Before we begin, some notes:
Cake-Eater: I think I've already ranted at some length about how much I loved your review and how cool you are and all that, but you are. Cool, that is. Hope I can continue to live up to your expectations.
RockAndRoll: I'm so glad you liked! Yeah, major props go to darling Schiz for coming up with the idea, what can I say? The girl's crazy cool! You have NO IDEA how much fun it is to write Fulton as a werewolf! I think I'll do a full moon scene next chapter; I can't wait to get into the bloodiness of it all! Anyway, thanks so much, you always make me feel hotter than hot with all the stuff you say.
Xixie: Hey, where'd you go? You used to review my Bash stories, quite a fan if I remember correctly. Is my new fic not quite up your alley? No matter, I'm glad you like this one at least. Updates are a bit slow, because I'm pretty tied up with my regular F/P, but here you go. Enjoy!
Kelly: Yeah, not your typical Ducks fic, is it? When Schiz told me the idea, I thought it was kinda odd, too, but I was soon sucked in. I'm glad I didn't lose the Bash essence, I try hard to keep hold of that when I write. Hope you like where this goes, and if you don't know what's coming next, all the better!
A World Apart
Wolfsbane, part II: Running away
Run. Just run.
How long had it been? Three days, four? Portman wasn't sure. The wind howled at their backs, chasing them, hurling insults and accusations on her icy breath until Dean thought he was going mad. Beside him, Fulton's breathing was heavy, the cadence of his footsteps broken into a staggering, irregular beat. It had been hours since he'd rested, he must be on the verge of collapse; werewolf or not, he was still a mortal. Portman took his friend's hand in his, and steered them out of the relative open terrain of the riverbank, and deep into the undergrowth that bordered it.
Portman slipped easily between the jagged branches of the tall, majestic fir trees, and when he pushed through a wall of wild juniper bushes, the thorns drew no blood from his smooth white skin, nor became entangled in his clothes or hair. Just one of the many benefits of being dead, he supposed. Behind him, Fulton was having more difficulty. He had to crawl on his hands and knees to escape the trees' grasping appendages, and was soon covered with blood from the juniper thorns. With his size and strength, he could have easily ploughed through, but though they'd managed to throw the pack off their trail the previous evening, a path of broken branches and uprooted shrubs would be exactly what they were looking for. So instead he crawled, bruised, bleeding and exhausted. Finally, he called to Portman.
"Stop."
Portman turned, and took in the surroundings. "Here? You sure this is deep enough?"
"We want to keep the Moon River in hearing distance, right? I can barely make it out. Besides, we go in much further, and we're going to come out the other end."
"What's over there?"
"Other werebeasts' territories. This stretch of woods divides the inner and outer perimeters of the Forest. Keeps the werebeasts off our land, and us off theirs, I suppose. In theory, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
Fulton looked decidedly uncomfortable. He scratched his neck, and wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, as he said, "Well, for over a year now, ever since that awful drought killed off most of our crops, Lobo's been trying to get the pack to turn carnivore during the rest of the month, as well. He started hunting other werebeasts, and bringing them back to the dens to cook and eat. Only some of them fed at first, but now more than half the pack is doing it, too."
Portman was confused. "What, you mean werewolves never used to eat meat?"
Fulton shook his head. "Only human, only on the full moon. We lived off what we grew, the rest of the time. Some of us still do," he added pointedly. "So, what do you think, does this look like a good place to rest until dawn?"
Portman nodded, but he wasn't really listening. It was no worse than the others. Old-growth evergreen trees surrounded them on all sides, stretching so high overhead, that it made him dizzy to look up. All those vertical lines, converging to some imaginary point beyond the reach of human eyes--or even angel eyes, for that matter--always gave him a feeling of vertigo, of motion. He remembered standing in these very woods with Fulton, after their first night together, staring up at the trees, and feeling like they were shooting upwards, riding a platform straight to heaven. Only now it felt like he was descending, plummeting down into the depths of... what? Hell, of course, was the obvious choice, but could hell really be worse than this place?
