle.

Vargulf gave him a fragment of itself, for whenever the man might need it. As a Spirit, Vargulf couldn’t enter the city, its form bound to the forest and the wilderness. Even if he could, his identity would not allow it to thrive within a place of humans, in a war of humans.

It could do nothing but watch as distant clangs of metal rang through the air, the cleaving of flesh, sending the bubbling Spirits of hatred and loss into the sky. In but minutes, the ground was steeped in the deep, dark curses of war, cloying and soft in its decay.

And in horror, it spread like ink on pages, trailing after the civilians into the woods.

Vargulf did its best to guide the lost, racing against the tide of darkness that grew pale, white eyes. All around it, in the deepest reach of reality, it could feel the echoing thunders and clashes of the god’s battle. Reality shuddered and strained under the impossibly distant war beyond this existence, the fabric of life turning unstable and the Spirits in an uproar.

It had never seen the like before and it was frightened.

Despite it all, Vargulf had made a promise.

In the day and a half, it led the people deeper and deeper. All the while, it matched its fangs against the seemingly endless Spirits of anguish. It had seen them before but never in such numbers, Their rotting grasps reached for its form with all the strength of corpses, but the numbers were unending.

It was forced to flee.

The marches of the soldiers drew close and just some time prior, it felt the string connecting Vargulf to Anskein snap and disappear.

The hut was discovered. The enchantments that protected it were broken by the flames of unrest, the ceaseless trembling of the Spirits. The threads broke and the bells fell useless onto the soil.

It was marked with the flight of an arrow and the lost breath of a child.

There wasn’t even time to carry the body away as the field went up in flames. By the time Vargulf had returned and slaughtered all those present, it was already too late. Only Jarundil and her mother remained, wounds scored across their skin.

But alive.

That was all that mattered.

Vargulf howled its rage to the sky, to the earth, to the wind but no one listened. It was alone, frustrated. For the first time in its life, a tiny bud of hatred blossomed in its chest, a resentful burning against humans, against its own helplessness, against its very own identity.

It was weak, limited, bound to its nature as fire was bound to burn.

In its rage, it changed. Not in a way that it noticed just yet, however.

Eventually, the battle came to an end.

Change came, the villagers returned to their homes under a different rule. The forest was dim and quiet, colder than even the deepest recesses of winter. In the village square, great wooden stakes were raised. The flayed and mutilated body of the priestess was left on display, crackling grotesquely in the flickering flame alongside the dozens of others.

The carrion swarm soon came, pecking away but not even them could bring the dead away quickly enough.

Two gravestones now marked the spot where the hut was. The embers had long died down, the piles of cindered wood and ash soaked in mournful rainwater.

Anskein, the loving father. Thomen, the child of Anskein.

Svanhild didn’t rebuild her house there, her love grew cold, smouldering. Life simply had to move on, even if it felt too quick and sudden. Vargulf was a creature of habit, and it failed to understand how to help. So, it did the only thing it could and hunted down the remaining Sufferings roaming in the wild.

The Spirits of the dead lingered here and there, plagued with sorrows. None of the lives lost here could ever buy back lost time.

Is this what love is? To lose, to have your heart filled to the brim and have it so cruelly ripped apart? Svanhild no longer smiled or laughed or danced, her face grew gaunt and harsh. Jarundil, under her ruthless guidance, wove images of violence and discord, of fire burning.

Forgotten by the masses, they lived their quiet lives in seclusion, their door was no longer open. They’ve given far too much already to dare allow themselves to care again. Lost within themselves, they shut themselves away from society, living off the woods.

The matter of the world no longer interest them.

No one noticed either. The people in the villages never came to look, the servants of the gods never returned.

In time, Jarundil grew up into a young woman, a spitting image of her mother. She had learned the trade quickly, but it was never enough. The child had long since died on that day so long ago, and Vargulf had no place within the home.

The forests were so empty now.

It looked up high above again. At the moon, at the snow, at the cold.

Again, it was eerily reminiscent of the past.

“Time’s passing,” Svanhild spoke, so much older now. Grey tainted her golden hair into a soft, curling white. She held a staff in her hands, leaning against it in gnarled fingers, her grip still strong. Vargulf understood that such a time would come in the future, the long years slowly creeping up upon her in its subtle, quiet way.

It had no words to say.

It had lived its life from beyond her, and to this point and likely far more than any mortal would. Now, the months and years that pranced through the sky in suns and stars had finally drained through the hourglass.

The wounds, however, didn’t even begin to heal.

“Where did we go wrong?” she asked, half mumbling to herself. One of her eyes had long gone blind, pale and unseeing. The glow of her life was dim and quiet, reaching its twilight days. Even so, she gave the impression that she was watching something immensely important, profound in its meaning.

“Did you live a good life, old friend?”

Vargulf thought deeply about it.

