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I dreamed of being a wolf.
I dreamed of waking up in a cave, its ground damp with melted ice, the only warmth present being that of my pack, huddled together in love and trust. My mother licked me awake, my father nuzzled me up, and my siblings and partners followed suit. No winter could possibly chill us.
We groomed each other. We hunted a lone deer throughout the mountainside; father chose me to actively help, despite my age. True competence can only come from experience. It was a gaunt little thing; inattentive, tired eyes, ribs showing and glistening with snowflakes, unsteady legs sinking deeply in the snow. And it still ran as fast as any of its kind. But it couldn’t outrun us. Nothing can.
We surrounded it, the sun now already closer to the horizon than when we started, and it tried to fight back when it was already too late; the most tense part of every hunt was fighting prey that had nothing to lose. Father, vicious as always, bit its muzzle to keep it in place, and mother growled and snapped in its face, as me and my siblings went for its legs; the most dangerous job, and the one that showed his faith in me. It kicked me in the face, its sharp hoof hitting my left eye in a burst of malignant sunlight, crimson tar blinding me; but its leg lingered for too long, and I clamped my jaw shut, its fetlock joint giving in with little more resistance than a twig. Another kick came my way, and I spat the broken leg, the taste of iron in my mouth, and jumped for its neck, aiming for the back of the head. I bit, tense muscle and hard bone unable to hold it alive, and fresh blood leaked around my fangs; its death throes much milder and cries much quieter than the rumbling of my stomach.
My sister lapped at my eye, cleaning it; I could still see, but hot pain pulsed in tandem with my heart. It should scar soon. But it doesn’t matter: after days, we will eat, and more importantly, I proved myself. Mother and Father ate first, but they let me come earlier than the other times; I worked for it and I will enjoy it. The dense, chewy muscle that I swallow in chunks, bathing my mouth and stomach in its decaying warmth, its blood washing down the scrumptious taste of death off my tongue. But my siblings soon started to eat, after I had most of my fill; selfishness was, always, unacceptable. And I didn’t care about it: we eat enough to keep going, try to save some for the sick and wounded, and that is it.
We are strong because we are together.
Because we are together, we are free.
.
.
.
I woke up, and I was on the front porch, heavy eyelids trying to shield me from reality, and I yawned. The street was as calm as always; the menace of those large metal things - “cars”, according to Master - long gone with their novelty. Not important enough for even a whine, much less a bark, I decided, as I turned to my left and to my food bowl, filled before He left home for… wherever He went for most of the day. Crunchy chunks of dead flavour, as per usual - I only realized they were bribes for my compliance when it was already too late, and so, rare were the days I could sink my fangs into actual meat. I chowed the nutritious joylessness down and went back to my spot, laying down again, and closed my eyes.
I opened them sometime later, and in front of me, I saw another, black dog. Its - her, from the scent - fur was glossy in some spots, and her eyes were browning-orange pools of pure ennui. She looked down at me for a few moments, eyes as still as the ones on the “cars”, and her leash went taut, pulling her away for a second, before she stopped and looked back. Waiting for me.
I didn’t even deign to get up: I shook the morning chill with a vigorous shake, the short chain tied to my collar rattling with the movement, and she got the hint, walking calmly away until she and her owner vanished from sight.
I laid down and closed my eyes again, lest my envious gloom turned into jealous rage. To dream is the closest thing to freedom I’ll ever taste.
A mild spring wind blew the curtains apart, and Lappland Saluzzo stirred awake, warm sunshine stealing her back into the slightly cold room. Still in bed, her blue eyes locked onto the ceiling, the details of her dream already vanishing as her hand reached under her pillow, brushing her fingers against a small velvet bag. Shadows danced in tandem with the curtains’ movement, reminiscent of beasts running through a field, and a profound, confused sadness escaped her lips with a sigh.
A soft knock on the door brought her back from her daze, and a young, brunette Lupo maid opened the door with some hesitancy. Lappland had fully expected the girl to have already called it quits at this point; she had put on her best performance for the mornings, and yet here the girl was, diligently visiting her every morning. Either she was an astoundingly dedicated worker, or she really needed the job. Or the Don hadn’t given her the option to quit just yet. The reasons mattered less than the fact it simply wasn’t worth keeping the act going; Lappland was already starting to feel bad for her.
“ Buongiorno, signorina .” She had come a long way from a few months ago in regards to the trembling in her voice and bow, but it would never come off. No matter how long she stays by her side, a civie’s a civie.
“ Buondi to you too, Paola.” Lappland gave her best, most-definitely-amicable smile possible, and disguised the disappointment from the maid’s lack of reaction with a wider one as she kicked the blankets off herself. “So, what’s on my schedule for today?” The maid moved to pick the blanket from the ground, and the teenage Lupo quickly moved the bag to a small jewelry box on her bedside table, beside a clearly unused alarm clock.
"...The Don expected you for breakfast this morning, signorina . Is your clock broken again?"
"Something like that." The Don had gotten her a solar battery one this time, and she knew the maids had been ordered to keep the curtains open at all times during the day. “11:34 AM” was displayed in mint blue in the clock’s visor, with its permanently depressed snooze button; a testament to her ingenuity. "So it's already this late, huh? What a shame. Guess I'll find myself something to eat later."
