Chapter Text
“When in doubt, follow your nose.”
That’s what your parents had always taught you, growing up along the southern edge of a massive labyrinth of trees and mountains.
Tonight, your nose has brought you to a ledge high above a barn that reeks of stray werewolves. The scent is relatively faded, but the heavy smell of dog is enough to sting your nostrils from miles away, and it only grows stronger as you pick your way down from a nearby cliff.
There’s a much more recent smell that filters through the haze as you emerge into the wide clearing around the battered shelter. Fresh-puppy smell - the smell of a recently-awakened wolf wearing their first fur.
The gap in the wall takes some wiggling - suited better to younger werewolves and their smaller, growing bodies, but you shoulder through into the gloom and rise, ears pricked.
The growling is immediate. High-pitched and wobbly, it scratches over your ears, defensive threat wound tight and clear in every raspy note.
You mumble back, clacking your teeth as if you’d taken a bite of something rotten, and the growling pauses at the peaceful gesture. Scratching - wicked, thorn-sharp nails gouging through wood - predicates a narrow head poking up from a stall far in the back, luminous blue eyes - like mountain lakes and sunlight - staring in unconcealed curiosity at you.
The pup is tiny, even for a newborn, is the first thing you process, eyes passing over them repeatedly to check for any signs of distress. Gangly paws, too big and awkward for their slim, undersized body, are awkwardly supporting them atop the low wall.
You take a step forward, and their ears, once swiveled forward in curious interest, snap flat to their skull, lip curling in fury. The pup’s scent can’t lie to your old nose, though, and fear hangs in the air like a gauzy curtain.
The hard-packed dirt is firm against your belly as you lower yourself with a sigh, staring up at the pup’s twisted expression.
Again, the growling stops, and they stare down at you, frozen by confusion.
You wiggle forward, ignoring the fastidious fraction of yourself that bemoans dirtying your fur. Pups come before appearance is your firm belief, and you would never inflict stress on a newborn taking their wild shape for the first time.
A soft chuff, almost a laugh, shakes you as you make another advancement, and the pup sinks down from the wall, only to poke their head around to look at you on more even ground.
They stare, almost blankly, as you worm your way across the length of the barn, calling out softer sounds before making any moves. Their fur ruffles the closer you get, but they’re silent as you approach, ending with several proper steps between you.
Slowly, you lift yourself from your belly until you’re standing, several heads taller than the pup, whose ears have shifted closer to pinning flat.
One last chuff - a reassurance - and you lean closer, flicking your tongue out. The pup winces back, then pauses, staring at your muzzle.
The upward curl of your mouth passes as a smile, and gingerly, they lean closer, offering an uneasy sniff. Then another. They step closer, progressing to huffing at your nose, then along your cheek to your neck.
The information they glean is unassuming to someone of your age, but to a pup, it’s fascinating. They can smell the warm tar of the highway several dozen miles to the south, and the creek you splashed through coming down from the cliff, where you’d eaten a deer caught on the other side of the plateau.
They bounce back from where they’d been exploring the smell of flowers along your shoulder, and beam at you, fang-filled mouth lolling open in a comical expression of awe and adoration.
You snort softly, then carefully step past the pup, finding the small den they’d constructed of blanket scraps and piles of dry, stale hay.
The pup bundles past you, into the center of the ragged bed, and whirls to face you, ears upright and eyes bright, and you suppress your humor to offer an approving grunt.
Showing off - the instinct of all youngsters. It’s not a bad little corner, all things considered, but you preferred to make do with whatever shelter nature provided.
The pup flops down, leaving ample space for you, and you huff out your thanks as you move to take the offered spot but choose to sit upright.
Pups slept a lot, and this newborn seemed no different, teeth clicking shut to punctuate a massive yawn. You eye them for a moment, then look up at the sky, where the full, gorgeously-round moon is still only just above the horizon.
Hunger would come soon, but not until the moon was closer to the middle of the sky. For now, the pup would sleep, and you would watch.
Lycanthropes were not usual in this area, but not all adults were so kind to newborns. First furs were traditionally done with family or the closest loved wolf, and being the one to come across such a scene, there was a compulsion in the back of your skull to look after the pup, if only for tonight. Some newborns took to their fur, and some never changed again, explaining away the memories as vivid, youthful dreams.
Either way, the pup was yours to watch after, and so you did just that, tracking the moon through the gaping holes in the barn roof. When it draws close to the zenith, you turn to your charge, reaching out to nudge their shoulder. You don’t have to reach far, between the length of your leg, and the way they’ve rolled increasingly closer to you, but they jolt as if you’d bitten them, scrambling up and snapping their teeth at you.
You snap right back, chastising. Their ears flatten, swiveling backwards as they avert their eyes and lick at their lips, backing up. Beneath them, their tail swishes, beating out an uneven tune against the wooden wall they’re hunched against.
It’s the closest thing to ‘sorry’ you’ll get out of them for disturbing their rest.
You chuff softly, acknowledging the apology, and let your face relax, fur smoothing out as you turn aside.
A low growl resonates against your turned back, and the pup yelps - ducking away and whining their innocence when you swing your head in their direction, but you’re not angry, knowing that the desperate, mournful yowl came from their stomach.
