There stood his lover in the silver moonlight. A lithe silhouette gleamed as it advanced from the open window to the bed where Lawrence lay.
"Holo."
The trickling stream of time had left her physical form unaltered. From since the fateful night of their encounter, her presence never ceased to awe him. How many years had passed since? Thirty, forty years fell away in the blink of an eagle's eye, flying overhead.
Every villager knew Lawrence, the generous owner of a flourishing shop whose hospitality was unparalleled. And yet, for all his reputation, little was known about the man. He had settled in the village in his middle years. His wife, it appeared, had passed away one desolate winter. Always, he refused to take another's hand. Even now, in his late years, Lawrence's life remained one of solitude. There were rumors of a mysterious daughter, who had taken after her father as a peddler. What had become of her, throughout the fleeting decades? No one knew. A few seasons ago, a traveller in a horse-drawn wagon had stopped by his home. The young woman, according to one spectator, bore a quaint resemblance to him. She might have been a granddaughter.
The years had not spared the man. The shop was now managed almost entirely by faithful employees, once young apprentices at his side. Lawrence spent as much time there as his now ailing health could allow. His beloved customers' smiles kept him going, it was said. The latest gossip revolved around when that dwindling source of energy would finally give out. Regulars of the town bar speculated in hushed voices on the subject of his successors, or probable lack thereof.
Unbeknownst to all, on every full moon, beyond the dimmest hour of the night, the wolf goddess of harvest leapt to his side. A promise that transcended the years.
Lawrence made to get up, to better greet her.
"Shh. Stay still."
He felt the mattress sink nearby. Fine strands of hair brushed against his face, pushed by the draft from the window.
"Come closer," he said.
"I'm already close."
"I know."
Lawrence wanted to cry. His eyes could not focus on her face, and it wasn't for the lack of light. So he closed them, and let his memory take over. They lay next to each other in this way, for what seemed to be a very long time. His hands re-appropriated the landscape of her form. He struggled to forget the pain that rankled in his bones.
"Speak to me, Holo. Tell me what you've seen."
A fingernail traced half-circles on his shoulder. "The North is vast and cold as always. Wheat grows tall in human villages, and soon they shall harvest their crops. Taller churches are being built, and the people pray to their god. I have little else to say."
The dryness of her voice pained him. He knew what she was speaking of. She let his arm lead her into his embrace, as it had so often done, and still could do.
"I shall always keep faith in you, Holo."
"I know." The finger travelled through the valley of his mouth. "And after you are gone, there shall be no one left to remember."
A moment passed as they contemplated. The tips of her wolven ears had tucked themselves warmly under his chin. When she spoke again, her breath tickled.
"Do you ever regret your decision?"
"What," Lawrence laughed, "to have fallen in love with you?"
"To spend your life in solitude. To have forsaken human companionship."
"I have you."
"You know what I mean."
"Well, I don't regret it at all." A smirk overtook his features. For a moment, he was a peddler again, dangling a piece of canned peach before a bewildered Holo's eyes. "And you?"
His leg twitched on reflex, brushed briskly by a soft tail.
"It has had its inconveniences."
Was she teasing, as always? Or was that the truth?
"However… I would not have made any other choice."
"Good."
The night was progressing rapidly. Sometime, morning would befall them. Lawrence wondered what it would be like when even breathing became too tedious. Holo shivered in his arms, and the sound of her breathing grew louder.
"You know, when you die…"
A hot tear slipped onto his neck.
"…I shall miss you sorely."
"Good," Lawrence said.
He could feel it swell within her. Indignation. Insult. The fury of a god.
Laughter rose into his throat, spilling into the room so freely that it hurt. The tail, batting angrily against his leg, grew gentle. She, too, began to laugh. With a pang in his viscera, he was reminded of their early spats, of their petty quarrels that had helped pass the time of his youth. As always, any truce between them was to be signed in laughter.
Recollecting himself, he turned his gaze to her lovely, blurred face. He felt, against his neck, the continued flow of tears.
"I apologize, Holo."
"For what?"
"For having to leave you."
She said nothing. Lawrence lifted his age-tattered hand. Her immortal fingers closed around them. He felt her love and vitality transmit to him in this way. If he closed his eyes now, he could drift into a deep, deep slumber. On a day soon to cross the horizon, sleep would find him forever. When it did, the saga of his life would come to a close. And his beloved would live on, long after the end of his memory...
"Holo? Say…"
The wolf goddess of the harvest peered back. In spite of the darkness in the room and in his eyes, those blood-red irises suddenly blazed as clear as eternity. A question resurged from the depths of his mind, borrowed from a distant memory in Kumersun.
"Does our story have a happy ending?"
"Yes," the wolf-god answered. "Yes."