Work Text:
Your master does not say the names he used to. Your master could be a wolf, for all the growling he does.
Your master, the boy.
You pad after him down the long stone halls. You sniff the long cold barrel in his hand and taste traces of fire. You lick his face and find it too cold. When he sleeps, his fingers crook in your ruff like talons. When, if, he sleeps.
Yes, the wolf.
Yes, the boy.
Fuck the lot of them always watching like vultures I'll fucking put my knife in her if she touches Amras—
Kill her if you feel so certain, Celegorm.
So says the little one with the old face.
You push your nose against your master’s knee, his knee which is ringing like a string.
You do not like the sound. The sound of him.
Sometimes, when his sleep is dreamless, he breathes against you with the shuddering deepness of breath you first heard when he was small.
His hair has grown past his shoulders in golden vines, and it spills over you. You thump your tail very softly, so that he may not wake.
He will not say their names, but the wind does.
G'way, Caranthir. G'way, Maglor.
You really trust her, Amras?
Here is the wolf, with tears in its eyes that do not fall, and so only serve to make its eyes the brighter. Here are the teeth and the tongue, all red. You know what blood is. You love it because that is what you are—near to a wolf.
(Your master is not a boy anymore.)