In the months that had followed since he first met Fulton, Portman came to spend more and more time in the Forest. At first he'd been frightened by its... sentience, perhaps, was the best word; by the way unseen eyes followed him wherever he went, but as the weeks passed, he had grown to like the place, maybe even love it. Nothing like what Fulton felt for it, but he could definitely see the appeal the Forest had for someone as dark and earthy as his boyfriend. The past few days, however, had been among the worst of his entire life (certainly the worst of his after-life), and now he hated every rock, leaf and insect. There was no doubt in his mind that the Forest was full of power; just one square foot of land in this place held more mystical energy than your average wizard's apprentice, but it was a dark energy, one rooted in evil. The whole Forest stank of Death; the air was permeated with it, and since they'd been on the run, she had turned against them, thrown rocks in their path to block their escape, commanded her trees to throw up their roots to trip them as they ran, Portman was sure of it. Once, they had been dive-bombed by a flock of screeching blackbirds, who had drawn blood from Fulton's face, trying to gouge out his eyes.
There were no secrets the Forest didn't know; as soon as Lobo died, Portman could feel the Forest's wrath, her fury that an Outsider, and a celestial being, at that, had dared to murder one of her own. The feeling didn't come in words alone, but in a combination of sensory input. The sights, sounds and smells of the Forest all changed in that one instant, became unwelcome and menacing, and Portman felt as if he'd been marked for death, branded guilty like the murderers in mortal settlements. Why they bothered to brand those who were about to be executed, Portman didn't know, but it was as if he'd already been tried and found guilty. The place held no warmth for him anymore, only ominous shadows and bad memories.
If Portman had stopped for a moment to remember all the good times the Forest had provided, all the lazy days spent by the river with Fulton, laughing and swimming and playing games in the woods, he might have felt differently, but the Forest had filled the air with her anger, and made it hard for him to think of anything happy, and instead, his mind kept going back to Lobo's death, and all the hardship and danger that awaited them now, all because of him. It had been hubris to think he could talk to Lobo, make him see things his way, but it was more than that. It was how much he'd *enjoyed* killing him, how good it had felt, how *right.* He was plagued with nightmares whenever he shut his eyes, and lately, the dreams had been coming to him when he was awake, too. He felt like every happy thought had been siphoned out of him, leaving only sadness, guilt, despair. He would have left ages ago, were it not for Fulton.
Fulton had lived his entire life in the Forest of the Were, venturing out only briefly by the full moon, and Portman knew he wasn't ready to leave just yet. Leaving would mean saying goodbye forever, to his home, his family, everything he had ever known. That would be a lot for anyone to handle, and Portman knew he hadn't been making it any easier for him. He'd been silent, moody and distracted; whenever Fulton tried to get close to him, he pulled away. He could see the hurt in his boyfriend's eyes when he did this, and hated himself for it, but he couldn't help it, either. He felt so alone, even when Fulton was nearby; like nothing was right, and would never be right again.
"Dean, Dean!" Someone was shaking him, and it eventually brought Portman out of his daze. His eyes slowly focused on the person who had such a firm grip on his shoulders. It was Fulton, of course. Who else would it be?
"Hey," he said weakly, trying to smile. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Fulton's voice was so indignant that he squeaked, and Portman saw the hurt in his face. "You were spacing for ages, I couldn't get you to come out of it!" His large, soulful eyes swam with the moisture of unshed tears, and Portman had to look away.
"Dean," Fulton began, reaching out to run his hand down his friend's cheek, but Portman pulled back.
"Don't touch me," he whispered, the words coming out harsher than he'd intended.
"But why, Dean? I don't understand. Talk to me," he pleaded.
"Don't you get it?" Portman yelled suddenly, unable to contain his misery any longer. "I killed him! I wanted to talk to him, and instead I killed him, and now your pack wants to kill you! I've ruined your life, Fulton! What are we going to do now? I wish--" his voice broke. "I wish we'd never met."
"No," Fulton said, in a voice of such ferocity that Dean looked up in surprise. Fulton's hands were clasped tightly in front of him, his nails digging into the backs of his hands, turning the flesh white. "You don't mean that," he said with certainty, shaking his head from side to side. "I know you don't mean that." His eyes met Dean's; they glowed with the white-yellow light of the moon, like polished bone. "Say you don't mean that."
Portman sighed. "You're right. I don't mean that, but look what I've done to you! I got you tossed from the pack, I killed your uncle, and now I'm probably going to get you killed, too!"
"If I died, could we be together?"
"What?" Portman spluttered, trying to regulate the feelings of anger, shock and disbelief that swept over him.
