Blackfeather Woods a distant ship smoke on the horizon

By some stroke of luck, a small number of her caches had remained unsullied by wildlife or other wolves. She had used the hollows in trees to tuck things of interest away: pretty flowers, shards of bone, pebbles—most importantly, though, medicines. And of the utmost import—

Ah, she breathed with relief, finding a smattering of poppy seeds scattered within the detritus. Carefully, she stuck out her tongue. One, two—mustn't take too many—she must look awfully silly, head stuck inside a trunk, reared up on her hindquarters. . .

Maegi gingerly pulled away, the cold air on her face once more and the seeds balanced against the tip of her tongue. Three; she had counted three. Three was enough. Four would send her into sleep, but she didn't want to sleep; with sleep came dreams, and all of her dreams were of terror.

Three. Enough to not feel. Enough to dull the voices of the dead and departed that whispered constantly in her ear.

She swallowed and took a deep inhale, sucking the cold of early winter through her nostrils. It was a shock to her lungs, but not unexpected. Everything was dying, and soon snow would fall. Her lithe frame and silky pelt had never taken well to the season. Perhaps she could hibernate with Titmouse somewhere, like the bears did.

Calm. . .come down like a blizzard's pale blanket. The seeds were working. Good.

The ghost found his wife drifting. He knew this area the way one knows the topography of a dream; here she was plucking seeds from where they'd nested, forgotten, letting them melt upon her tongue.

Titmouse waited until she was softened by the poppies before approaching. He probed the hollow and flicked his tongue, gathering a few dry husks to himself, and crushed them with his molars. They were small things—desiccated—and it took some time before the saliva in his mouth had rehydrated them.

When he turned back Maegi had drifted further away. He watched her phase in and out of existence for a few seconds. Flickering, a cloud of smoke trying so hard to become more, dissipating—and then he was drawing closer as a numbness swept through his chest.

As he came close to her she became real again. Titmouse breathed her in, felt the lightness in his chest abate somewhat in doing so, and pressed his nose to her neck.

Mmm, Maegi murmured as her mate came to her, pressing himself close to her. She felt the beating of her heart and imagined it syncopated with his; always in time, arrhythmic as they sometimes were. Lockstep, for seasons, and would be until one of them perished—

The thought of death threatened to send her spiraling downward. She felt the impulse tug at her and chased it away, focusing only on his presence. How he felt. How he smelled. 

He was real. They were real. And if they were unreal, then reality could go to hell.

I haven't felt this peaceful since. . . Maegi trailed off, not needing to say it. Chased away the sorrow once more, and forbade herself from taking more poppies. Intoxication was a razor's edge—one slip the wrong way and the abyss lie yawning beneath you. It was all too easy.

Love you, she whispered, then smiled. Do you remember the poison tree here?

There were still remnants of Onyx Hollow pressed upon her skin. It was as if Maegi had bathed in the essence of their old home before it could burn—perhaps as it sat burning; Titmouse thought he could smell the sweetness of night blooming jasmine mixed with the choke of char. He breathed her in, experiencing the expanse of his lungs, hearing the fire crackling as the diaphragm expanded, a pop of a rib here, a spark of ember there.

Love you, Maegi drawled to him. The commentary that precluded her love was lost to the fire. He was attentive now and turned one black-marked ear to gather her voice.

Poison.. tree..? His tongue felt heavy. He could not be sure if he was thinking the words or speaking them; but he nods a moment later, the memory fuzzy but present. He could recall many things about this forest and none of it was pleasant, in retrospect.

Stay away, my father told me, she recalled, after he'd nodded. He was right. That didn't stop me from ignoring him. I'd probably still ignore him now.

But she preferred poppies. There were too many awful side effects associated with that tree, too many to make anything marvelous not worth the while. Poppies were safe.

Well. . .to a point. But she hadn't died yet.

She sank to the forest floor, sprawling out upon her side. Come lay with me, she invited, smiling up at him. It was seldom that the ungrinning side of her mouth matched the wide cut of her scar—but it did now. He brought it out in her. Poppies and Mou.

Do you miss the island? Maegi asked, trying to remember the gentle murmur of waves against the shore.

The ghost took a long breath, feeling his limbs stretch out despite not moving, his toes bleeding in to the grass and the grass rising up, growing in to his fur in turn. He blinked his lone eye a few times and soon found himself staring up at a crooked Maegi, unaware of how he'd gotten so close to the dirt. It hadn't been a fall so much as a melt; but he was here now, couched between her and the grass, listening. Feeling her voice through her ribs.

Do you miss the island? Weaves a question in the ether between them.
Sometimes, he sighs. In that moment as Titmouse tries to remember what the island is, he is swept up in the smell of dry grass and the stormy petrichor of empty space; he expects to hear the calling of sea birds in his memory but he only hears the wind in the trees. He closes his eye. Miss home. Miss... The kids, he almost says, but chokes it back in time.

As he peers at Maegi's shape through his remaining eye, half-lidded, Titmouse feels very deep sadness, and wallows.