“I haven’t gotten around to apologise yet,” Svanhild continued, “I’ve… Lost myself, haven’t I?”

Perhaps.

She chuckled. It was a dry, joyless sound.

“To you, it must have seen so quickly. One day, one war, that’s all it took for everything to change,” she said, pausing, “So many years, could you imagine it? Just… I’m just a human at the end, it seems. I’m not...”

She fell silent.

“Once upon a time, I thought that I was different, that I was extraordinary,” Svanhild raised her palms in front of her, “I could weave oh so many things with these hands. Life itself bent to my will when I tell my story of how it should be. I thought I could use it to do so much. Me! The girl that wove on the corner streets.”

With that, she was quiet again.

“I wanted to do so much. I… I helped people. I helped magic their troubles away. I found you, in that night. I saved you.”

Vargulf pressed closer, allowing its fur to touch her wrinkled skin.

“I fell in love, I had children. Life was good. Life was happy. The people of this island was happy. We were… We were doing so well,” she counted, a note of desperation clear, seeking validation that the life she had led was worth living, “I wanted to so much for so many but at the end… Look at me now.”

Vargulf glanced.

“Look at me,” Svanhild said, turning to face it, raising her hands to her side, spreading them.

It looked.

She was old.

So old, not in body but in spirit, tired in all sense of the word. There was barely any life left in her, all withered away now even if it wasn’t time yet.

“What do you see?” she asked quietly.

Vargulf turned its head away, unwilling to say a single word.

“I thought so,” she said morosely, her voice soft, “The years have taken their toll. All that is good will one day be lost. I have no legacy left but you and my daughter. I hadn’t thought this would be how it turned out but… I just wanted to say that I am sorry. I have no more words, forgive me.”

She turned away.

“I’m so sorry for having to put you through all this.”

She didn’t speak another word and simply stood there, watching the cold.

Later that day, Jarundil returned, her basket full of flowers and roots. Vargulf had yet to move from where it sat, staring out.

Her footfall gently fell upon the path as she approached.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Jarundil asked quietly.

“Yes,” Vargulf said.

And with that, the body of Svanhild collapsed into flakes of snow only to be blown away in the wind, lost to the sky and the woods.

Some days later.

The graves were uncovered. The bones and rotting flesh were exhumed from the deep earth, the empty hole dug up like a sore exposed to the world, pebbles and stone laid on the side carelessly.

For a moment, Vargulf was struck frozen with disgust, revulsion, its mind too stunned to even react until minutes later. There was a sickening sensation within its very soul as it regarded the sight.

Time appeared to have stopped, its mind racing to a conclusion.

Jarundil.

In a daze, it walked, it followed, it hoped that it wouldn't see what it knew it would find.

In the hut was a cauldron, softly boiling above a fire. Jarundil stood before it, stirring the noxious mixture with a ladle. A small arm, long rotten, peeked from above the brim, swishing in accordance with the movement. The fingers clawed at the air, death having seen the muscles atrophy and frozen in its rictus. A tapestry of red strings laid strewn around the ritual floor, words and depictions of violence apparent.

If Jarundil saw Vargulf standing in the doorway, she gave no indication of having done so.

And Vargulf had nothing to say in return.

The girl paused, seemingly considering something and stopped stirring. Gently, her hands grasped onto the tapestry on the floor, raising it and letting it spill through her fingers and into the cauldron.

It hissed and bubbled.

A bit at a time, she fed it to the aberrant, unnatural presence brewing inside the pot. Worse of all, Vargulf could feel the lingering presence of itself, of the gift it once gave to Anskein now stirring within the cauldron, perverted beyond its purpose.

Eventually, the tapestry had been completely submerged into the dark, bloody broth.

As a last touch, Jarundil grasped a knife from her belt and slit her wrist. Red ichor poured from the wound, dripping into the cauldron.

Then, she spoke, “Come before me, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. I weave you a vessel so you may return, my father and brother. I bind you to your promise and return from beyond the veil!”

For a few seconds, there was no movement. Then, strings, untangled, pulled themselves over the brim, wiggling like veins growing. Wet and slick, they crawled down the side of the pot in strange movements, reaching down to the brazier, climbing into the walls behind.

Alive from nothingness, it wrenched itself free from the pot, spurting onto the ground like so much sludge. The threads grasped at anything they touched, pulling them closer and closer, forming into a cohesive shape.

Jarundil’s face was pale, her lips colourless and her hands trembling. Yet, her voice was firm as she commanded this being into existing, watching the mass coagulated like clotting blood. An arm appeared, muscles hanging off bones, and so did a torso. The wrought iron bars bent themselves into ribs and let the fiery heart within beat its profane rhythm.

Gradually, a head formed — and it wasn’t one of a man or a woman, but a salivating maw hungering for flesh.