His hands still clasped, Fulton stared intently at the ground, and the words tumbled from his mouth in quick, rapid-fire succession. "I know I wouldn't get into heaven, but maybe I could stay here, like a spirit or something. My pack would be happy cause I'd be dead, and we wouldn't have to run anymore and--"
"Fulton, no!" Dean broke in angrily. "You can't die, I won't let you! You're going to get old and fat and grey and have eighty little werewolf pups and be the best alpha wolf anybody ever saw, just like your father wanted you to."
"Don't do that!" Fulton screamed, putting his hands over his ears. "Don't talk about my father! You didn't know him, you don't know what he wanted, you don't know anything, so just SHUT UP!"
Portman had never heard Fulton scream before, never even heard him raise his voice. The sound was hoarse, desperate, and distinctly inhuman. His eyes had turned yellow, pierced with pits of deepest black, and his teeth grew long and sharp. Coarse black hairs began to sprout from his face as it lengthen into a canine shape.
"What are you doing? Stop that, you can't change here!" Portman didn't want Fulton to know how much he was frightened by his transformation.
"You want to martyr yourself cause you feel guilty, fine, but don't bring me down with you. You don't know what's best for me!" His lips pulled back from his teeth, and he snarled, a fierce growling from deep in his throat, and for a moment, Dean was certain that Fulton meant to kill him.
With an anguished howl, Fulton pushed Portman in the chest, then turned and ducked behind a tree. After a minute, the growling stopped, and Dean saw Fulton slump to the ground at the base of the tree. He walked over and sat down beside him, their hands almost, but not quite, touching. Fulton turned, his face caked with dirt and blood, obscuring his features, and as Portman watched, horrified, tears welled up in the young man's eyes and spilled over, cutting clean tracks down his dirty cheeks.
"If you don't know that 'you're all I have' means anything at all, then get up and leave right now. Don't you know I'd rather die than be stuck here without you? I know you hate the Forest, so we'll leave, I don't care! Just so long as I'm with you. Don't you see that nothing else matters to me?"
And suddenly, Portman did see. He saw Fulton's love for him, stronger than any he'd had as a mortal (and there had been many), saw the fear that gripped the young werewolf at the thought of losing Dean.
'He sees you for who you really are,' Portman thought giddily. 'He knows every bad thing about you, and he still loves you, and wants to be with you. How could you turn away from someone like that?'
He couldn't, he knew that. Portman could feel the pain rolling off of Fulton in waves, and he did the only thing he could think of to stop it; he took him in his arms. He was crying, and trembling, the exhaustion of the day's running catching up with his fear, and Portman rocked him gently back and forth, whispering in his ear.
"Shh, baby, shh, it's alright. I'm so sorry. You were right, I could never leave you, I promise." He raised Fulton's face to his own, and gently kissed the other boy's tears away. "I love you." He gave him one of those snuffle kisses on his neck that always made him giggle. "Come on, we have to get you cleaned up."
They went down to the river, where Portman removed Fulton's soiled clothes, and washed first him, and then both of them, in the icy river. He used the liverwort leaves Fulton had shown him to clean the cuts the boy had acquired from the juniper bushes.
When they were done, they crawled into a cave set in the rock face beside a bend in the river. Portman enfolded Fulton, still wet and shivering, in his massive wings. They stayed like that for hours, taking comfort in each other's warmth for the first time since Lobo's death, before they finally fell into a fitful sleep.
***
"I don't know who you are, or where you came from, but you've no business in this Forest, and certainly none with my nephew."
"That's what I came here to talk to you about. Fulton, you see--"
"Is a traitor. He'll burn for this. Bringing Outsiders into the Forest, consorting with them, telling them Luna knows what..."
"He didn't tell me anything!"
"Liar! He's a traitor, and an infidel; he means to kill us all!"
"No!" But it was too late. From all around him, came the growls and moans of the people who had ran and hid in the trees when he arrived. The people were changing, like the man in front of him, Lobo, who was now no longer a man at all.
"Attack!"
They converged on him from all sides, a dozen snarling faces. Their feverish, yellow eyes glowed in the dim moonlight that pierced through the blanket of misty clouds that covered the sky, as if it was trying to smother the moon to death. He had only the time to wonder how things had gotten out of hand so quickly, when the lead wolf charged. Bounding towards him, claws extended, muzzle pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth dripping with saliva, teeth that were itching to sink into his flesh, to tear him apart...
