THE SHE-WOLF AND THE RAVEN
Chapter 6: Captive
"Long ago when all living things were human beings, the people of the earth climbed an arrow ladder to the stars in order to fight with the people of the sky. When they reached the sky, they camped in sight of the enemies' village, which was on the opposite side of a little stream. They were all very hungry. Raven took his spear and went down to the river to catch a Skate-fish. He saw a fish. It stood up and faced him. He took his spear and hurled it at Skate. Skate turned edgewise to him so quickly that the spear missed its mark. Then Skate laughed at Raven.
"So Raven said to him, "Here, you shoot at me. I'll stand for you. You can't hit me either." Raven stood up as a target. He was going to dodge at the proper time. Skate prepared to hurl his spear. He hurled it. Raven did not dodge quickly enough. Skate speared him just through the outer edge of the bill in the front. You can see the hole through which the spear went yourself. The holes are there on Raven's bill to this day."
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A woman, not a wolf, stared at him out of those same dark eyes he had looked into for nearly a Midgardian decade. High cheekbones accented full lips and her eyes danced with intensity as she appraised him with unhindered curiosity. Short, sleek hair fell to just below her ears which she nervously ran her hand through as she followed him to the bank of the nearby river.
He led her to where a fallen log lay beneath the morning shade of a spruce tree and bade her to sit. As she came to sit upon the log, he noticed her slight hesitation born out of her discomfort. With a wave of his hand and a slight shimmer of light, he produced an Asgardian dress he had in his storage. It was a peasant's frock, simple and inelegant, but it would have to do. Her eyes grew wide when her fingers slipped through the coarse rose-colored material that now covered her and she sat down without further hesitation.
She was the same. In human form she still barely restrained an ancient, sentient magic within her and it hummed off her, filling the space between them with a living, dancing, breathing tether rope. He could not tell where his magic ended and hers began, so intertwined had their unconscious hold on the other become. Even in his Aesir form, he could feel her magic digging into his own in an unrelenting tangle worse than fishing line in river reeds. He imperceptibly shifted again into the form of a Midgardian man. While he could no longer tangibly sense her magic, the effects of the bond intensified exponentially and he was simultaneously pushed and pulled towards her with such force that it momentarily took his breath away. He returned to his Aesir form to escape it and to weaken it somehow. He inhaled again as he backed slightly away from her -- as if physical distance would lessen the potency of her magic.
The churning waters of the river near their feet washed away all the morning bird songs and gave him something else to focus on besides his own temporary unraveling. He paced the sandy bank before her with his eyes falling upon anything except the woman.
The woman. She was not a wolf.
How had he allowed himself to be so taken in? How had he permitted a Midgardian woman so much power over him? It was unthinkable.
His sudden flash of vulnerability was replaced with awestruck dread. He had allowed himself to be too weak, too exposed, and he felt keenly the sting of that mistake. A wolf could not speak. A wolf held no true claim over him. A wolf was simple. In an instant, the past decade became anything but that.
The loss of that perception of safety and simplicity washed over him and he let his anger rise to bury all the other emotions he preferred not to name. Anger was safe. Anger, even silent rage, was a welcome refuge to the more complicated layers of inner turmoil that he preferred to remain ignorant of.
"Sorceress, how dare you seek to enthrall me? Do you not know I am the most powerful mage in the Nine Realms? I demand you release me at once," he said in a tone as quietly filled with menace as a venomous snake in tall grass.
"I don't understand," she replied, her wariness growing. He cursed her even more as he could still feel her emotions across their bond, her insecurities flaring in light of his undercurrent of hushed anger.
He realized his emotions were likely as transparent to her as hers were to him and he inwardly cursed the unwanted bond again. He could not rely on his well-practiced expressionless mask to hide his true feelings. He was exposed. He was a corpse and she the vulture. He was the raft on the open ocean and she the glaring sun. She allowed him no space to hide or escape. This only fueled his ire more.
"This bondage you have placed me in. Release me," he repeated.
"When I find out how, you will be the first to know," she said, her eyes fixed on him.
"Do not be absurd, woman. Of course you know how. You chose to hold me captive and I must insist you now release me."
"Do you think I had any choice in any of this?" she answered. Her eyes sparked with the depth of frustration and resentment he could feel welling up within her like fruit juices in a baking tart.
"Of course you did," he pushed back and he filled his emotions with as much accusation as possible. If he could not escape the bond, he would simply have to use it against her as another possible weapon in his arsenal. It proved successful. She visibly flinched and he was rewarded fully with an echo of his attack within himself through her emotional response.
