GREYBACKS
This is the third in a line of WIPSnips short stories. The characters are Lobo and Fenrir, the latter of whom I'm currently plotting a full novel around...
As winter loosened its desperate grasp on Mondheim, the snow stuck around stubbornly, blanketing the countryside in pristine white. You’d almost forget that spring was just around the corner, were it not for the snowdrops poking through the frost, delicate lanterns forced through crystals of ice.
It was these such details that Lobo, hands clutched to his stomach, focused on as he let his feet follow the trackless path through the forest. The trees were mostly evergreen, pine and live oak and holly bushes, clubmosses clinging to branches and bark with steely determination. Lobo glanced up, and marvelled at the play of light between the branches, weak winter sunlight growing stronger as it dappled the forest floor.
At length the gentle hummocks and winding valleys brought a simple log cabin into view. Smoke ribboned up from the chimney, and Lobo smelled a gamey stew on the hearth that made his mouth water. Ah, but food could wait; because he was here to meet someone who lay in the clearing, taking in the sun’s first spring rays.
It was a wolf.
Grey fur dappled with brown, eyes closed contentedly, tail swinging to and fro lazily. It did not seem to notice Lobo, not until he stepped foot off the snow and onto the warm, clear ground, at which point a single eye opened lazily and fixed the old man in its sight.
Despite himself, Lobo grinned.
The wolf let out a yawn, which turned into a deep-throated growl, and got to its feet. It watched Lobo warily, pawing at the ground.
Lobo returned with his own growl, eyes darkening.
The wolf broke into a run.
Lobo let his arms drop to his sides, fingernails lengthening into claws.
The wolf leapt, jaws open.
Lobo caught it, wrapping his arms around it, but the animal’s weight dragged him down. They rolled, those two, scrabbling against each other with claws, wolf snapping with its jaws, until Lobo, exhausted, let his arms drop by his sides, and grinned up at the snarling maw that stopped short inches from his face.
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Eight years without a word, and this is how you greet me? For shame, brother.’
The wolf morphed. Now he was a man, Lobo’s collar bunched in his fist, gruff-bearded and streaked with grey about the temples, his eyes hard like flints and his mouth turned down in that same snarling expression.
‘Eight years we didn’t talk, Lobo,’ he said, ‘and for good reason! What are you doing here?’ Lobo chuckled and pushed him off effortlessly; the man sprawled, and Lobo got to his feet.
‘You disappoint me,’ he said. He held out his hand to the man. ‘Come, Fenrir; we used to be civil once.’
Fenrir – for it was he – glanced at the hand. But his eyes were drawn elsewhere, down to Lobo’s stomach, where his shirt was torn, exposing bare skin and worse.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Fenrir said shortly. Lobo sighed; he took his younger brother by the shoulder and hauled him up, causing a fresh burst of claret which dripped down under his belt.
‘That I am, Fenrir. In point of fact, I am dying.’
Fenrir stared at Lobo’s face – careworn, wrinkled, clean-shaven – but shook himself, pulled himself free of Lobo’s grip.
‘Bah! What of it!’ He shouldered past Lobo. ‘I don’t hear from you for eight years, Lobo – why come back now?’
‘An old man can’t miss his brother?’ Lobo asked. He followed Fenrir into the cabin; it was sparsely furnished, a simple table with two chairs and a cast-iron cauldron in which the stew was bubbling merrily – rabbit, by the smell of it. Shoved against the wall near the fire was a well-worn, threadbare couch, a soft blanket messily thrown on top of it.
‘You are not allowed,’ Fenrir grumbled. ‘Anyway, you were the one who went and disappeared – that’s my seat.’
This last in response to Lobo pulling one of the chairs out from under the table. Lobo shrugged, moved around to the other side and sat, kicking back the chair legs and putting his feet up on the tabletop.
‘I did that for your own good,’ Lobo argued. ‘You were too young to join us at the time. Better to wait and let you make up your own mind – or so I thought!’
Fenrir shrugged. He ladled some of the stew into a bowl and took a seat on the sofa, blowing on his meal.
‘None for me?’ Lobo asked. Fenrir paused and glowered at him, before tipping the bowl back and slurping the broth.
‘You’re not welcome here!’ he snapped.
Lobo shifted, turning in his chair so he could face Fenrir. There were marked similarities between them – a certain set of the jaw, and the cold, dark eyes – but they were polar opposites in almost every other way. Fenrir was broad and strong, all muscle, where Lobo was lean and tall; the former was chestnut brown from working in the sun all day, and the latter was pale, a consequence of hiding from the light. And yet both had the weight of a wound spring, each waiting for the other to leap.
‘I already told you, I’m dying,’ Lobo said. ‘I wanted to see my brother before I died. Is that so great a crime?’
‘It might as well be,’ Fenrir retorted. ‘Eight years, Lobo! Eight years without a word, the only news I heard of you from the papers branding you a terrorist. What was I supposed to think?’
‘...I’m glad my brother is still alive?’ Lobo suggested. ‘I’m happy he’s fighting the good fight? I had an opportunity, Fenrir! That’s all there is to it – I was given this chance, and I took it, and it cost me eight years of knowing you and my life! I’m sorry!’
