Ward & Weft

by Parker Foye

  He only saw Angharad for an instant, before she was enveloped in Ifanwy’s embrace, the others crowding close. Even their mother moved to rub her shoulder against Angharad’s skinny legs. Llywelyn stood to the side, breathing in their mixed scent and relearning it. When Griffith neared, Llywelyn pulled him close to watch the reunion. His pack, together at last.

  “I have news,” Angharad said, lifting her head from Ifanwy’s shoulder. Her eyes were damp. “I’ve been talking with the Council and they’re sending help! A dozen wolves are on their way here, to chase out that damn dog.”

  Llywelyn met Ifanwy’s worried glance with his own, his hand tightening on Griffith’s waist. The Council didn’t send help for free. Ifanwy tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, and Llywelyn lifted his shoulder in answer. No, the Council didn’t send help for free, but the Hywel pack needed every friend they could get. They would pay if they lived, and owe nothing if they died. Hopefully magic recognised friends as well as foes.

  “My sister,” he said to Griffith, who’d watched the silent exchange with a crooked smile. “Hywel to the bone. You brought her home. Thank you.”

  Griffith brushed his hand against Llywelyn’s shoulder blade, where the marking sat under his shirt. “She woke me, shouting from the other side of the boundary. Saying she wanted to help. But I don’t think she could’ve crossed if you didn’t want her here. If the lines didn’t sense it. Things are changing, because of you.”

  “Us.”

  Only the presence of his family kept Llywelyn from leaning in to taste Griffith’s blush and encouraging the simmering scent of arousal that seemed a near-constant when they were together. That Ifanwy had already started to tentatively torment him about.

  Griffith scratched lightly at Llywelyn’s back. He’d begun doing it to help relieve the itching, and it had quickly become a touch Llywelyn craved. A reminder of who they were and what they had achieved together.

  Which was good, because it seemed he didn’t actually need it for relief any longer.

  “It’s stopped itching,” he said, puzzled.

  Griffith smoothed his hand over the spot and made a thoughtful noise. He smelled pleased. “It was Angharad, I think. You needed her here, and so did the warding. It’s complete, now.”

  From inside the mess of embracing and exclamations, Llywelyn caught Angharad’s eyes. Pale as the moon, they were. Every time he looked up, he’d seen her there. She smiled at him.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed.

  Maybe they weren’t all lost, Llywelyn allowed, tightening his arm around Griffith’s waist. Maybe they just needed someone to lead them home.

  * * *

  “Did it work?”

  Llywelyn had been running nearly all night, and his question came out in pants. Griffith waved his hand, exhausted despite sitting on his arse the whole time. Magic took a lot of effort, especially the bone—and earth-deep sort he’d been working with. Around the clearing, the other wolves groaned at Llywelyn’s question, like even listening required too much energy. Griffith understood their reaction absolutely.

  Seemingly impatient with the delay in getting his answer, Llywelyn dropped to his knees beside Griffith and helped him to sit upright. Griffith had been certain he’d started out leaning against a particular tree, broad with a broken branch hanging low, but when he looked it stood on the opposite side of the clearing to where he slumped against Llywelyn’s side.

  “Did that tree move?”

  Llywelyn pressed the back of his hand to Griffith’s head. “I think you boiled your brain.”

  Swatting Llywelyn’s hand, Griffith pushed to his feet. Or tried to. He got as far as his knees and abandoned movement as a terrible idea. His body was bruised, every breath relighting soreness in muscles he’d never exerted before. Even his teeth ached. The ends of his hair.

  He frowned at the tree. “It definitely moved.”

  Kneeling beside him, Llywelyn captured Griffith’s fingers. “If you say so, cariad.”

  Llywelyn had become increasingly free with gestures of affection as the days passed. Griffith struggled with his openness in front of the pack, but wolves didn’t hold distaste for their proclivities. They only cared insomuch as anyone did for overt displays of affection.

  Llywelyn was very overt.

