wolf witch, part 24
Previous parts here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/178170 and here.
The witch smiles to him, that Arthur-smile, the smile of a person who knows everything there is to know about you. It's not a malicious smile, just very, very foreboding.
I've been looking for you, she says. I've got so much to show you. Eames can't tell if she's speaking English or French; he just know he understands her. That is not a good sign. That means this woman is no amateur when it comes to working the dreaming.
Then the clouds part behind her, bathes them both in moonlight, and it's not the thin, new moon from moments before, it's a full, yellow moon, so large it fills half the sky, stretching across almost the whole horizon.
Run with me, brother, she says as she starts to shimmer before him, not the painful, bloody seizure of a transformation he himself goes through, but a graceful full-body shrug, like casting of a veil, and there she stands, a brown, female wolf, fur shiny and well-kept. She's smaller than him (she would be, her human body was smaller than him too and the amount of mass doesn't change), but she looks strong and healthy, radiating confidence. As alfa as he has ever seen one, but not like- she doesn't look like the kind of alfa who'd use her power to bite and bark and dominate just for the sake of doing so, she wouldn't need violence to keep control of her pack and she is calm in this knowledge. The grip of the deep, visceral fear that had ripped through Eames like lightning when he saw that moon lessens somewhat. Whatever happens next, this alfa will protect him.
The pull of the moon is unresisting, irresistible, a deep tug inside him, inside his bones. The pain is starting, as usual, his skin feels too tight, his bones grinds against each other, changing shape, his muscles spasms, he falls to the ground. His senses is heightening, between the waves of pain, growing and lessening like the tide, the cool night air brings him all the smells of the forest, the damp earth, the fear of small animals hiding in the under-brush, he can hear them running away, hiding from the smell of predator. He can smell the blood from his skin splitting, he can taste it from his teeth being pushed out by larger, sharper teeth and that's when he starts screaming.
Then there is a rough, wet tongue licking the blood of his face. It doesn't have to hurt, the wolf witch says. I saw you change your skin earlier. It's as easy as that, if you would only stop fighting it, stop fear it. Let go. You are safe here.
She lies down besides him and continue to lick his face, the warmth from her body and her smell slowly calming him. It will happen, no matter what, Eames thinks (and then realizes that he can think again), no matter what I do, the result will be the same. I can't fight it.
So stop fight it. You used to do this with ease, remember? When you where a kid, before they taught you fear. Before they made you hate it.
He remembers, suddenly. How Aunt Lillian had laughed in delight as he leaped as a wolf-cup and landed as a toddler, had rolled around in a somersault and then been a wolf again, already running to greet her, yapping and jumping up against her, licking her face.
The pain is gone. He stands up on his four legs, shrugs out of the clothes he doesn't need any more. He's sure on his feet, he can feel the strength running through him, he can hear everything, he can smell all the little stories the forest has to offer, a deer was here, a squirrel there, and the big ones too, the ones about death and fear and longeing, about mating and birth. He throws his head back and howls, telling the forest that this night, there's a new story being told.
Come run with me, sister. This night is ours.
*
In the dream, it's nearly morning. The sky is starting to turn pink and there's dew in the grass under him, cold against his naked skin. Eams lies on his back, looking at the sky, at the faint stars. There's blood on his hands and face and he's at peace. The witch lies besides him, sprinkled in blood and with leaves in her hair, her head on his shoulders, as if they were lovers, having just shared a night of passion. It is not that far from the truth. She's talking to him, telling him things she has dreamed.
Your family is not done with you, she says. Some will hurt you, some needs you. You already knows which is which.
Yes, he says. He does.
Don't forget this night. Things will be bad and you'll only be strong enough if you are whole.
I never got the chance to thank you for healing me, Eames tells her, I don't know how you did it, but you saved my life.
You're welcome, but it wasn't me. It was the wolf.
*
Arthur is shaking him, slapping his face. Eames grabs his hand, asks, “How long?"
“We're two minutes behind schedule, you where unresponsive. What happened?” Ariadne says from er position next Susan Allister's hospital bed where she's packing away the tubes from the Passive, quickly removing all trace that they where ever here. Like Eames and Arthur she's dressed in nurse's scrubs and looks, frankly, adorable.
“Later, we need to move. Arthur?” Shit, Eames thinks, only two minutes. She must have taken me as deep as the bloody Mariana Trench.
“We're good,” Arthur says, grabbing the Passive. “Let's move.”
He and Eames moves quickly out of the room, leaving Ariadne behind to monitor that Susan Allister actually wakes up. But they're barely out the door when they hear her cough and mumble. Eames raises his eyebrows at Arthur, who raises his hand for 'wait'.
“Can I... Can I have a glass of water.” Susan Allister asks, her voice sounding groggy from sleep. There's a sound of water being poured and Susan Allister's thanks.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Allister? Let me just get your doctor and tell her that you're awake, she'll answer all you're questions.” Susan Allister thanks her again and Ariadne leaves her with a 'I hope you feel better soon.'
Then she joins them in the hallway. She's biting her lip and there's a frown between her eyebrows.
“Let's get out of here,” Arthur says, putting a hand on her back and steering her away.
Eames couldn't agree more.