(no subject)
Bruce, it turns out, is not an especially good hunter as wolves go. The natural wariness that keeps wild things alive is overdeveloped in him. He'll jump a mile at the least hint of something that might be a danger, and that sort of thing disrupts even the best of hunts. After his third attempt at running something down goes wrong Wells rolls his eyes. Give off, mate, he says. I'll catch tonight's meat myself.
Thank you, says Bruce gratefully before padding off to hide in the shadows.
By the time Wells returns to his evening's campsite with a dead hare dangling from one hand, Bruce has been spooked again. There's a reason, this time. Wells would never ask a wolf to stay anywhere near a human he didn't know- even if the human who's found Wells' encampment smells damn old, Wells knows better than to assume him harmless. "Hallo the camp," he calls, painfully aware of his stilted Greek. "Don't get excited. I'm coming in."
The man looks up, blinking. He's got a face to match the smell: rheumy blue eyes set deep in a lined and wrinkled face, with silvery hair and beard that had probably once been black. "I meant no harm, stranger," he says, and starts to raise his empty hands.
"It's all right," says Wells. "Neither do I. Just passing through."
The old man nods, a wavering gesture, though his eyes are still on Harry. "There aren't many who travel this country alone," he observes. "You seem very bold, stranger."
"Yeah, well-" Harry sits down ungracefully and draws his tanto. He figures Bruce doesn't need the rabbit's hide, and it might come in useful if he can figure out how to keep it from rotting. "I don't mean any harm. I just want to find the king."
"Is that so?" asks the old man. One silver-white eyebrow rises. "And why is that, I wonder?"
"I'm far from home," Wells answers as he locates about the right spot to start skinning and gutting the rabbit. "I'm not in my country. My son is lost, somewhere, and so am I. I need to find him. I have to start somewhere."
"I see." The old man has a staff, it seems; he leans on it heavily as he eases himself down to a seated position as well. "Wise enough, I think- though, still, to travel alone-"
It occurs to Wells that there's more than one kind of werewolf in the world, and some of them can do it voluntarily. Bruce isn't here. This man is. There's something about his smell that Wells can't place, but it has the quality of being too obvious; the man is trying to smell like a human. Carefully, Wells says, "I could do with some company. Only thing is, all I've got to share is a fire and some bread and cheese." It's barely enough for one for the night, but he's been living with Greeks long enough to know that hospitality is critical. "The hare's been promised elsewhere."
The old man smiles. "It will be enough," he says. "Thank you, good sir. My name is Dysaules. I am not much more than a teller of stories, but I can offer one for you in return for your gift, if you like."
Wells considers the night around him, then shrugs. "Why not," he says. "They call me Xenophon. Let's hear it."
Dysaules nods, placing his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back a moment. Then he speaks:
"Muse, sing of Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia, lord of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, the luck-bringing messenger of the immortals whom Maia bare, the rich-tressed nymph, when she was joined in love with Zeus, -- a shy goddess, for she avoided the company of the blessed gods, and lived within a deep, shady cave. There the son of Cronos used to lie with the rich-tressed nymph, unseen by deathless gods and mortal men, at dead of night while sweet sleep should hold white-armed Hera fast. And when the purpose of great Zeus was fixed in heaven, she was delivered and a notable thing was come to pass. For then she bare a son, of many shifts, blandly cunning, a robber, a cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief
at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds among the deathless gods..."
The story goes on and Wells listens in awe. He's pretty sure he had to read something like that a long, long time ago, back when he was in school, but he'll be damned if it was ever anything like listening to this man talk. By the end of it he's wishing with all his heart that he'd actually paid some fucking attention back then. He empties his bag of what remains of his provisions, offering them to the older man wordlessly, but Dysaules only takes a small portion. "A man my age scarcely needs to eat as much as he once did," Dysaules explains. "Though I would ask one small thing of you, instead."
"Name it," says Wells without hesitation.
"You have the accent of a native-born Arcadian, but you speak with too much care for that," Dysaules observes. "I think you come from a foreign land indeed. Would you give me some story of your own instead?"
Wells isn't his cousin Andrew. He hasn't got an entire head full of bedtime stories and fairy tales to share. He remembers the Narnia books, of course, but he hasn't got the fucking things memorised. Spoon's the one who's been doing the classical reading, not him. All of the stories Wells knows are obscene or worse, except Eddie's, and there's too much in Eddie's story that'd take too long to explain-
No. No, it's not true that all his stories are obscene. There's one.
"All right," says Wells, and takes a deep breath. "All right. Once upon a time, years ago, up in the land that you locals call Hyperborea, there were six soldiers on a mission deep in the woods, and it was the first night of the full moon. . ."
It's no tale of the gods, and it ends in curses and pain and fire, but to judge by the light in Dysaules' eyes it's enough. "Well spoken," the old man murmurs, "and bravely endured. Thank you, Xenophon. I will remember that for a long time."
"Thank you," says Wells, and passes a hand over his face. "Sorry, mate, I'm not used to that sort of thing."
"It's all right," says Dysaules. "You did well nonetheless. Go and offer the rabbit as you promised, and I will keep watch until you return."