  From nearby, someone let out an exaggerated sigh. Expecting it to be Ifanwy, Griffith turned with an apology on his tongue, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. His words turned to dust when he found Angharad looking at him, head tilted.

  “Are you always like this?” She gestured between Griffith and Llywelyn. “So—besotted?”

  Now that sigh definitely came from Ifanwy. “For years, sister. Lovebirds, they are. It’s nauseating.”

  “I’m sure I’m not like that,” Angharad said, thoughtfully.

  Ifanwy made a noise of assent. “Women are far more sensible.”

  When Jonno voiced a protest, albeit quietly, Griffith decided to retreat before his face actually caught alight and ignited the forest. Including the tree which may or may not have moved. With Llywelyn’s help, he got to his feet and simply forgot to release Llywelyn’s hand. With his other, he touched the new seaglass charm on his belt.

  “Well, did it work?” Llywelyn asked, glancing at the charm, his voice low. “How would we tell?”

  “Do you feel different?”

  “No.”

  Griffith shrugged. “We’d be able to tell if I cast a warding, but—”

  “But those have gone awry lately, anyway.”

  “Exactly.”

  Though neither of them suggested the route, their feet led them on the path to the lightning tree. On the way they passed an area littered with stumps, where the pack had held picnics during summers when they were children. It sat halfway between the cottage and the hill, surrounded by taller trees. They’d played tag with Daffyd during the long summer days, as the adults drank and ate and talked about a world none of them would ever know again.

  He tugged Llywelyn to a stop with their linked hands.

  “Wolves are supposed to gain strength, with the bond.” Griffith jerked his chin at one of the stumps. “Do you think you could pull one of those? Usually, I mean.”

  Llywelyn shook his head. “We tried, one summer. My dad wanted to make some space. I nearly put my damn back out trying to yank the thing.” He smiled at the memory. “Turned out he meant with tools, of course. Daffyd cried from laughing.”

  “Sorry I missed seeing that.”

  Llywelyn squeezed Griffith’s hand and pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw. Like a promise of future memories they’d make together. He released Griffith’s hand and approached the nearest tree stump, nearly two feet wide. He toed it dubiously.

  “Do you want me to try?”

  “I don’t want you to break anything. But yes. Please.”

  “All right. Don’t laugh.”

  For a moment, Griffith thought the sole result of Llywelyn’s efforts would be a terrible backache and a ridiculous story. Far from laughing, a tendril of disappointment coloured his thoughts as he watched Llywelyn struggle. He’d failed to strengthen the pack. Griffith was no warden.

  Then something cracked open within him like an egg, the new seaglass charm smouldering at his hip almost too hot to endure. Griffith grabbed the charm to move it, startled when it cooled instantly beneath his fingertips. Distracted, he jumped when Llywelyn cried out. The stump had shifted.

  Griffith clutched his chest, afraid his heart might break free, and grabbed Llywelyn’s shoulder. A shock thrilled through him on contact, liquid and almost sexual. Llywelyn glanced at him with heat in his eyes, baring his teeth in a triumphant grin. A low growl rumbled from his chest, becoming a roar when the stump broke free in a shower of soil, roots snapped clean from the earth. Tossing the stump aside, he
tipped back his head and howled.

  Other voices raised in response and howls sang in the air like a declaration of war. As caught up as any of the wolves, Griffith wanted to raise his voice and join them, but contented himself with kissing the back of Llywelyn’s muddy hands. Hands he’d made strong enough to protect what was theirs.

  When Llywelyn’s voice dropped off, Griffith scarcely had time to react before Llywelyn’s hungry lips met his. No matter how many kisses they’d shared in the short time they’d had together, Griffith couldn’t get enough. Desire rose in him like a fever—like magic—and he pushed eagerly into Llywelyn’s arms, dropping his hands to grab Llywelyn’s arse, which he’d decided was his favourite handhold. Llywelyn, meanwhile, found joy in scraping his nails under Griffith’s shirt, leaving his lower back red and blissfully sore.

