Fenrir The White's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Fenrir lowered Valentine onto a bed of soft snow. Her hind leg still bled where the rope had cut. She was too weak to walk, and the sanctuary lay far ahead. Fenrir pressed close, warm and steady, and waited for her breathing to slow. Valentine lifted her head. Her eyes found Fenrir's, then closed. She reached out with her gift, the same power that could guide the packs. This time she turned it inward. Fenrir felt a strange pull, a warmth flowing from their own body into hers. The dire wolf did not fight it. If Valentine needed strength to heal, Fenrir would give it. Around them, tiny lights blinked in the dark. A swarm of fireflies drifted close, glowing warm and green. They left small drops of ink on the snow where they passed. Their light fell on Valentine's leg. Slowly, the bleeding stopped. The torn skin closed. Valentine's breath grew deep and even. Then she stood. Fenrir stared. Valentine put weight on the leg. It held. She took one step, then another. Her wound was gone. "You did this," she said softly. "You gave me what I needed." She licked Fenrir's muzzle once. Then her ears snapped forward. "The packs. They're close. I can feel them now." She bolted into the trees. Fenrir ran after her. Joy pushed them both fast. Valentine could walk again. She could lead again. They tore through the snow toward the scattered wolves, past frozen brush, over a low ridge. Neither of them looked back. Neither of them saw the deep prints they left behind, dark holes pressed into fresh white snow, a clear line pointing straight ahead. Behind them, a broad shape moved along the ridge. It was the hunter. He had come back, just as Fenrir feared. His rifle was broken, but he carried a new one now, and a heavy pack. He lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. His yellow beard caught the firefly light. His jaw hung slack as he grinned. "There you are, sweetheart," he murmured. "And you brought the big one along." He knelt by the tracks. Two sets of prints, one huge, one small, both fresh. He touched the edge of a print. Still warm. He looked up the trail toward the trees where Fenrir and Valentine had vanished. He did not need to rush. The snow would hold the trail for hours. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and started walking, slow and sure, following the marks the wolves had left. Ahead, Fenrir and Valentine reached a clearing. Dozens of wolves rose from the shadows, thin and afraid. They circled Valentine, tails low, waiting. She had found them at last. Fenrir stood tall among them, proud. But the packs were gathered in one place now. And a hunter was coming, step by step, straight toward every wolf that Fenrir had sworn to save.