The recent rain had left the ground damp with mud pools between the larger patches of earth. Rocks protruded from the ground, large boulders big enough to sit upon and rest your legs. Grass grows in tall patches close to the great girth of trunks and thins out towards the open areas. There are not many clearings, the forest here is dense, thickened with low riding bushes and tree tops that stretch as far as the eye can see. The air is heavy with the smell of the leaves and brush. Mother earth is a strong, heady scent in the back of the nostril, she is rich with nutrients after the Grand father had poured his blessings onto her, into her, fertilizing the seeds with his powerful touch.

Their footsteps are not as quiet as they could be, but they are learning, these two children that walk carefully across the stones that they pretend is a path leading them home. They are close in age and both boys. The eldest has hair that is straight with kinks at the end, and needs to be cropped before the week is at an end. He trails behind a mop of curls that would be best suited to a girl, they seem to drift in the slightest wind,  stirred alive by it. They have been wandering since the afternoon, but the sun is dipping behind the clouds and the forest is gradually losing its light. Supper will be after a wash and they are filthy from their tramping trail. The youngest wears mud like a second pair of pants from an earlier fall, and the eldest wears dirt across his chest and back as wounds from an earlier mud battle.

As the hill begins to slope down towards the small valley that separates the wilderness to their sprawling home, the land becomes more treacherous for young footing, and the trees from both rising hills cast dark shadows across the valleys dip. Leaves softly whisper of the black fur that slides through it, and parts to allow the muzzle of a wolf to appear to the opened air. Neither boy notices it at first. The youngest is lost in the innocence of a pattern he seeks in the invisible path he picks out for his steps, while being chided by the quiet mumblings of his older brother, who blames him for being late.

The wolf slinks closer, setting itself in a position to attack. It is large and solid and these are its hunting grounds, its territory and has been before any human had set foot here. It intends on drawing blood. Muscles bunch in the powerful hint quarters and its lip lifts in the near-silent growl that warns from its throat just before it bursts into a run.

From where he had been standing behind, the eldest boy, perhaps seven or eight, steps forward at the same time he shoved his brother backwards in a vain attempt to shield the weaker one. From his belt his blade was pulled. It was sharp, he was always told to keep it that way and be prepared to use it. He holds it out as taught, putting himself in direct harms way. The wolf is closer, he can see the look in its eye and the pale of teeth against the dark colouring of fur. There isn't time to register anything more than an instinctual response.

He cries out when pain is immediate in his forearm. The wolfs teeth leave blood and markings behind. He kicks out with his feet and struggles with the heavy weight that knocks against him. His brother is wide eyed on the ground, tears and fright his enemy. The young boy, five or six years of age, is in a momentary state of shock. While the wolf and boy wrestle, growls and cry a mingle in the dusk sky, a third figure approaches the fray.

Her weight shifts the wolf from the boy and she lashes out with her boot. The animal snarls and bites. She does not cry out, even though her ankle and leg will bleed. Her fist pummels into the wolf hard enough that it startles and backs off. She stands her ground. The boys behind her are gathering quickly behind her heavy jacket. She yells at the animal, loud and demanding, frightening it towards the trees with the rocks she picks up and hurls in the same direction.

The boys huddle into her body, shaken and scared. Their words mingle with their cries and she's unable to distinguish one from the other, but she ushers them to move and limps with them towards home.

Later, in the warmth of a fire lit room, the same woman hides beneath the soap suds in a steam of heated water. Her black hair is unbound and damp, hanging over the edge of the over-sized tub where it drips water onto the ground. At the other end of the tub her injured ankle is being inspected by a pair of caring eyes. A pair of male hands rub gently across the wounds, cleaning them with the water he scoops from between his ladies legs. Her chuckle is quiet and intimate across the water, where she is watching him and enjoying the curl of his mouth.

"You are lucky I did not bite you too hard, beloved." He tells her quietly, bemused.

"You deserved it. You bite him too hard."

"He must learn, Mila."

"Are you crying for the kick I gave you?" Her eyebrows raise. She teases him. He knows this, anyone else would not.

The low laugh rides along her skin and beneath the water, where she can feel his hand daring to tread. "Next time I will bite you harder."

"If it pleases you."

"Oh, it pleases me much..."

---

I close my eyes and sink beneath the water, washing away the tears of memory. But I can still feel his hands on my skin and his being in my soul. This will never wash away, never be cleaned of me, and I shall not ever move on.  

--Last edited by Mila on 2008-11-22 06:31:29 --