'Fly, Portman, fly!' But he couldn't move. His wings were like leaden weights strapped to his back, holding him down. Only moments left before he felt the first bite. He looked up at the starless night above him, and prayed for a miracle.
And then the sky opened up.
Portman felt energy surging from his body, and the thin, wisp clouds grew instantly fat and heavy with rain, streaming in from all corners of the sky to form a giant storm cloud right above him. It quivered and shook with energy, and with a final push from Portman, released it all in a single blow.
It was the lightning bolt to end all lightning bolts. For an instant, the entire forest was illuminated, and he saw the shocked, scared faces of the other werewolves for the briefest of moments, before it struck, and struck hard. The bolt hit Lobo squarely on the top of his head; his eyes widened comically, and his mouth flew open in a silent scream, spraying Portman with thick, foamy saliva that burned his skin on contact, and then he exploded.
The light had been so blinding, that when it was gone, there was only darkness. Something splashed over Portman, spraying him with something warm and wet, and little bits of softness that felt like pudding but smelled like burnt flesh, splattered his face and hair. The stench was overwhelming, and bile rose in his throat, gagging him.
All this took but a fraction of a second, and then the thunder struck. The earth beneath him gave such a jolt that he was thrown to the ground, his eyes still dancing with the afterimage the flash left behind. Growls and screams came from every angle, but he couldn't see a thing, so he ran blindly, colliding briefly with a writhing, hairy beast. He kicked out with his feet, somehow made contact, disentangled himself, and kept running. But no matter how fast he ran, the smell stayed with him, so sickly sweet. Such a horrible smell, the smell of death...
Portman awoke with a start, his breathing heavy, his face slicked with sweat. It was the same dream he'd had every night since it had happened. He couldn't escape it. He remembered everything, the look on Lobo's face the moment before he was fried, but mostly the smell, and as he was running away, the sounds of the wolves behind him, the snarls and snaps... they had eaten what little was left of him...
Portman looked over beside him at Fulton, who was curled up in a ball, snoring softly. He had to get out of here. He'd be back when it was time to leave; for better or for worse, his destiny lay with this creature before him, he knew that now, but that didn't make things any easier. It didn't ease the scared, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Fulton would try to help, of course, but he had his own problems, and Dean was pretty sure things would get better when they left the Forest; there was no need to worry Fulton with his troubles. He'd be upset that he couldn't fix him, that his love couldn't make all Dean's fears and guilt and bad dreams go away. But it wasn't his fault; as Dean Portman was beginning to learn, sometime love just wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.
He spread his wings, and disappeared into the darkness.
***
"Fulton? Fulton, are you up? We've got to go!"
Dean was standing over Fulton, who was lying stretched out on the soft earth floor. He stood up, brushing himself clean of pine needles and moss. "I filled the canteens at the river, and I picked you some more of those berries for breakfast," Dean continued, tossing Fulton a leather bag. He tore it open eagerly, and began to devour its contents.
When he was done, he looked up at Portman. "Did you have a good sleep last night?"
Portman nodded. "Slept like a baby. You?"
"Same. Let's go."
"You okay?"
"Uh-huh. We'd better hurry. I can smell them behind us again; they might have caught my scent."
They took off through the woods; feeling far from replenished from last night, Fulton's feet seemed heavy already. He'd awoken in the night, to find Portman gone again, and hadn't been able to get back to sleep. He knew he'd be back, but that didn't help. He knew Portman loved him, but that he was choking to death in this forest. A few more days of travel, and they should be able to leave it behind. Fulton tried to ignore the stab of pain the prospect sent through his chest. He loved the Forest with all his heart, but he loved Portman more, and he was willing to give her up for him. It would just take some getting used to, that's all.
He knew the Forest had gone bad for Portman after Lobo's death, but for him she still held all the beauty and mystery she always had. He wished he could spend his last days with her sitting by the river, or playing in the trees, instead of running endlessly, always on the watch for other werewolves. The thought of leaving all this behind made him sad, but not too sad, because he had Portman, and Portman was worth it. He'd sworn to him last night that he'd take him away from this place, and he would, but it was hard to believe he'd never set foot here again.
'Don't think about that,' he scolded himself. 'Just run. You've got Dean, and that's all that matters. It will be an adventure, to see other places, so why don't you think about that, instead?'
These woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
Cake-Eater: I think I've already ranted at some length about how much I loved your review and how cool you are and all that, but you are. Cool, that is. Hope I can continue to live up to your expectations.
RockAndRoll: I'm so glad you liked! Yeah, major props go to darling Schiz for coming up with the idea, what can I say? The girl's crazy cool! You have NO IDEA how much fun it is to write Fulton as a werewolf! I think I'll do a full moon scene next chapter; I can't wait to get into the bloodiness of it all! Anyway, thanks so much, you always make me feel hotter than hot with all the stuff you say.
Xixie: Hey, where'd you go? You used to review my Bash stories, quite a fan if I remember correctly. Is my new fic not quite up your alley? No matter, I'm glad you like this one at least. Updates are a bit slow, because I'm pretty tied up with my regular F/P, but here you go. Enjoy!
Kelly: Yeah, not your typical Ducks fic, is it? When Schiz told me the idea, I thought it was kinda odd, too, but I was soon sucked in. I'm glad I didn't lose the Bash essence, I try hard to keep hold of that when I write. Hope you like where this goes, and if you don't know what's coming next, all the better!
A World Apart
Wolfsbane, part II: Running away
Run. Just run.
How long had it been? Three days, four? Portman wasn't sure. The wind howled at their backs, chasing them, hurling insults and accusations on her icy breath until Dean thought he was going mad. Beside him, Fulton's breathing was heavy, the cadence of his footsteps broken into a staggering, irregular beat. It had been hours since he'd rested, he must be on the verge of collapse; werewolf or not, he was still a mortal. Portman took his friend's hand in his, and steered them out of the relative open terrain of the riverbank, and deep into the undergrowth that bordered it.
Portman slipped easily between the jagged branches of the tall, majestic fir trees, and when he pushed through a wall of wild juniper bushes, the thorns drew no blood from his smooth white skin, nor became entangled in his clothes or hair. Just one of the many benefits of being dead, he supposed. Behind him, Fulton was having more difficulty. He had to crawl on his hands and knees to escape the trees' grasping appendages, and was soon covered with blood from the juniper thorns. With his size and strength, he could have easily ploughed through, but though they'd managed to throw the pack off their trail the previous evening, a path of broken branches and uprooted shrubs would be exactly what they were looking for. So instead he crawled, bruised, bleeding and exhausted. Finally, he called to Portman.
"Stop."
Portman turned, and took in the surroundings. "Here? You sure this is deep enough?"
"We want to keep the Moon River in hearing distance, right? I can barely make it out. Besides, we go in much further, and we're going to come out the other end."
"What's over there?"
"Other werebeasts' territories. This stretch of woods divides the inner and outer perimeters of the Forest. Keeps the werebeasts off our land, and us off theirs, I suppose. In theory, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
Fulton looked decidedly uncomfortable. He scratched his neck, and wouldn't meet Dean's eyes, as he said, "Well, for over a year now, ever since that awful drought killed off most of our crops, Lobo's been trying to get the pack to turn carnivore during the rest of the month, as well. He started hunting other werebeasts, and bringing them back to the dens to cook and eat. Only some of them fed at first, but now more than half the pack is doing it, too."
Portman was confused. "What, you mean werewolves never used to eat meat?"
Fulton shook his head. "Only human, only on the full moon. We lived off what we grew, the rest of the time. Some of us still do," he added pointedly. "So, what do you think, does this look like a good place to rest until dawn?"
Portman nodded, but he wasn't really listening. It was no worse than the others. Old-growth evergreen trees surrounded them on all sides, stretching so high overhead, that it made him dizzy to look up. All those vertical lines, converging to some imaginary point beyond the reach of human eyes--or even angel eyes, for that matter--always gave him a feeling of vertigo, of motion. He remembered standing in these very woods with Fulton, after their first night together, staring up at the trees, and feeling like they were shooting upwards, riding a platform straight to heaven. Only now it felt like he was descending, plummeting down into the depths of... what? Hell, of course, was the obvious choice, but could hell really be worse than this place?
