Kingmaker

They couldn’t have been more than 8 summers old.  As boys are wont to do, they had wandered into the forest, exploring the late winter landscape.  As the sun slowly lowered in the sky, they began to realize they had gotten lost.  Aachen was the one who decided they should make camp and spend the night amongst the gods of the wood.  They gathered firewood and berries, storing them in a small cleft of rock overlooking a slow-running stream.  They set a few snares, hoping to catch a rabbit or quail, and set about getting their camp in order.  As the sun slowly changed from a pale yellow to orange, to bright pink, Aachen began to prepare the fire.  He couldn’t get it started, so Varro offered to try his hand while he went to check the snares.  Flames had just begun licking at the kindling when he heard a shout.  His blood froze in his veins as a chorus of howls began in response.  Varro’s boots crunched through the underbrush as he ran toward the sounds.  The first snare was empty, but when he came upon the second, his heart leaped to his throat.  There was Aachen, hare in hand, slowly being encircled by wolves.  He did a quick count and saw there were six already ringing his foster-brother.  He could hear the footsteps of the rest of the pack coming through the leaves.

            “Aachen!  Throw them the hare!  Be quick about it!”

            Aachen swung the hare once about his head and then tossed it towards the apparent alpha.  The prize landed woefully short of its mark and the ring of canines began to close in.  The alpha sniffed at the offering and eyed Aachen.  The ring began to tighten and Varro began to hear a low buzzing in his ears.  He started to get disoriented, and shook his head to clear his thoughts.  It was then he realized that the buzzing was actually a low growl being echoed from each of the animals in the pack.

            “Aachen, what should I do?”  Even though he was older, Varro had already instinctively deferred to Aachen regarding matters of strength and battle.

            “Do I look like I know?  I don’t even have a weapon except my dagger!”

            “Neither do I!  We can’t possibly kill them all!”

            “I mean to try.”  Aachen’s voice became flat and emotionless as he slipped into battle mode.  He loosed his dagger from its sheath around his waist.

            Varro bent to retrieve his dagger from his belt and realized that the lupine ring had shifted to ensnare him as well.

            “We can’t possibly fight them all,” Varro repeated.  “There are only two of us.”

            “Start with the leader,” Aachen gestured to the one who had snubbed the rabbit.  The beast, as if understanding the words, turned his golden eyes to Varro in a seeming challenge.

            The two boys stood together, shoulder to shoulder, with daggers in hand.  They looked at each other, but no words needed to be said.

            Aachen shouted and lunged at their quarry.  The beast leapt, and at the same instant, Varro let fly with his dagger.  The wolf sagged and seemed to drop from mid air.  It landed in a heap before Aachen without a sound.  Suddenly, the rest of the pack melted into the forest in search of easier prey.  Varro looked at the beast and saw his dagger buried to its hilt in the chest of the wolf.  He approached and crouched to remove his knife from its furry sheath.  Aachen was behind him in a semi-crouch, dagger in hand, turning his head back and forth, checking for any remaining wolves; still in battle fever.  Varro reached out, and at that moment, it opened its eyes and began to snarl.  Before he could react, the beast locked its gaze to his.  Varro gasped.  For a split second, he was sure he heard a gravelly voice. 

            “Release me.”

            He looked to Aachen, but the other boy was still scouring the surrounding woods for wolves.  He looked back to the Lord of the Forest and saw the pain in his golden eyes.  He tentatively stretched his hand out, grasped the hilt of his dagger, and twisted it into the animal’s heart. 

            “Thank you, Varro,” whispered the voice, and the light flew from the beast’s eyes.  He withdrew his blade.  A warm feeling washed over him and then the blood began to flow from the wound.  Its crimson wetness began to cover the animal’s fur and the slightly frozen ground he crouched on.  He felt a momentary dizziness and felt a visceral calling towards the scent of it.  He dreamed of running at the head of a pack, chasing down a deer.  They were closing in, but just as he was about to bury his teeth deeply into the elegant neck, he heard Aachen’s voice as if calling him from a distance.

            “Did he bite you?  Varro?  Are you OK?”

            Varro came back to himself and carefully focused his attention on his foster brother. 

            “I’m unharmed.  He died before he could attack me.”

            Aachen walked the several steps that separated them.  “How did you do that?  You killed him.  You just threw your dagger and he fell…”  He suddenly stopped speaking.  The silence was strained and then he looked at Varro as if he had never seen him before.  “What-what did you do?”

            “What do you mean?”  Varro’s head was beginning to throb.  “I threw my dagger, it was a lucky shot.”

            “Your eyes…”

            “What is it?”  Varro was becoming unhinged.  “Speak, brother, you are frightening me!”  The throbbing was getting stronger, the sound of Aachen’s voice was starting to hurt his head.

            “Your eyes have changed color…they look like the wolf’s.”  And then the world went black.