"I did not," she spat back. "That's not how it works. Our legends would say you were chosen, but not by me. Our Creator and Transformer, the One Who Sets and Upsets and Resets All Things, is said to both initiate our change to wolves and choose our mates for us. Or it could be argued it was dumb chance, a coincidence, but I did not choose you or any of this."
"You lie, but it matters not. Break it and remove your bonds."
"I don't know how."
"Foolish woman, you cannot hope to hold me to this realm - despite the strength of your witchery. I am not someone to trifle with."
"Look, Wolf Boy, as of five minutes ago, I thought you were a wolf and only that. I know absolutely nothing else about you. What else do I need to know?"
"Of course you know. Why else would you pursue me if not for my connections and position?"
"Your connections and position? Who exactly are you? What are you?" she said in genuine ignorance that he tried to convince himself was feigned.
"For years, you have held me captive and betrayed me into thinking you are naught but a beast," he said reproachfully
"I…unbelievable," she responded. She dropped her eyes and pursed her lips as her cheeks burned in her anger. She wrapped her arms around herself, which only highlighted the dark design tattooed into her shoulder.
"Curse you, woman. I will not be bound to a mortal!" he shouted so loud it reverberated off the trees and she startled where she sat, though she tried to maintain a placid expression.
"Fine, Wolf Boy, you figure out a way to fix it then."
"Oh, I intend to. It will not take long, I assure you," he said, dropping his voice with a sideways glance and a smirk in her direction. "But will that not break your quivering maiden's heart?"
Leah opened and closed her mouth once before she stood to her feet, flames blazing in her dark eyes. She stalked towards him with all the fierce predatory intent of the she-wolf he always thought her to be. She stared up at him with her eyebrows pursed into a hard line.
"Do I appear fragile? Or quivering? Or a maiden? Considering I've born you five offspring...," she began.
"You should consider yourself highly honored for such humbling on my part. Few maids are endowed with such a privilege."
"Wow. You arrogant son of a...,." she began, before he cut her off with a smile too charming to be anything but malicious.
"I believe in speaking naught but the truth, milady," he said with a slight bow of his head and a courtly flourish of his hand.
"Unbelievable. You know, I think I prefer you covered in drool and sniffing urine on trees."
"You, yourself, recognized my superiority innately in our wolf forms. Why is it so difficult for you to admit the truth in this form?" he answered. If he enjoyed her growing incredulity a bit too much, he hoped it only irritated her further. He was rewarded with a full wave of her affront through their bond and his grin grew even wider.
"Because now I don't have stupid wolf instincts and hormones clouding my thoughts and forcing me to be crazy...besides, you can't talk when you are a wolf. Silence suits you."
"I'll have you know I am long renowned for my eloquence and silver tongue."
"I'm sure you are. That's why you have spent the last decade hiding as a wolf and using all the eloquence to howl," she answered with an acuity that stung too closely to truth.
"With such company, what need had I for more refined means of communication?" he answered sharply.
"The company you had no problem keeping until now," she answered as she visibly bristled.
"I had no intention of making this a permanent arrangement. You were convenient," he retorted with as much feigned nonchalance as he could muster. As he did, he could feel the pain lance through her, even as she maintained an emotionless face. He felt a small victory in her own feelings being as exposed as his, her own attempts at stoicism being just as fruitless.
"Fine. Well, you break the imprint bond then and go on your merry way back to wherever it is you come from," she answered.
She leaned against a tree trunk and watched as he stalked towards her. When he neared her, his hands lashed out like a tongue from a snake, pinning her arms behind her head. While stronger than nearly all Midgardians, she could not wriggle free of his grasp. He held her there, so close he could feel her breath on his neck, and he waited till he felt her cease her struggle to continue.
"Sorceress, what do you want of me?" he hissed into her ear. "You have produced powerful offspring twice from my seed. I have little doubt they will thrive and be as gifted in magic as you intended. What more do you require before you free me? If it be riches or spell work or to avenge a wrong suffered, I may be amenable, but let us not tarry as we are."
"Let me be clear," she responded and he could feel the vibration of her words through the hands keeping her captive. "I did not initiate this. I do not control it. It's a wolf thing. We find our mate, imprint, and then we belong to our mates forever, regardless of what we want or what happens after. There is nothing I want from you, nothing I require from you, and no matter what, I can't change it. You can choose to leave if you want, but I will always be yours and tied to you and there is nothing I can do about it."