Jarundil turned to face Vargulf, her expression unreadable. “I have my own protector now,” she proclaimed, “I free you from your services. You are no longer bound, so please do not think you have to stay for me.”

“... Is this it, then?” Vargulf asked, “Is this what you choose to do?”

“I’m… I am not staying here. Mother had done so for so many years and… I can’t do the same,” she stated, half convincing herself, “No matter what you think, Var, I’m not her.”

“No, you are not.”

“Good,” she said suddenly and paused, aware of how she sounded, “... You can’t follow me there. In Ansvil. I’m going to make my own life there. I will take a new name, have a new family. I will take care of those left after the war. I’ll be… with them.”

Vargulf’s eyes flickered at the mass, now crawling itself into a somewhat coherent structure, four limbs planted on the ground, inhuman.

Jarundil — no, no longer.

Creighton, it will soon know.

“If you are sure, then I will not stop you,” Vargulf said. Its emotions, newly recognised, so painfully vivid it hurts to even consider.

Then, it left.

Decades passed.

It couldn’t remember much of it, passing in a blur as it attempted to drown the life it led out with senseless hunts. But it couldn’t. Night after sleepless nights, day after clouded days, It howled until its throat could no longer even make a sound, ran until its paw bled, cried until its eyes drained themselves dry.

Time simply wouldn’t turn back.

Vargulf wasn’t what it once was, not anymore. It had changed from the simple Spirit into something it could scarcely recognise, having given up much in the name of love and duty.

It had torn so many holes in itself, left so many gaps for so many things. In its slumber, the dark shadows of the world seeped into the wounds, coiling and twisting. Only the Sufferings were left now. It had been many years since it last saw one of hope, of wishes, of good.

The world dimmed, it lost its imagination. Only the soft, putrid rot could prevail now.

It hurt so badly, its heart aching.

The days slipped away in muddy darkness. Nothing occurred in this land of nothing. None of the other Spirits on this land would talk now, not near the Zweits that wore the skin of Bvurdrjordians.

The gods were dead.

It felt lethargic.

It missed the glade where the hut once stood. It missed the time where it was all simpler. It missed the moments where it was happy and had lost the chance to savour them. Time and time again, it brought itself to that night, under the moon's silver gaze, no matter how distant it was.

Of how much of a lie it was.

Its place in the world was gone, lost in the endless march of an empire. It was no longer needed in this world that no longer think and believe.

It watched from afar, the people that walked and lived and breathed, the new life that had left it behind, forgotten. In mere years, they had gotten used to the Zweits, the one that had killed so much and —

— and —

— And its grief turned into rage.

If it were to be abandoned, if the world were to leave it to die, then it would simply let the world have something to fear instead. It was hungry.

So hungry.

And so, it waited, it stalked, hunted.

As it was always meant to.

Then, one day a comet slung itself into the sea on a moonlit night, and Jarundil set sailed. To where or for what reason, it couldn’t know.

Perfect.

It feasted, grew bloated. It will not be forgotten. It will remember them as well as they could remember it now, within its stomach.

Together.

Not even the monster Jarundil called Thread will stop it for long.

“Hoot.”

And upon a branch sat a bird.

Until, it wasn’t, and every single bit of Vargulf was laid bare upon the dirt.

“I see,” I said, eventually, as the years ceased flowing from it to me. Carefully, methodically, I sewed the flesh together, careful to avoid the blotches of Sufferings. Around us, the still bodies of the wolves stood, their minds silenced within their skulls. The massive, swollen body of the wolf laid on its side, impaled into the ground before it could even twitch.

Between us, I had wrenched the being once known as Vargulf out from the seething wreck it thought itself as. For now, we could talk, and I could listen.

“Thank you,” Vargulf whispered from it was, contained unto itself, “I do not even begin to know… This wasn’t what I wanted, please, believe me.”

“Do not thank me just yet, I simply allowed us to talk without all that gunk in the way,” I said, still a bird, “You’ve left an awful mess behind you. If I hadn’t been… seen something similar, I doubt I would be so lenient.”

Of course, I wasn’t saying this for the sake of posturing. A century worth of life was a lot, particularly one of such intensity. Trying to take in so much was a hazard, truly, and I had even remotely finished with the Sgnirmah yet.

In either case, this clearly showed that the [Safe] worked as intended. Even so, I had to take a moment to recollect my thoughts after suddenly living through such a life, having almost forgotten who I am and lost myself in the identity of Vargulf.

On the other side of the island, conflict is on the verge of erupting. The hunters are on the move, and Finny, whoever she really was, clearly knew that Vargulf was the culprit. Either way, this was sure to turn into an irrecoverable mess. If I hadn’t arrived —

The comet, perhaps?

— I wouldn’t doubt that this would have all gone down differently. Now that I was here, however, I suddenly felt an urge to take responsibility for all of this.

“We have much to talk about,” I stated, eventually.

“... Lets.”