Home. Not here. Not the island. Home. Once consumed by shadows, now by smoke. She felt it sting her eyes, burn her throat anew. Her bliss quickly sank into despair, and she buried her her face in his pelt—

Growing thicker, for winter was coming. He would not feel the wetness of tears that came so suddenly.

Me too, Maegi choked out, and tried desperately to summon the island again. She didn't want to think about the hollow. Not now. Not ever, really. But especially not now.

We were happy on the island, she whispered. Well, mostly. But compared to the horrors they'd endured elsewhere, Undersea seemed a bona fide paradise. She blinked away the moisture, pulled back, looked at him seriously. We should. . .go back.

There are no words that he can speak to ease their shared pain, no prayer to any gods that would bring back what was lost, and so he is silent while Maegi burrows against him. Her admission, her want, meets his ears but earns no visible response. Titmouse thinks of the island and the fond memories there; they sit in opposition to the terrible trauma of his loss, and for a moment he feels guilty for choosing the brighter past before their family came to ruin.

He shifts beneath Maegi's touch and then stills. It is his turn to speak, to break the oppressive silence within which he wallows, but he is out of practice and lets it suffocate him a little longer. The conversation stales — but he sucks in a breath and mutters, Why. The cyclops looks at the silvery fur of his wife, watching the rise and fall of her breathing. It is not home.

We have no home, she shot back, and immediately regretted the sharpness of her tongue. Still, the retort burned in her chest. It was true, anyway. . .no use sugarcoating it. The hollow was no more, burned to a crisp. Whatever home they had there had been destroyed.

The only place left was the island. She could not stand this place of ghosts for another moment.

I'm sorry, Maegi murmured, trying to catch his eye whether or not he took offense to her comment. No, it's not our home. But it once was. And it could be again. 

Didn't he want that? A fresh start? She rose slowly to her paws, feeling the earth slide beneath them as she did so. Everything moved slowly, even the beating of her heart. Everything was caught in a single moment. A moment was all they had.

Nothing else was guaranteed. She'd learned that the hard way.

She reacted with a snap, not physical in nature but verbal, and set his ears back with a flutter of nervous energy. He had not anticipated such an outburst from her; but really he should not have been surprised, they had both been through too much and were hurting in deep ways neither could understand. Mou's expression softened, and then came the apology—already her jab was forgotten.

As Maegi stood up Mou watched the compressed soil where she had previously been, his single eye sleepily half-lidded.
—It's not our home, but it once was— her words were disjointed as they reached him, drifting around him like a fog that he breathed in; otherwise Mou showed little change. A deep breath. As he focused on swallowing the dry-mouth feeling on his tongue he did not hear the tail end of her words.

He did stand up, though. Slow and rickety; looking so much older than he was, skinny legs and ragged coat smeared with grass and dirt. Did the ashes of their lost home still cling to him, he wondered...? Okay, he half-groaned, and moved to perch his chin across her back, his long face draped near her hip—I go where you go, always.

As if that needed to be said.

Her head swiveled slowly upon her neck as she turned to look at him, his words like an anchor against a turbulent sea. Always. Always. Always. She led, and he would follow. Was the reverse true? Well, of course it was.

Maegi would have ran away from him a long time ago if she did not have that same steadfastness.

Then follow me now, Maegi murmured, the unmarred corner of her mouth curving upward, slightly mischevious. Not to the tunnels, with all their nightmares. Nor the altar, nor the poison tree, nor Spiderlings' Glen—

Damn it, what part of this place wasn't haunted?

She pressed her nose against his neck, head butting gently, softly, against his shoulder. The idea slipped away. No, she decided, shrugging. Stay here for now. I mean. . . Maegi pulled back, eyes darting around them. Here, now. Not. . .here.

She sounded like a raving lunatic; the poppies were weighing down her tongue, her mind. Suddenly, sleep felt like the best option. I'm tired, she muttered, and sank back on her haunches. She, too, looked a lot older than her three years and some moons.

Maegi babbled; he could piece together some of what she meant through his own warped perception and came crawling close, curling his large form around her to hold her. Feeling warmth of breath and the drumbeat of her heart. Here. There. Everywhere. With you. He murmured in to her ear, then trailed a mix of sniffs and nibbles from its base down to the crux of her neck, nesting there.

They sat for a long few moments, silently embracing. His words were a balm to her battered spirit and they echoed within her, bones and flesh and all. No one had promised her such fealty and meant it. They all had left. Even Titmouse had left. . .but he'd always returned.

And now, perhaps, they would never be apart again.

Maegi swayed, eyelids drooping. The slightly charged conversation had drained her. She lowered herself to the carpet of leaves once more, inviting him downward with a cant of her head. The ground was redolent of damp earth and decaying things. 

It smelled like home. It smelled like her parents, and brought to mind the single shriek Anansi had uttered before his life had been snuffed out.

Sleep would bring with it nightmares; it always did. But what difference was it from spending every waking moment in this place?

Maegi drifted off, pressed against her lover's warmth, rooted inextricably to the soil of Blackfeather Woods.