Firefly Glen Pulling me under

Poor Amari!

In Scimitar’s absence, Cypress divided his time evenly between the creek-dappled glen and the forest he called home, devoting all of his efforts to the women he loved. Eshe had fallen into a fitful parody of slumber, the exhaustion of her healing body forcing her panicking mind and aching heart to a temporary stillness, and after smoothing a soft kiss across her brow the haggard raven set out again. “Lucy?” he called out softly when he reached the grove of fireflies, half-expecting the previous day’s events to repeat themselves. In his darkest moments he believed he would never find Lucy; perhaps Rannoch had already guided the girl to safety many miles away. Still, there was a strange magnetic pull that kept him coming back. She’s here. She has to be here. She said she’d be here. Lucy was very good at three things: running, hiding, and loving the Frostfur boys. Put together, there was every reason to expect their reunion — but only if Cypress continued to remain faithful and vigilant.

“Lu — ” he breathed, cutting off the sound of her name when the squelching sound of a larger creature walking across a muddy surface reached his attentive ears. He stood his ground, his wild fur damp with rain and sharpened into an array of porcupine quills, squinting into the darkness with eyes that glowed like carriage lanterns. A flurry of growls and the sucking glop! ssssslop! of mud caught his attention immediately, spurring his paws into motion — he was surefooted and swift, and although disappointment clouded his sulphureous eyes at the sight of another wolf who was not Lucy, he moved forward in concern. “Stop,” he called out succinctly. “Stop struggling; you’re making it worse.” Mud from the girl’s struggles flecked his face and shoulders, but he remained unperturbed. The haphazard sway of one of his tall ears and the nervous way he licked at his lips betrayed his agitation, but perhaps she would not notice; his youthful timbre was crisp and clear, stoic as his father’s.

He had nearly mistaken her for October, but her eyes were strikingly different. Blue like Lucy’s. On tenterhooks he circled her, testing the ground with his paws. “Move slowly,” he suggested. “You…you’re not alone anymore.” How he wished to hear Lucy utter those words to him! The ache took his breath away. Feeling for the most solid, shallow swatch of earth, Cypress inched forward a few pawsteps at a time. “Can you move this way?” he asked her. “Try moving just your front legs.”