Wells nods and heads off into the woods. He can check for the blood-smell on Dysaules while the old man sleeps, he reckons.
Thank you, says Bruce gratefully before padding off to hide in the shadows.
By the time Wells returns to his evening's campsite with a dead hare dangling from one hand, Bruce has been spooked again. There's a reason, this time. Wells would never ask a wolf to stay anywhere near a human he didn't know- even if the human who's found Wells' encampment smells damn old, Wells knows better than to assume him harmless. "Hallo the camp," he calls, painfully aware of his stilted Greek. "Don't get excited. I'm coming in."
The man looks up, blinking. He's got a face to match the smell: rheumy blue eyes set deep in a lined and wrinkled face, with silvery hair and beard that had probably once been black. "I meant no harm, stranger," he says, and starts to raise his empty hands.
"It's all right," says Wells. "Neither do I. Just passing through."
The old man nods, a wavering gesture, though his eyes are still on Harry. "There aren't many who travel this country alone," he observes. "You seem very bold, stranger."
"Yeah, well-" Harry sits down ungracefully and draws his tanto. He figures Bruce doesn't need the rabbit's hide, and it might come in useful if he can figure out how to keep it from rotting. "I don't mean any harm. I just want to find the king."
"Is that so?" asks the old man. One silver-white eyebrow rises. "And why is that, I wonder?"
"I'm far from home," Wells answers as he locates about the right spot to start skinning and gutting the rabbit. "I'm not in my country. My son is lost, somewhere, and so am I. I need to find him. I have to start somewhere."
"I see." The old man has a staff, it seems; he leans on it heavily as he eases himself down to a seated position as well. "Wise enough, I think- though, still, to travel alone-"
It occurs to Wells that there's more than one kind of werewolf in the world, and some of them can do it voluntarily. Bruce isn't here. This man is. There's something about his smell that Wells can't place, but it has the quality of being too obvious; the man is trying to smell like a human. Carefully, Wells says, "I could do with some company. Only thing is, all I've got to share is a fire and some bread and cheese." It's barely enough for one for the night, but he's been living with Greeks long enough to know that hospitality is critical. "The hare's been promised elsewhere."
The old man smiles. "It will be enough," he says. "Thank you, good sir. My name is Dysaules. I am not much more than a teller of stories, but I can offer one for you in return for your gift, if you like."
Wells considers the night around him, then shrugs. "Why not," he says. "They call me Xenophon. Let's hear it."
Dysaules nods, placing his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back a moment. Then he speaks:
"Muse, sing of Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia, lord of Cyllene and Arcadia rich in flocks, the luck-bringing messenger of the immortals whom Maia bare, the rich-tressed nymph, when she was joined in love with Zeus, -- a shy goddess, for she avoided the company of the blessed gods, and lived within a deep, shady cave. There the son of Cronos used to lie with the rich-tressed nymph, unseen by deathless gods and mortal men, at dead of night while sweet sleep should hold white-armed Hera fast. And when the purpose of great Zeus was fixed in heaven, she was delivered and a notable thing was come to pass. For then she bare a son, of many shifts, blandly cunning, a robber, a cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief
at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds among the deathless gods..."
The story goes on and Wells listens in awe. He's pretty sure he had to read something like that a long, long time ago, back when he was in school, but he'll be damned if it was ever anything like listening to this man talk. By the end of it he's wishing with all his heart that he'd actually paid some fucking attention back then. He empties his bag of what remains of his provisions, offering them to the older man wordlessly, but Dysaules only takes a small portion. "A man my age scarcely needs to eat as much as he once did," Dysaules explains. "Though I would ask one small thing of you, instead."
"Name it," says Wells without hesitation.
"You have the accent of a native-born Arcadian, but you speak with too much care for that," Dysaules observes. "I think you come from a foreign land indeed. Would you give me some story of your own instead?"
Wells isn't his cousin Andrew. He hasn't got an entire head full of bedtime stories and fairy tales to share. He remembers the Narnia books, of course, but he hasn't got the fucking things memorised. Spoon's the one who's been doing the classical reading, not him. All of the stories Wells knows are obscene or worse, except Eddie's, and there's too much in Eddie's story that'd take too long to explain-
No. No, it's not true that all his stories are obscene. There's one.
"All right," says Wells, and takes a deep breath. "All right. Once upon a time, years ago, up in the land that you locals call Hyperborea, there were six soldiers on a mission deep in the woods, and it was the first night of the full moon. . ."
It's no tale of the gods, and it ends in curses and pain and fire, but to judge by the light in Dysaules' eyes it's enough. "Well spoken," the old man murmurs, "and bravely endured. Thank you, Xenophon. I will remember that for a long time."
"Thank you," says Wells, and passes a hand over his face. "Sorry, mate, I'm not used to that sort of thing."
"It's all right," says Dysaules. "You did well nonetheless. Go and offer the rabbit as you promised, and I will keep watch until you return."
Wells nods and heads off into the woods. He can check for the blood-smell on Dysaules while the old man sleeps, he reckons.