In the months that had followed since he first met Fulton, Portman came to spend more and more time in the Forest. At first he'd been frightened by its... sentience, perhaps, was the best word; by the way unseen eyes followed him wherever he went, but as the weeks passed, he had grown to like the place, maybe even love it. Nothing like what Fulton felt for it, but he could definitely see the appeal the Forest had for someone as dark and earthy as his boyfriend. The past few days, however, had been among the worst of his entire life (certainly the worst of his after-life), and now he hated every rock, leaf and insect. There was no doubt in his mind that the Forest was full of power; just one square foot of land in this place held more mystical energy than your average wizard's apprentice, but it was a dark energy, one rooted in evil. The whole Forest stank of Death; the air was permeated with it, and since they'd been on the run, she had turned against them, thrown rocks in their path to block their escape, commanded her trees to throw up their roots to trip them as they ran, Portman was sure of it. Once, they had been dive-bombed by a flock of screeching blackbirds, who had drawn blood from Fulton's face, trying to gouge out his eyes.
There were no secrets the Forest didn't know; as soon as Lobo died, Portman could feel the Forest's wrath, her fury that an Outsider, and a celestial being, at that, had dared to murder one of her own. The feeling didn't come in words alone, but in a combination of sensory input. The sights, sounds and smells of the Forest all changed in that one instant, became unwelcome and menacing, and Portman felt as if he'd been marked for death, branded guilty like the murderers in mortal settlements. Why they bothered to brand those who were about to be executed, Portman didn't know, but it was as if he'd already been tried and found guilty. The place held no warmth for him anymore, only ominous shadows and bad memories.
If Portman had stopped for a moment to remember all the good times the Forest had provided, all the lazy days spent by the river with Fulton, laughing and swimming and playing games in the woods, he might have felt differently, but the Forest had filled the air with her anger, and made it hard for him to think of anything happy, and instead, his mind kept going back to Lobo's death, and all the hardship and danger that awaited them now, all because of him. It had been hubris to think he could talk to Lobo, make him see things his way, but it was more than that. It was how much he'd *enjoyed* killing him, how good it had felt, how *right.* He was plagued with nightmares whenever he shut his eyes, and lately, the dreams had been coming to him when he was awake, too. He felt like every happy thought had been siphoned out of him, leaving only sadness, guilt, despair. He would have left ages ago, were it not for Fulton.
Fulton had lived his entire life in the Forest of the Were, venturing out only briefly by the full moon, and Portman knew he wasn't ready to leave just yet. Leaving would mean saying goodbye forever, to his home, his family, everything he had ever known. That would be a lot for anyone to handle, and Portman knew he hadn't been making it any easier for him. He'd been silent, moody and distracted; whenever Fulton tried to get close to him, he pulled away. He could see the hurt in his boyfriend's eyes when he did this, and hated himself for it, but he couldn't help it, either. He felt so alone, even when Fulton was nearby; like nothing was right, and would never be right again.
"Dean, Dean!" Someone was shaking him, and it eventually brought Portman out of his daze. His eyes slowly focused on the person who had such a firm grip on his shoulders. It was Fulton, of course. Who else would it be?
"Hey," he said weakly, trying to smile. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Fulton's voice was so indignant that he squeaked, and Portman saw the hurt in his face. "You were spacing for ages, I couldn't get you to come out of it!" His large, soulful eyes swam with the moisture of unshed tears, and Portman had to look away.
"Dean," Fulton began, reaching out to run his hand down his friend's cheek, but Portman pulled back.
"Don't touch me," he whispered, the words coming out harsher than he'd intended.
"But why, Dean? I don't understand. Talk to me," he pleaded.
"Don't you get it?" Portman yelled suddenly, unable to contain his misery any longer. "I killed him! I wanted to talk to him, and instead I killed him, and now your pack wants to kill you! I've ruined your life, Fulton! What are we going to do now? I wish--" his voice broke. "I wish we'd never met."
"No," Fulton said, in a voice of such ferocity that Dean looked up in surprise. Fulton's hands were clasped tightly in front of him, his nails digging into the backs of his hands, turning the flesh white. "You don't mean that," he said with certainty, shaking his head from side to side. "I know you don't mean that." His eyes met Dean's; they glowed with the white-yellow light of the moon, like polished bone. "Say you don't mean that."
Portman sighed. "You're right. I don't mean that, but look what I've done to you! I got you tossed from the pack, I killed your uncle, and now I'm probably going to get you killed, too!"
"If I died, could we be together?"
"What?" Portman spluttered, trying to regulate the feelings of anger, shock and disbelief that swept over him.
