Black and White
The moons are almost full, the White Wolf is howling. No other voice joins hers. She has been alone –how long? Nobody knows, certainly not she herself – her thoughts are only of the moment, of the Now. Now she is alone, and howls her loneliness for all the world to hear.
Now, another voice joins hers. A male wolf, some way away, a pack leader who has lost a challenge and been banished from his own. That is all in his voice.
The White Wolf answers him, and her blood stirs. She is not alone, now. She will go to him. She will go to him for she is in heat. Now.
The world sings in her blood. This is life, this is beauty. It is a song of promise, the song her world under the moons sings her tonight, the song she has sung with the faraway male – and its echoes stir a new urgency in her blood.
If she had memory, if she had any thought beyond the Now, she would remember it has been a long time since she last was in heat. She would remember there was only one cub for her to suckle, she would remember his yellow eyes.
She would remember his four-fingered hands and pointed ears.
She would remember her name, she would remember times she herself held other shapes, she would remember joinings that were more than matings, she would remember her own people and the ones she loved with her whole elven heart, soul, and body.
It is not that she has forgotten these things, exactly. She just never thinks of them, never thinks beyond the now.
She is hungry, she eats. She is tired, she sleeps. All the time, she knows she needs something, every night the voice that answers her howls comes nearer. He needs her too. He is coming to her, just as she is going to him. Now.
When the moons are full, they meet atop a hill. She waits there for him, knowing he comes closer, close enough to scent her, to smell her desire.
He is beautiful. His eyes are golden. He is big and strong. His fur is sleek, glossy and black as the night sky. The wounds his pack gave him have healed, although he still steps a bit lighter on one foreleg than the other.
She is beautiful. Her eyes are golden, just as his. She is thin but healthy. Her fur is thick, soft, and shining white like the two moons above her.
Now they mate, under the moons. The Black Wolf and the White Wolf come together in all the hunger of their bodies. Black as the night he is, white as the stars she is, beautiful they are together.
The song in their blood urges them on, and the promise of their need is fulfilled. Now.
Bodies joined, he astride her, they find release. They howl. And at that moment, since the song of life has taken what it wanted from them, the soul of the world, which is Life and Death, eases its hold for a while.
And in the state they are in, in the intimacy of flesh they share, this one moment of calm and contentment is enough for their bodies to remember what they once where. Memories rise to the surface of their minds, the echo of the Starsong grows stronger in shapechanged blood, grows and conquers heart and mind.
High Ones they were, High Ones they become again. Dazed, half-dreaming, they turn to each other. Eyes look into eyes, four-fingered hands touch naked pale skin, comb long flowing hair.
Mind touches mind, and the first word they send each other is:
**You!**
They drink in the sight of each other, then embrace, now in all their entirety, body and mind, hear and soul, memory and Now.
Then he sends her her name: **Timmain.**
And she sends him his…
THE END (?)