More laughter rumbles from your chest, and they give you a pitiful look - all wide cornflower eyes and drooping ears, and you’re helpless to resist licking a broad stripe up from their snout to their forehead - an approximation of a fond forehead kiss.
Neither of you move for a moment, then the pup ducks under your chin, butting against the solid, muscled wall of your chest.
You tuck your head down as they wiggle closer, effectively hiding their small form from the world. Your breath stirs their fur as they sit against your chest, looking up at you with wide, gentle eyes.
You consider the notion of moving away immediately, then discard the idea, merely blinking slowly at your pup to convey your acceptance of the contact.
The pup’s tail squirms, pleased, before they settle, leaning their laughable weight back against you.
You tolerate the peaceful sitting together for a while, then duck your muzzle to nudge their shoulder with a low bark.
They whine and whimper and carry on, but they follow you obediently as you squeeze out of the barn, broad shoulders cracking the wood when you don’t bother trying to be gentle with the old structure.
The moonlight gleams on their pale grey fur, turning the pup into a blur of silver and blue as they gambol around the clearing, yipping and chirping, dancing circles around you as you shake off dust and hay from your dark pelt.
Another complaint comes from their stomach as they’re trying to goad you into a game, and they stop their play, whine shifting from excited to upset.
Hungry , their blue eyes tell you when they look up. You huff in response, leaning down to bump your nose to theirs. You turn away, and pad to the tree line, glancing down to find them sticking tight to your side, casting wary, eager looks around as you leave the moonlight and enter the shaded forest.
You have to dig up the memories of your first fur - playing in the moonlight with your parents, learning by following their lead, getting bowled over by your mother’s massive paws when you stuck your nose into things it wasn’t supposed to be in.
The nostalgia is nebulous, parsing in concepts both deeply human and entirely foreign, but you set the feeling aside to focus on the pup that you quickly learn is eager to please, and doubly eager to show off.
There’s a lot of gentle knocking about before they learn to watch you first as you show them what plants are tasty, and which to avoid. You scale upwards from there to small game, catching the pup a rabbit that is quickly, well, wolfed down, torn to ribbons by their teeth and claws.
You teach the pup how to distinguish and follow scents and keep their own minimal, how best to navigate terrain in a body that isn’t entirely wolf-shaped, but is only vaguely human, and what a delight it is to have a body made for running and playing and living.
The moon is halfway to the horizon when the pup brings down their first rabbit, after numerous examples from you on how to consistently confirm a catch.
The excitement is infectious, and you indulge in another forehead lick that results in another sudden increase of physical contact, fur meshing as they press against you, vibrating with joy.
The pup’s scent has been steadily developing, and the shape it takes in your nose offers a variety of information to you. The most glaring facet of it is how prevalent your own scent is, and how it’s represented when twined with the newborn’s.
Family, their scent says of yours, flashy and tart.
My pup , your scent replies quietly, mellow and sweet.
Your heart is warm in your chest, recognition of the attachment pure and sweet as it hums through your soul.
The moon nearly rests herself on the horizon when you and the pup return to the barn. Their energy has decreased, and when you stand shoulder-to-shoulder before the opening to the shelter, they whine, high and wavering.
You allow an answering groan, turning to press your cheek to the pup’s, then stepping forward to shadow them beneath you entirely. They press close once again, then bolt away, scrambling into the shelter, where you hear the dry protest of hay as the pup rushes into their den.
You tip your head back, and howl. It rises and falls, sonorous and solemn as it rushes into the night air. The mountains bounce the cry back and forth until it sounds as if a ghostly choir sings with you.
Goodbye , is the message. You are loved.
You’re not sure if you sing for the moon as she sinks, or the pup you can hear crying in the barn.
You turn your back to the barn, and lope into the forest, following your old tracks back up the cliff and down the other side.
Along the mountains, the moon is nearly gone, and you can feel your insides stirring, pushing at the confines of your muscles and fur.
Hot breaths spill from between your fangs as you run through the dark, the crash of your paws on solid ground like the roar of thunder.
You make it to the shoulder of a familiar highway, where a car sits behind a cluster of bushes that hide it from the road.
Just as you skid to a halt, nearly whacking your head on the metal flank of the vehicle and falling onto your side in the dirt, you feel the last of the moonlight fade away.
A human hand fumbles with the door before the fingers catch and pull the handle. The door swings open with a metallic sigh, hand dropping and after several long moments, you crawl into the backseat of your beat-up car where a pair of sweatpants and a sweater are waiting for you.
You dress languidly, avoiding the mirrors as you climb into the front seat of the car, scrubbing at your eyes before you dig the keys out from below the seat and jam them into the ignition.
The car coughs before it rumbles to life, and, daring a glance in the mirror to make sure nobody is coming up the road, you guide the car around the bushes and out onto the pavement, yawning loudly and painfully as you start the hour-long drive back to your apartment in town.
In a month, you will drive out here and do it all over again. Maybe the pup will return, maybe not. Maybe you will find another newborn, or even another adult wandering the wilds.
Maybe it will be a friendly encounter, maybe you will return home with bruises and scars you can’t easily explain, exhilarated by defending your slice of territory from a hostile stranger.
A million maybes crowd in the trees either side of the highway as you rattle your way home, but they have time - twenty-nine days, to be precise.
For now, you just want to go home and get some fucking sleep.