  If someone had ever asked what he wanted in a lover, Griffith would have thought of Llywelyn. He’d never considered beyond the impossibleness of that becoming truth. And yet Llywelyn kept introducing him to more and more deliciousness they could share. In quiet moments, Griffith dared to wonder what the future might hold should they live past Yule.

  As they might, if Angharad’s help came in time.

  Diluting their hungry kiss into smaller and smaller portions, until they were chastely brushing lips, Griffith rested his forehead against Llywelyn’s. He climbed his hands up Llywelyn’s back and held on to his shoulders, thumbs brushing through his shirt. Another of Griffith’s. He couldn’t find it within himself to mind.

  Dropping a kiss to his temple, Llywelyn rubbed the bolts of Griffith’s jaw with his thumbs.

  “You did it,” he said.

  “We did.”

  “After all this time. I didn’t realise it would be like this.”

  Griffith palmed Llywelyn’s shoulder blade, where he fancied he could find the mark on Llywelyn’s skin. I’ve done this. I’ve changed us both.

  He couldn’t decide if the realisation made him proud or terrified.

  As usual, he looked to Llywelyn. “How does it feel?”

  Llywelyn smoothed his hands along the tops of Griffith’s shoulders and down his arms in a languorous caress that made Griffith’s skin tingle. When he reached Griffith’s fingers he raised Griffith’s hands to his lips, kissing each fingertip. Even the missing one. He flashed his teeth.

  “It feels like we’re going to win,” he said.

  * * *

  As Yule drew closer, the hounds of Annwn ran through the territory and into Griffith’s dreams, like spectres doused in blood. Griffith had summoned them, or a facsimile at least, but that didn’t dissuade them from tormenting him with their attention and terrible howls. They pawed at him when he was tied to the table, rising to their hind legs and snapping at whatever they could reach before Morgan shoved them away with increasing desperation.

  Griffith’s sole comfort came from the panic clear on Morgan’s face, evident even as he brought out the usual array of knives. Morgan didn’t mention the hounds, as if they were his dream alone, so Griffith kept his silence.

  As silent as he could be when Morgan starting to peel his skin, anyway.

  * * *

  “Are the lines holding? Are the Council here?”

  Griffith asked the same questions every morning, after waking from nightmares sent by the bastard Morgan. The questions made Llywelyn feel powerless, like a damn canary in a coal mine. Every night he ran the lines, knowing they were merely biding time in hope Morgan would get scared and run, or the Council’s wolves would arrive. They were placing their trust in the superstitious nature of a monster and the efficiency of bureaucracy. It was enough to make a man weep.

  Llywelyn had felt as powerful as a hero from the Mabinogion when he’d pulled the stump from the ground. Like he could fight all comers.

  “But we’re not fighting,” Ifanwy had said. “We need only hold on a little longer.”

  They’d held on longer than any of them would have guessed, but as the Keeley pack worried the lines and no help came, Efa and Bethan began making noise about leaving. Jonno had never unpacked. Emery’s wolves kept trying the lines, making Griffith sweat and Llywelyn itch as the magic tying them reacted to the invasion, slowly exhausting both of them.

  Three days from Yule and the only thing that’d changed was Llywelyn had more to lose.

  So he ran the lines and answered Griffith’s question. Every night. Every morning.

  “No change,” he said, pushing a cup of sweet tea pointedly in Griffith’s direction. “Drink this.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Drink.”

  Pulling a face, Griffith gulped the tea. And promptly vomited when magic screamed in the air, like a tear in the universe. Llywelyn didn’t blame him. If he’d anything in his stomach, it would’ve ended up on the floor as well. Howls started to sound from all directions, calling to fight.

  If anyone in Aberarth didn’t know about the pack, they would by breakfast.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his visibly shaking hand, Griffith met Llywelyn’s eyes. “This is it. Isn’t it? The Keeley pack have broken the lines. I thought we’d have more time.”

  Fire burned in Llywelyn’s veins as the magic within him called to fight. He recognised Griffith’s fear but didn’t feel it. He felt nothing but relief. At last we know if we’ll live or die. Shoving to his feet, he dropped a kiss on Griffith’s temple.

