I know every mile would be worth my while
~Go the Distance, Michael Bolton
Charles had taken to looking for the fox.
He hadn't realized it at first, it had been a subconscious thing, entirely his wolf.
And then one day, while waiting for the butcher to wrap his purchase,She didn't, though, and he was well stuck so, though his clothes were stashed at the Scarlett Horse Shop and he'd have to walk several miles naked (shifting was exhausting, if he tried to shift so soon after going human he'd collapse into a dead sleep), he began to slip into his human skin, praying that she was long gone. he'd realized that he was scanning the people walking by, looking at every flash of red but, no, that wasn't right, not red enough, not bright enough, wasn't tinted orange. That was a dress, a shirt, not hair. His wolf had laughed at him, 'took you long enough!' and he'd scowled. The butcher had asked if something was wrong, but he'd just shaken his head.
Every fight, he looked for her, half-hoped to see that flash of red in the crowd, half-hoped she'd be his opponent. But she was never there, his opponent always a man. And his wolf whined every time, disappointed and hurt. And why it hurt so badly, he didn't know. He'd met her for not even five minutes, been beaten into the ground (quite literally!), but he'd never met another shifter before, even in the hodge-podge mix of Dutch's gang, so perhaps he was just latching onto that?
As it was, he'd found himself sniffing around as he walked through Saint Denis, but as always the human-scents, perfumes and cologne and horse-shit, pollution and oils and all sorts of things clogged his sensitive nose, and even if she were there he'd never be able to find her scent, be able to pick it out beneath the tangle of Saint Denis.
So, on a day when he had no fights, he took out his frustrations on some poor, innocent deer. Slipped skins in Scarlett Meadows, stared at the horses penned by the stables that screamed and scattered despite the many times they'd seen him and never been harmed, and for a moment he missed his Taima though he'd left her with the Wapiti so many years ago, she'd happily trotted along at his side no matter what skin he was in, Falmouth was a good horse but still shied away no matter how much work he put into him.
He'd never figured out how to keep himself clean while hunting or eating—it didn't seem possible in this form, with his shearing teeth and long muzzle, having to bury his face deep into the deer, covering himself in its blood and gristle and other-such-things, so he finished his meal before making his way to his favorite lake, rich with fish and cool despite Lemoyne's thick heat, waded in deep and watched as the fish scattered from him. Charles basked for a time, allowed the water to clean his fur, enjoying the peace and simplicity that came with slipping into his wolf's skin; its mind was so much calmer than his, wasn't haunted by the blood that stained his hands, by those he'd failed to save, wasn't haunted by the memories of the rotting corpses he'd buried back in Beaver's Hollow.
Charles had learned very young that he was a rarity no matter where he went. Though he'd decided that he was a timber wolf, or close to one, he'd never found a timber wolf that looked like him. His fur was too rich, too brown, and even when he was a pup in his shift, when he was too young for anything but the most unscrupulous trophy hunters to shoot, people had wanted him as a rug, as a mount, as a skin on their floor or their wall.
So when he felt a pair of eyes burn into his back, he whirled about, collected his paws beneath him and prepared to run, before being frozen in place by a pair of too-green eyes glinting at him from the trees.
A fox—the Fox—sat on a stump, bushy black tail wrapped around her paws. Her jaw hung open in a canine grin, flashing sharp white teeth, and black rimmed ears pointed towards him. When she realized she'd caught his attention, she yipped a laugh, flicking her tail away to reveal his feather, pinned by the quill with her paw, before grabbing it with her teeth and bounding off the stump and into the trees in a blur of orange-red. He stared, startled, before shaking himself and barreling after, not willing to lose her after only just finding her again (though it had been she that found him), scrambling out of the lake in a flurry of scattered rocks and startled fish.
"Wait!" he barked, and she didn't respond in words, instead yipping loudly, pausing to look back over her shoulder, his feather dangling tantalizingly out of her mouth, and the image of her raiding a henhouse, shrieking biddies racing around their pen, pin-feathers covering her face and that grin sharp on her face. The image was broken, though, when he didn't manage to get within five feet of her before she was off with a laughing bark, and he felt suddenly as the hound trying to keep her from the coop, snapping at her heels but never quite making it.
The Wolf had to dig in his paws to keep from crashing into a fallen tree that she'd slipped under, scrabbling at the opening before jumping up and bounding over it, catching her eyes looking back at him before she darted through a bramble brush that he was careful to swerve around, he'd gotten stuck in one once and never again, and as he bounded after her he couldn't help but to laugh, baying loudly, this was the most fun he'd had in years! The Fox barked wordlessly in return even as she dove under another fallen tree, the hole small enough that she wedged at her hips and had to scratch with her paws to force herself through, only barely managing to slip under it before he caught up, his breath ghosting against her tail as it vanished. Charles stuck his muzzle under the log, snorted as he heard her laugh, and pulled his head back, leaped over the tree—or, at least, tried to.
His front half made it over, but he caught at his hips, momentum swinging his barrel into the tree hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs with a yelp, and all he could do was whine breathlessly as he watched her vanish, hip a flash of white going further and further away.
"Damn!" he groaned, and began to scramble with his hindpaws, dull claws scrabbling, gouging and knocking away dead tree bark, only for a sudden nip to his sensitive nose to startle him enough that he let out a high pitched yelping noise that he'd never admit to making.
The Fox yipped in his face, eyes laughing, and dropped his feather in front of him, still pristine as he kept it, whirled about quick enough to smack him in the face with her bottlebrush black-orange tail, vanishing into the trees without a care even as he called after her "No!" to "Wait!"
She didn't, though, and he was well stuck so, though his clothes were stashed at the Scarlett Horse Shop and he'd have to walk several miles naked (shifting was exhausting, if he tried to shift so soon after slipping human he'd sleep for a day and miss his fights, and he couldn't afford to do so), he began to slip into his human skin, praying that she was long gone.