"Surely your death will break it," he said coolly. As he did, a dagger materialized in one hand and he pressed the blade against her throat. She struggled not to swallow or show the sudden burst of fear that he could feel within her. Instead, she reverted to inhuman stillness and she stared straight into his eyes, daring him to make good on his threat.
"You are welcome to try, though I can't guarantee it will work, and I won't envy you if it fails," she answered in both mock bravado and desolate acceptance. She would not fight him and the threat drained of its efficacy.
He cringed inwardly, knowing she was correct. If the bond was not broken by her death, there was no predicting what the consequences would be for him. He did not relish the prospect of spending the next five thousand years of his life plagued by the unbroken spell work of an enchantress in Valhalla. Untangling the handiwork of a live sorcerer was always simpler than after death swallowed them into frozen memory.
"I agreed to none of this," he said, pressing more of his weight against her small hands until she cringed and let out a hiss.
"Well, neither did I!" she shouted. "Do you think I wanted to become a wolf? Do you think I chose to be stuck to someone who doesn't want to be here? This is not the life I wanted and I'd be more than happy to free us both, if I knew how."
He deflated slightly in his stance, though he did not drop the dagger.
"I'm leaving," he said in what he hoped sounded like a threat. She didn't protest and he was torn whether to feel relieved or irritated or offended that she did not argue with his statement or grovel for him to stay. He had quite a fondness for groveling. He knew the she-wolf enough to know she carried too much pride for that. She only nodded, as if she always knew that would be his decision.
He released her hands and the knife disappeared. She exhaled and fell away from the tree trunk, her eyes seeking out the little posse of dark shapes watching their exchange in rapt attention from the bushes. He couldn't meet those eyes. Instead, he turned and walked the opposite direction in a carefully measured strive. Once he was beyond the range of their senses, he released his pretense of nonchalance and ran as fast as he could deeper into the forest.
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In the lonely shadows of the pines, he grew even more desolate. For three days, his internal tempests raged as he debated just what his next course of action should be. If it were fifteen years ago, he would have made a very different plan for himself. It would have been so simple back then: cause chaos across Midgard (just to annoy Thor and his band of warrior-companions and lead them on frivolous quests across the realm), set himself up as ruler of this pitiful realm (to both exasperate and impress the All-Father), and perhaps align with and defeat a handful of Midgard's most promising villains (simply out of boredom).
But that was before.
With the threat of an Asgardian prison cell, the withdrawal of his position as prince, and the loss of his only defender and bastion of goodwill in his mother, he was safer dead. He could not bring attention to himself here. How could he lay claim to any pride of position or status now? The she-wolf was right to mock his overinflated claims at greatness. The Prince of Asgard was dead. He was neither Aesir nor of the House of Odin. He was naught but the bastard son of a Frost Giant, a dead and disgraced prince, a son rejected twice over by both kin and realms. He had neither home nor station nor kin to hang his battered pride upon. He could little boast of his magic when he dared not draw attention to himself by using it. In the form of a man, he was nothing, no one -- merely a nameless, homeless exile on Midgard, displaced between realms and peoples.
Prince Loki of Asgard was no more. Who remained? A wolf.
In all the realms, none sought his company save one she-wolf.
True, the Mad Titan and his minions and the lords of Midgard would delight in his discovery and subsequent brutal torment. No doubt he would fare little better at the hands of Asgard or Jotunheim if either realm laid their hands on him. No, in all the realms, those who sought him only sought his blood. His only claim, his only tie, was to a lone shape-shifter who had the audacity to say she was his. Forever. For always. With no obvious purpose.
There must be an ulterior motive. He trusted none of it. Some desire for self-advancement or magic or a service or protection. Why else would she use such strong magic and ensure he could not so easily flee? There was always a purpose in seeking him, some string attached. He needed to free himself or he risked too much.
He tried again. He tried every spell he could concoct for a second time. He shifted through any manner of forms of beast and bird and men of all realms to see how the she-wolf's magic reoriented with each.
He did not bother to try the form of a Light Elf. Their eternal bonds to their mates outlasted the lives of each and were renowned across the Nine for their unbreakable nature. The Aesir and Vanir, neither renowned for their fidelity, were worth trying. The magic bond in those forms was still tangible and strong but not as overwhelming. It did not sink so deep into the biological instincts of the form he inhabited but dwelt solely in the magic encompassing him. In these forms, it became a leather cord, instead of the iron shackles he felt in others.
