Sun Mote Copse The Fruit of the Spirit Is Love

Ragna shook her head, banishing the apology, for there was no need for it. Do not apologize, she said firmly, kindly. Gender was a strange, intangible thing. For some it was difficult to grasp, and it was all too easy to mistake. To fault Asherah for the mistake would be to fault every wolf she had come upon, for each saw her only as her body presented itself. She was not the sum of her secondary sex characteristics, her small size, her dainty features. There is more to a wolf than the body, but the spirit is intangible, and it cannot be read. You could not have known. In this she was understanding, and more so because of Asherah's sincerity.

She did not reply to any mention of Molech, simply because she didn't know how. It was wonderful, in a way, because it had primed the Malkaria to accept this facet of her. Yes, it was wonderful, but it was unfathomable, and even she did not understand it. It was wonderful, but some days it felt like a curse, when dysphoric malaise fell over her like a mantle far too heavy to remove.

Ragna shook her head at the suggestion that she be called brother-wolf. She was brother and sister both, a mix so well blended that neither word fit quite right. Ragna, she agreed. I cannot fault you. By every right I should be a woman. After all, between her legs she looked no different from Asherah.