Fenrir paused mid-gulp, eyes darting to his brother. He lowered the bowl slowly.
‘So it takes your death for you to come back and apologise?’ he asked. Lobo shrugged and nodded.
‘The rebellion became my life, Fenrir,’ he explained. ‘Everywhere you look, we’re being run out – of jobs, of homes, of life! So I figured I’d either give my life to the cause, or take down those vampires once and for all.’
Fenrir turned back to his soup.
‘So you gave your life.’ He shrugged. ‘And now what? You’re here to drag me into it? You want me to finish what you started?’
Lobo stared at Fenrir – at his younger brother – and felt a pang in his chest. He shook his head.
‘I’m not here to decide your life for you,’ he said. ‘I came back here for one thing, and one thing only: when I die, I want you to bury me.’
Fenrir stared past Lobo, eyes fixed on the window. He held the bowl in his hands, fingers shuffling gently as the heat leached through.
‘What was it?’ he asked eventually. ‘That wounded you mortally? Who gave you the wound that kills you?’ Lobo shook his head and chuckled.
‘Just some no-name grunt with a silver blade,’ he admitted. ‘I’d love to tell you I died fighting the Blood Prince himself, but… well, I got careless. Got caught up in a fight, missed this one kid with a silver dagger.’
Fenrir scoffed, and Lobo had to choke back the growl that escaped his throat. All at once he shrank back, sorrowful; and he looked smaller and thinner, and his hair looked lank and his eyes looked wild and afraid. For just a moment, Lobo was the old man he felt.
‘I couldn’t kill him,’ he said at last, staring into the fire. ‘I just looked into his eyes and I kept telling him, “it’s okay”. He looked more scared than I was with the blade buried in me. Like he hadn’t known it could do that.’
Slowly, Fenrir put his bowl down. He rose and went to the cauldron, pulling a second bowl from the shelf above the fireplace, and filled that with stew. He placed it in front of Lobo and sat opposite him, feeling the sun warming his back.
‘Eight years, and you ask me to bury you.’
Lobo ignored him, leaning down to sip on the soup.
‘Why me?’ Fenrir asked eventually.
‘That’s a good question.’ Lobo leaned back, staring at the smoke-stained ceiling. ‘I suppose because you’re my brother, and you’re the only family I have left.’
‘Why not the rebellion?’ Fenrir pressed. Lobo scoffed.
‘Radicals, the lot of them!’ he dismissed. ‘They’re city wolves, Fenrir; they don’t know our traditions.’
‘We barely know our traditions. Eight years! I still can’t get over it; I know, you’ll tell me the rebellion is vital… but more important than seeing your own brother?’
Lobo chuckled sadly and shook his head.
‘I let it take over me,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t even have the luxury of youth to excuse my behaviour! I’m sorry, Fenrir; you deserved a brother who could be there for you, who could steer you right. I couldn’t be what you needed. In truth, I came back because… Because I was scared. I didn’t want to die alone in a roomful of strangers.’ He looked up, tears pricking his eyes. ‘I want to watch the sunset with my brother one last time.’
Fenrir stared at his brother for a long time. Then he made a sound in his throat which began as a growl, but which turned into a full-throated laugh. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and stared at his brother.
‘Look at us! A coupla greybacks! I get it, Lobo; we avoid each other and we fight because it’s easier than admitting the truth. And, in those eight years, I missed you.’ He stood and moved to the doorway. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’
Fenrir took a shovel from in front of the woodpile and they moved through the trees until they reached a wide clearing. From here the distant cliffs were visible, and the sun beyond that. Fenrir broke ground with his shovel – the earth was hard with the later winter frost, but for a werewolf it was easy work – and dug steadily. Lobo watched from a nearby tree; leaning against it, he rested his weight on it until his brother finished the work: a deep trench, eight feet long and four feet wide. When Fenrir stabbed the shovel into the piled of cleared earth, that was when Lobo allowed his legs to give out, and sank down to the tree’s roots, breathing hard.
‘Lobo!’ Fenrir cried. He was at his side in an instant, easing him down against the tree. Lobo waved him off half-heartedly.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve got life left in me yet.’ He fixed his brother with a steely look as he added, ‘I’m not dying until I’ve seen that sunset.’
Lobo clutched at the wound, defying its hold as he stared out at the sun through the trees. Fenrir sat next to him, one arm around him, keeping him propped up.
‘You’re a real bastard, you know that?’ Fenrir murmured, and Lobo spat a bloody laugh. ‘You disappear for eight years to fight against the vampires, and then what? You let some kid stick you with a silver dagger. Some revolution!’
‘Yeah, that’s true,’ Lobo murmured. His smile faded as the sun neared the horizon. ‘I took pride in it, though. It made me proud to be a fighter.’
Fenrir felt a knot in his throat; he swallowed, searching for the words.
The sun slipped below the hills, and the sky faded from orange to pink to purple.
It was only when the sky dimmed to a deep night blue, and he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder as his brother slipped sideways, that Fenrir thought to say, ‘I was proud of you too.’
He glanced down and, seeing Lobo’s blank eyes staring at nothing, sniffed back his tears, cleared his throat, and buried his brother in the forest.