On Midgard, the realm was woven out of so many vastly different climate zones and forged from constant change that the magic of its inhabitants was created to shift and morph and adapt to survive any conditions. Despite their adaptability, Midgardians still formed mate bonds and it was only certain social conditions which allowed questions of status, class, power, and circumstances to supersede their mating bonds. In Midgardian form, the bond's strength intensified to iron instead of leather.
In a last, desperate effort, he shifted into the form he most avoided -- the one which birthed him and gave him his first innate magic. He grimaced as he let the change take him and he felt the ice of Jotunheim freeze through his veins.
He immediately regretted it as the she-wolf's magic overwhelmed him and he staggered to the ground from the weight of it. The bond became stronger than uru. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and he shifted back to his Aesir form in spluttering, gasping relief to be free of the assault.
Of course. As creatures of ice and snow, the young of the Jotnar would require the care of both parents. They were not creatures of herds or isolation, but of tightly knit kin communities. He should have realized the biological imperative of their kind's mating bond would be more powerful -- possibly nearing the strength of the Light Elves. Still reeling from the sting of the experience in the skin of a Jotun, all he could think of, his only reprieve, was to be in the presence of the she-wolf and their pups again. He did not think he could manage a coherent thought until he ensured their well-being. Then maybe he could think...plan...breathe again.
He shifted into the form of a raven and flew overhead, following the unmistakable tug on his instincts that led him straighter than the North Star to where the she-wolf and the pups hunted along a stream bank. He did not reveal himself or seek to approach them. He simply watched the large wolves as they stalked a herd of caribou north, closing in on them as they ran. They were subdued and quiet as they finished their meal. The pups gave a mournful cry before their older siblings came to groom them. The she-wolf's head turned in his direction again and again and he knew she felt his presence, as much as he tried to hide it. He could sense both her questions and her wariness at his return and he decided he had tarried long enough. He took flight again and sought refuge on the barren grey rock of a nearby mountain.
The she-wolf was not the only being in the universe who sought his presence. Were there not five others who laid claim to him by virtue of both blood and name? If they truly be as their mother and children of both man and beast, was he not responsible for their well-being? If but wolves, even magical wolves, he could rationalize departing once they grew strong enough to hunt and allow their instincts to lead them right. If something else, his life had suddenly become much more complicated. Regardless of his ignorance, he was honor-bound to both maiden and young as he had willingly courted their dame and chosen to be their sire. While he could claim it was due to the powerful enchantment of the wolf woman and his own wolf instincts, it mattered little. He must now accept the responsibility he unwittingly took upon himself.
How long were their life spans? Had they already made a grave mistake in spending their rapidly passing formative childhood years away from other Midgardian peoples and bound to the form of beast? How were they to be raised on Midgard among those with no sense of magic or respect for those gifted in the mystic arts? It was little wonder the centaurs and dryads and dragons and other beings of the supernatural had long since hidden themselves or escaped to more favorable lands within Yggdrasil.
Even as he internally thrashed about like a fish upon a lure or a horse frothing against its bit, another part of him glowed in secret satisfaction. He had a place in the universe, one tethering post to ground him in place and save him from his meaningless wanderings upon the winds of the cosmos. Of course, he could not admit that to himself. As a liar, he must first hide the truth from himself lest he face the full brunt of its charring heat upon his soul, burning away the facades he built for his own protection.
He told himself it would be temporary, that he would fight it later, that he would endure so lowering himself only for the honor he sought to maintain. The façade of free-will he painted over his return helped him justify his decision to himself.
As he left the shadows of the wood to return, he did not pause to wonder at how much easier his feet tread in her direction than away. He pretended his heart felt lighter due to his decision alone, not the sense that he had a home and was now returning to it.
The man without a name, the prince without a kingdom, was now the alpha wolf. They called him "father" and "mate." They were his subjects, though their kingdom be built of pines and snow and sky. What a beautiful palace it made! Had he ever had such loyal, adoring subjects?
He pulled himself up with all the dignity of a dethroned monarch and returned to them, to face whatever other motives or obligations the she-wolf ensnared him for, and to fulfill his duty.
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Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews and favs/follows! I loved hearing your comments and ideas-they've been some good inspiration for future chapters!
Raven Acts as a Target is from Reagan, Albert B., and L. V. W. Walters. "Tales from the Hoh and Quileute." The Journal of American Folklore, vol. 46, no. 182, 1933, pp. 297–346. JSTOR.