The Man in Wolf Skins
Prologue
There once was a man with many brothers. Many brothers who, to some degree, disliked and hated him. But this tale is not about all of them, nor is it much about the man, rather just one brother.
This brother was the man's favorite brother for he neither disliked nor hated him. He had been the first to love him and, in return, be loved. He was small with blond hair and had sky blue eyes, and the man knew he would do anything for the child. His baby brother, this dearest boy, this precious child.
With the hostility of the rest of the family, the two brothers lived far away from everyone, in a small cottage nestled in the folds of the foothills, far from prying eyes. Every so often they would venture, small hand held warmly in large, down the windy footpath into the village where they would buy needed supplies. Then they would walk back, hand in hand, with goods in tow.
Their days would be spent writing and teaching, learning and laughing, and in the afternoon they would head out into the garden to work and play. At night they would read stories of faraway places and make plans to travel to far off destinations someday before falling asleep nestled together. Their life was a simple one, which suited them just fine.
Every year when autumn rolled around it brought with it the fog, which was the brothers' favorite time of year. The path to the village would disappear and their little cottage in the foothills would become isolated, an island in the white, existing as far as the eye could see and no more.
Only in autumn would they play their game on the way home. The old tower ruins, slightly off the beaten path, would disappear into the fog and it was only then that the small hand would slip out of the larger hand, its owner laughing as he vanished into the fog and laughing as he returned. The man always worried that one day the little hand would not return, but it always did. As he always would the little boy would promised with an eskimo kiss before bed.
Till one day he didn't.
The laughter faded out into the fog, as it often did when the child reached the first stone of the old tower, pausing before turning around to call out for him to find his way back, as the game went. But the call never came; there was no happy laughter, no "I found you", no "did you see me?" nothing.
Groceries fell to the ground as the man ran off the path. There was no sound, his calls swallowed up by the fog they had loved so much.
The child had reached the old tower, but as he turned around he had felt a spinning detachment from everything around him. He paused, putting his foot down slowly before calling out.
He received no reply. Figuring he had not been heard he called out again before running. And running and running and running. No path appeared; no loving brother, no large, warm hand to grasp his own and hold it tight. He suddenly felt very alone.
And so he continued to run, running till the sky darkened, and the temperature dropped, and the field became a forest, till he could run no more. The fog was no longer his playmate, it was his prison. Tears gathered and his curled in on himself, sobbing and crying out.
The child, in his grief, didn't notice the movement in the distance, didn't notice the soft fall of boots in the bracken, didn't notice the man in wolf skins till he was upon him, reaching out for him. Behind tear-stained eyes he looked up to see, beneath the snout of a wolf, warm green eyes.
"Arthur!" he cried, reaching out. Warm arms wrapped around him, picking him up, holding him close, and carried him off.
Hello there! I really like this story, it's been floating around my head for awhile now. I'm fairly busy, so yeah. Sorry for such a short intro.