His hands still clasped, Fulton stared intently at the ground, and the words tumbled from his mouth in quick, rapid-fire succession. "I know I wouldn't get into heaven, but maybe I could stay here, like a spirit or something. My pack would be happy cause I'd be dead, and we wouldn't have to run anymore and--"
"Fulton, no!" Dean broke in angrily. "You can't die, I won't let you! You're going to get old and fat and grey and have eighty little werewolf pups and be the best alpha wolf anybody ever saw, just like your father wanted you to."
"Don't do that!" Fulton screamed, putting his hands over his ears. "Don't talk about my father! You didn't know him, you don't know what he wanted, you don't know anything, so just SHUT UP!"
Portman had never heard Fulton scream before, never even heard him raise his voice. The sound was hoarse, desperate, and distinctly inhuman. His eyes had turned yellow, pierced with pits of deepest black, and his teeth grew long and sharp. Coarse black hairs began to sprout from his face as it lengthen into a canine shape.
"What are you doing? Stop that, you can't change here!" Portman didn't want Fulton to know how much he was frightened by his transformation.
"You want to martyr yourself cause you feel guilty, fine, but don't bring me down with you. You don't know what's best for me!" His lips pulled back from his teeth, and he snarled, a fierce growling from deep in his throat, and for a moment, Dean was certain that Fulton meant to kill him.
With an anguished howl, Fulton pushed Portman in the chest, then turned and ducked behind a tree. After a minute, the growling stopped, and Dean saw Fulton slump to the ground at the base of the tree. He walked over and sat down beside him, their hands almost, but not quite, touching. Fulton turned, his face caked with dirt and blood, obscuring his features, and as Portman watched, horrified, tears welled up in the young man's eyes and spilled over, cutting clean tracks down his dirty cheeks.
"If you don't know that 'you're all I have' means anything at all, then get up and leave right now. Don't you know I'd rather die than be stuck here without you? I know you hate the Forest, so we'll leave, I don't care! Just so long as I'm with you. Don't you see that nothing else matters to me?"
And suddenly, Portman did see. He saw Fulton's love for him, stronger than any he'd had as a mortal (and there had been many), saw the fear that gripped the young werewolf at the thought of losing Dean.
'He sees you for who you really are,' Portman thought giddily. 'He knows every bad thing about you, and he still loves you, and wants to be with you. How could you turn away from someone like that?'
He couldn't, he knew that. Portman could feel the pain rolling off of Fulton in waves, and he did the only thing he could think of to stop it; he took him in his arms. He was crying, and trembling, the exhaustion of the day's running catching up with his fear, and Portman rocked him gently back and forth, whispering in his ear.
"Shh, baby, shh, it's alright. I'm so sorry. You were right, I could never leave you, I promise." He raised Fulton's face to his own, and gently kissed the other boy's tears away. "I love you." He gave him one of those snuffle kisses on his neck that always made him giggle. "Come on, we have to get you cleaned up."
They went down to the river, where Portman removed Fulton's soiled clothes, and washed first him, and then both of them, in the icy river. He used the liverwort leaves Fulton had shown him to clean the cuts the boy had acquired from the juniper bushes.
When they were done, they crawled into a cave set in the rock face beside a bend in the river. Portman enfolded Fulton, still wet and shivering, in his massive wings. They stayed like that for hours, taking comfort in each other's warmth for the first time since Lobo's death, before they finally fell into a fitful sleep.
***
"I don't know who you are, or where you came from, but you've no business in this Forest, and certainly none with my nephew."
"That's what I came here to talk to you about. Fulton, you see--"
"Is a traitor. He'll burn for this. Bringing Outsiders into the Forest, consorting with them, telling them Luna knows what..."
"He didn't tell me anything!"
"Liar! He's a traitor, and an infidel; he means to kill us all!"
"No!" But it was too late. From all around him, came the growls and moans of the people who had ran and hid in the trees when he arrived. The people were changing, like the man in front of him, Lobo, who was now no longer a man at all.
"Attack!"
They converged on him from all sides, a dozen snarling faces. Their feverish, yellow eyes glowed in the dim moonlight that pierced through the blanket of misty clouds that covered the sky, as if it was trying to smother the moon to death. He had only the time to wonder how things had gotten out of hand so quickly, when the lead wolf charged. Bounding towards him, claws extended, muzzle pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth dripping with saliva, teeth that were itching to sink into his flesh, to tear him apart...
