Time drifts differently here.
the woods, long and silent, are listening again...
In the shadowed depths of Hollowmere, the last of his tribe, Marcus Greymane, stumbles wounded into the ancient forest, unknowingly trespassing into the domain of a reclusive witch named Circe Alden. Against her better judgment, Circe chooses to save himβan act of mercy that binds their fates. What unfolds next is uncertain, as trust, secrets, and something far older than either of them begins to stir.
He watched Circe hustle around in the kitchen with a careful smile on his lips. She reminded him of Freya, even if she didn't look anything like her. Freya had been tallβalmost as tall as Marcus. Her curls were the color of wheat, her eyes blue as the midsummer sky. Seeing the young hag cook made him aware of just how keenly he missed his wife. He had loved Freya more than he loved life. Seeing his wife's lifeless body on the ground had changed him for good. Hatred had filled his heart to the brim. That very hatred had doomed his kin, even if every man had followed him voluntarily. Every man who fought by his side had given his life freely, and yet he felt guilty.
Yet Marcus said nothing. His grief was not hers.
He listened to her, nodding. "You don't smell mortal, Circe," Marcus mused with a wry smile on his lips, wrinkling his nose. The faint scent of wyrd that permeated the woods clung to her like a cape. "This placeβor your goddessβhas rubbed off on you." He explained, his voice steady with confidence. "Besides, a human would not have survived." She could see him biting his lip, Marcus swallowing the words. He knew she'd understand. "I don't think any force stayed my claws," Marcus murmured, lifting his hand, palm up, his fingers curled. "There's something in you that kept you alive," he added, pointing his index finger at the young hag.
"And yet you did. You saved my life. I must thank you for that." He nodded, letting his hand fall on his lap. Marcus did not attempt to cover himself. Circe had seen him naked and said nothing of his lack of garments. He figured she understood his predicament. "You felt someone force your hand? Had a vision?" The old vargar chieftain struggled to understand her words.
"The beast is probably sated now," Marcus explained, reaching between his legs to touch his balls. The beastβs hunger had eased for now, though he knew it would return with the next full moon. Even in its lull, a low, restless ache lingered at the back of his mindβa reminder that he was never entirely free of it. "I can make sure to be away when the time comes." Her words caught him by surpriseβMarcus wasn't quite sure what Circe had meant by next time.
"Thank you," he murmured, picking up the wooden cup, huddling it in large hands. Marcus could smell the wine just as he could smell the slowly cooking hare. Just as he could smell Circe, her scent stood out among the cacophony of smells. He had drunk deep of her scent the night before, the faint notes of her essence leaving his mind tingling ever so gently. Marcus lifted the cup to his lips, wrinkling his nose. He could smell the crisp apples and the acrid notes of the alcohol. Raising an eyebrow, he took a small sip, letting the sour and sweet flavors fill his mouth.
Savoring the taste of the wine, he took another sip before setting the cup down on the table.
"Smells lovely." Marcus mused, watching Circe settle down across him. Picking one of the knives she offered, he reached for the hare and carefully cut off its rear limbs. He handed one of the legs to his savior, licking his fingers clean once she had taken her share. Wiggling the remaining piece in his fingers, he bit down, chewing happily. "Tasty." He offered her a careful smile, reaching to pick up his cup once more.
Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
