Show me how the world looks
Through your eyes
And I can show you how
It looks through mine
~Through Your Eyes, Martina McBride

With the healing of a heart
The whole world springs anew
~The Healing of a Heart, Anthony Callea

Why does that hound get the fox on the run
~Lack of Education, Pearl Bailey

When they'd taken to calling him the Lone Wolf, Charles had had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.

Why they'd chosen that name of all names, he didn't know. Maybe, deep, deep down, they'd known. Humans were more perceptive than many tended to give them credit for, but they had a nasty habit of not listening to their instincts. They feared what didn't fit into their little box of normalcy, and did all they could to explain away anything unnatural.

They were right, though, and so he was more careful than he already was, lessened how often he shifted (though already that wasn't much, he spent every day, every hour he wasn't eating and sleeping brawling on the streets), and when he did he did so further away from Saint Denis than before, ranging through the forest near the the Scarlett Horse Shop, keeping well away from the Rhodes side. Though it had been years, his fur still stood on end when he neared Clemens' Point, and when he slipped skins it was to relax, to clear his mind, not to think on his old mistakes.

He didn't fight many women.

It was easy to forget, in the beginning, that not many of them were like Sadie. Weren't like Susan, and Tilly and Mary-Beth and the others. Weren't bold and brash and strong. Were wilting flowers, letting the men speak and act for them as they'd been raised to.

So when the woman slipped into the 'ring', he'd admit that he'd been surprised, then felt the fool for it. She'd been ethereal, otherworldly, and his wolf had perked up, raised its head. She'd smirked at him, rolled on the balls of her feet, and he'd known, his wolf had whined, had keened, had wanted to shift and bound forward, greet the first shifter he'd met in years, since he was a pup.

He'd known she was a fox immediately.

The too-sharp angle of her chin, the long jut of her nose. She was all sharp angles, all long limbs, and on anyone else it would have looked ridiculous, but it was entirely fox, and with the flaming red of her hair, the freckles under her too-green eyes, she looked right, and from the appreciative glances of the men that circled them, he knew that it wasn't just him, that the humans agreed, too.

The fox lined her every movement, the way she shifted on the balls of her feet, dancing more than adjusting her weight, the way she grinned at him, lopsided and mischievous, the way her eyes gleamed knowingly—she knew what he was, too—and the way she bounded forward and to the side when the fight began.

It had taken all he had not to slip skins, to grab her and grapple her and play, and that had been the first time he'd wanted to play in years, but that would only serve to get them shot, to out their kind in the midst of a well-populated city, so he lunged to grab her, but she slipped under his arm, eyes dancing with amusement, and leaped up to slam her palms against his shoulders hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs, sending him staggering forward.

He turned, moved to grab her. As a wolf, he was fast, but she was smaller, lithe, and so faster, and his only warning was a flash of crimson before a bony shoulder slammed into his side harder enough to make him grunt, but this time he was quick enough to turn, taking some satisfaction in the way her eyes widened as he grabbed her forearm and lifted, throwing her across the small space they'd been given.

She yelped as she hit the ground, rolling and finding her feet with all the grace her fox afforded her, and barked a laugh, and he drew himself up, holding his fists loosely near his chest, readying for her next trick. But she only did the same, dancing from one foot to the other, head cocking from side to side before

"Mph!" she tackled him before he knew what had hit him, and he saw stars as she struck his head against the ground one, two, three times before he managed to grasp her shoulders and roll them over, striking her face hard enough to knock her head to the side, and he would have felt horrible for it if he hadn't known that she had the resilience of a shifter, but he didn't want to brain her so he pulled his punches until she managed to squirm out from under him, shaking her head back and forth and swaying from side to side.

Charles tried to get to his feet, but a foot slammed into his side twice, right at the soft spot between rib and hip, and he collapsed onto his side with a grunt, finding a much smaller form on top of him, grabbing his long hair and slamming his head into the ground until his teeth rattled in his head. He wiggled his arm free, and slammed his hand on the ground, tapped out finally as his head screamed with pain.

He was vaguely aware of the woman clambering off of him, of the crowd yelling and jeering, of money changing hands as he waited for his head to stop screaming, to stop throbbing, for his shifter's healing to kick in and soothe the pain.

Slowly, he worked himself to his feet, finding a pair of bright green eyes right in front of his. He froze, startled, and an impish grin crossed her face as she leaned forward and nipped his nose, winking before darting out into the crowd and vanishing, even as he recovered from his shock and called out "Hey, wait!" and chased after her. But she was already gone, even though her hair should have stood out like a fire.

His wolf whining pitifully in the back of his head, and him agreeing, he returned to where he hid his satchel, clothes, and other things, dressing quickly before reaching for the feathers he wore in his hair, only to feel hard wood instead. His brows furrowed, and he peered inside, seeing light brown but no white, reaching in and pulling out a carved figure of a fox.