  “Last one to the fight cleans up your mess!”

  He’d left the cottage by the time Griffith recovered enough to bellow after him. “I love you, you bastard! Don’t you dare die before I get dressed!”

  Llywelyn glanced at the grey sky as he ran to where broken magic pulled him, eager to act through his body. Do you see this, Daffyd? Could you ever have imagined this?

  When the first drop of rain splashed his face, he started to laugh.

  He was still laughing when Emery pounced.

  Chapter Nine

  Griffith muttered a stream of curses as he scrambled around the cottage, gathering every warding he had and trying to pull his boots on at the same time. The damn fool had left without him, running toward the broken lines like he was impatient for death.

  Not death. Llywelyn will be fine.

  Unlike Griffith, who had suddenly forgotten how to lace his boots. Or were his stupid hands making the task immeasurably more difficult? He’d likely have to cut the things off, providing he lived long enough. The boots, not his hands.

  Think positively, Griffith. You might live.

  A cacophony of howls, from challengers and not enough defenders, made his conviction wane. Historically, humans had not fared well when running with wolves.

  “But I’m a warden,” he told the birds, twitching in their nest as if unable to decide whether to flee or stay. “That makes a difference. God, I hope it makes a difference.”

  Since hope didn’t do much good alone, Griffith sliced his thumb open and smeared blood across a warding to prevent broken bones, tucking it inside his boot for safekeeping. A warding for strength went in the other boot. He riffled through the wardings he had prepared and shoved them in different pockets for ease of access, committing to memory what each pocket contained. Finally, he glanced outside, and grimaced.

  Of course it’s raining cats and fucking dogs.

  Griffith shook his head. Wales. With a final curse, he headed outside and started to run, following the beloved sound of Llywelyn’s voice. The link between them made him certain which of the sporadic howls came from Llywelyn, but Griffith fancied he would have been able to tell, anyway. That he would know Llywelyn even to the other side of the veil.

  A conviction that might be tested sooner rather than later. Griffith stumbled to a stop when he reached the broken boundary lines, breath coming short. There were more wolves than he could
count, all shifted, clawing and biting at one another, the ground already slick with rain and blood. Griffith’s legs locked at the sight, unsure to stay or run, queasy from the jagged wrongness emanating from the broken warding lines. He glimpsed Llywelyn fighting Emery, flashes of brown and red fur clashing together, another wolf—Ifanwy, by the colouring—assisting.

  Though fear held Griffith in its cold fist, he turned his attention around the area, trying to find where he could be of most use. He allowed himself a brief moment to wonder how he might tell friend from foe, but as soon as he laid eyes on the lithe grey wolf fighting two others twice her size, he recognised Angharad. She’d left her fiancé to come and die with the rest of them.

  Pack is pack is pack.

  Struggling to keep his footing on the wet ground, Griffith grabbed a warding from his pocket as he ran, swiping his thumb. The actions were rote, though the occasion anything but, and he slapped the activated warding on the nearest strange wolf’s flank even as he tumbled to the side. An invention of his own making, the bonebreaker snapped the wolf’s ribs with sickening sounds, drowned out by the subsequent howl of pain. Giving a shudder, the wolf lay still.

  Swallowing back vomit, Griffith dropped to his knees beside Angharad and brushed his fingers gently through the blood-matted fur on her side. She snapped at him and twisted away, limping for a step before standing firm. Griffith understood the message in the stubborn lines of her body. Ready to fight until she fell. A Hywel until she died. He got to his feet, watching as she darted back to the fight.

  Following her progress, Griffith saw at a glance what his heart hadn’t wanted to know. The Hywel pack was outnumbered, near three to one, and the Council hadn’t come.

  It didn’t matter.

  Throwing back his head, Griffith let out a howl and leapt into the mass of fur and teeth. He’d scarcely advanced a foot before a strange wolf barrelled into him, knocking him onto his back. His head thumped against a rock, making his vision swim. Heat smouldered in his boot as the warding for preventing broken bones flared with use.