'Fly, Portman, fly!' But he couldn't move. His wings were like leaden weights strapped to his back, holding him down. Only moments left before he felt the first bite. He looked up at the starless night above him, and prayed for a miracle.
And then the sky opened up.
Portman felt energy surging from his body, and the thin, wisp clouds grew instantly fat and heavy with rain, streaming in from all corners of the sky to form a giant storm cloud right above him. It quivered and shook with energy, and with a final push from Portman, released it all in a single blow.
It was the lightning bolt to end all lightning bolts. For an instant, the entire forest was illuminated, and he saw the shocked, scared faces of the other werewolves for the briefest of moments, before it struck, and struck hard. The bolt hit Lobo squarely on the top of his head; his eyes widened comically, and his mouth flew open in a silent scream, spraying Portman with thick, foamy saliva that burned his skin on contact, and then he exploded.
The light had been so blinding, that when it was gone, there was only darkness. Something splashed over Portman, spraying him with something warm and wet, and little bits of softness that felt like pudding but smelled like burnt flesh, splattered his face and hair. The stench was overwhelming, and bile rose in his throat, gagging him.
All this took but a fraction of a second, and then the thunder struck. The earth beneath him gave such a jolt that he was thrown to the ground, his eyes still dancing with the afterimage the flash left behind. Growls and screams came from every angle, but he couldn't see a thing, so he ran blindly, colliding briefly with a writhing, hairy beast. He kicked out with his feet, somehow made contact, disentangled himself, and kept running. But no matter how fast he ran, the smell stayed with him, so sickly sweet. Such a horrible smell, the smell of death...
Portman awoke with a start, his breathing heavy, his face slicked with sweat. It was the same dream he'd had every night since it had happened. He couldn't escape it. He remembered everything, the look on Lobo's face the moment before he was fried, but mostly the smell, and as he was running away, the sounds of the wolves behind him, the snarls and snaps... they had eaten what little was left of him...
Portman looked over beside him at Fulton, who was curled up in a ball, snoring softly. He had to get out of here. He'd be back when it was time to leave; for better or for worse, his destiny lay with this creature before him, he knew that now, but that didn't make things any easier. It didn't ease the scared, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Fulton would try to help, of course, but he had his own problems, and Dean was pretty sure things would get better when they left the Forest; there was no need to worry Fulton with his troubles. He'd be upset that he couldn't fix him, that his love couldn't make all Dean's fears and guilt and bad dreams go away. But it wasn't his fault; as Dean Portman was beginning to learn, sometime love just wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.
He spread his wings, and disappeared into the darkness.
***
"Fulton? Fulton, are you up? We've got to go!"
Dean was standing over Fulton, who was lying stretched out on the soft earth floor. He stood up, brushing himself clean of pine needles and moss. "I filled the canteens at the river, and I picked you some more of those berries for breakfast," Dean continued, tossing Fulton a leather bag. He tore it open eagerly, and began to devour its contents.
When he was done, he looked up at Portman. "Did you have a good sleep last night?"
Portman nodded. "Slept like a baby. You?"
"Same. Let's go."
"You okay?"
"Uh-huh. We'd better hurry. I can smell them behind us again; they might have caught my scent."
They took off through the woods; feeling far from replenished from last night, Fulton's feet seemed heavy already. He'd awoken in the night, to find Portman gone again, and hadn't been able to get back to sleep. He knew he'd be back, but that didn't help. He knew Portman loved him, but that he was choking to death in this forest. A few more days of travel, and they should be able to leave it behind. Fulton tried to ignore the stab of pain the prospect sent through his chest. He loved the Forest with all his heart, but he loved Portman more, and he was willing to give her up for him. It would just take some getting used to, that's all.
He knew the Forest had gone bad for Portman after Lobo's death, but for him she still held all the beauty and mystery she always had. He wished he could spend his last days with her sitting by the river, or playing in the trees, instead of running endlessly, always on the watch for other werewolves. The thought of leaving all this behind made him sad, but not too sad, because he had Portman, and Portman was worth it. He'd sworn to him last night that he'd take him away from this place, and he would, but it was hard to believe he'd never set foot here again.
'Don't think about that,' he scolded himself. 'Just run. You've got Dean, and that's all that matters. It will be an adventure, to see other places, so why don't you think about that, instead?'
These woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.