"He still expects you for lunch-"
Lappland jumped off the bed and stretched with gusto, letting out a contented sigh, and moved to her closet, where her house clothes - a fitted white dress shirt, black shorts and well-worn, black Chelsea boots - were already ready for the day. Poor Paola’s enervated sigh was enough to signal she had gotten the message; thus far, Lappland had always made sure that her shenanigans wouldn’t land her in trouble with the Don, but she couldn’t help but worry for her job or life still, and so, she moved on to pick the clothes left behind by her stripping young mistress.
The girl hummed as she closed the bottom buttons on her shirt. Her pale skin and waifish form, with slim shoulders and only the faintest hint of breasts, combined with the midi shorts, made her look distinctly androgynous; she bundled her white, wild hair in a hand and pulled it up in a tight ponytail and got a distinct glee from how easily she could pass for a boy. The thought of her father’s reaction to such a radical haircut brought a satisfied smile to her face, and while she looked back at the still working maid, her other hand distractedly moved, first to her stomach, then to her inner thigh, as if expecting to find something, but only finding the smooth skin and firm muscle of a pre-teen, the corners of her lips lowering a few millimeters.
She let her hair go, and finished buttoning up her shirt as the white locks cascaded down.
After dressing up, she glanced back at the clock, now marking 11:40 AM, and left her room, heading to the end of the Saluzzo mansion opposite to the dining room and onto its library. She didn’t bother giving the mafiosi more than a few nods on her way down the corridor, and they didn’t expect her to either; regardless of her eccentricities, she was the Saluzzo heir. Lappland would be their boss someday, and it would benefit everyone involved to grow used to that fact. She reached the desired room and started picking books, based on nothing but her superficial interest in the title, cover or subject matter; weekends were for resting and for family quality time, which was why she often used it to study. She could always catch up with her lazing schedule during and after school. Two books on history - one on the history of Laterano and the other on the industrial development of Yan -, an older edition of a biochemistry textbook, and a favourite of hers: La Cote Della Critica: L'arte Dell'antagonismo Letterario, its pages full of highlights, none of them her own.
Sitting on a comfortable armchair, she began whiling the hour she knew her dearest father would wait for her for the meal; a busy man as he certainly had his own activities to worry about. The knowledge on the mechanisms at play during the absorption of neurotransmitters was received by her in the same way the story of a play or the result of a football game would: with mild interest, it was properly recorded, stored, and categorized by her mind as ritually useful information. The sort of thing a future Donna would need to know to better disarm her prey.
The elegant wood of the furniture and the distinct smell of old paper were the only witness to the wistful eyes that scanned the pages.
When she came back to herself, it was already the early afternoon: skillfully dodging the areas of the mansion her dearest father could be in at the moment, and breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the closed door of his office, she intimidated a poor kitchen porter for a simple ham sandwich and left the books on her room as the time for silver lining of her weekend finally arrived. When it was built, a certain large room of the mansion had been built and outfitted with the purpose of being used for dance lessons: at the time, Leithanien ballet was all the rage among the higher echelons of society, and the game the mafiosi played demanded certain class signifiers from the participants. As this short-lived fever went down, the room was repurposed into a much more pragmatic use.
Lappland widened her stance, one blunt sword in each hand, undistracted by the mirrors on the wall as her eyes fixed on the tall, grey-haired Caprinae woman in front of her, who tightened her stance in response, blunt saber leveled at her chest. Elzbyeta Szymanska, former Ashen Knight and coach of the Eszeweria Knightclub, was a harsh, unforgiving teacher, whose feedback was often much more painful in its sincerity than any of the blows she landed on her young apprentice, which suited her salary and the spirit of her charge both; after so many other swordsmanship instructors had failed to properly captivate the Saluzzo daughter with their fearborne methods, her castigating style made the young Lupo improve by leaps and bounds out of nothing but gleeful spite.
The cub moved first, lunging the right sword at her master’s chest before twisting her whole body to the same direction, anticipating the deflection and using it to close the gap, and the sexagenarian knight merely twisted her wrist to point the tip at her opponent’s body, already expecting for her to come with a slash from beneath; Lappland risked even more, taking an extra step on the same direction to take the full turn needed to slash with her left from above. The blow was also deflected, of course; the craftiest fighters were often the ones most willing to take risks, and Elzbyeta knew how much of a little demon the girl was, and as she often told her, she had to be ready for every possibility. The strength of the deflecting blow was enough to make Lappland drop her left sword with a clatter, and she tried to stab with her right at the teacher’s wrist, her smile sharpening as the older woman turned her body just enough to dodge the blow and, undoubtedly, stab at her now unprotected hard.
Lappland kicked her dropped sword hard, its hilt hitting the knight’s shin with an audibly painful thump, and her hard eyes widened in surprise, anger and all-too-human pain. She moved in for the killing blow as soon as Elzbyeta’s guard was broken, and guaranteed her defeat; the tip caught the domed guard of the training saber and her weight made it slip, in just the perfect position for her teacher to hit her in the stomach with the back of the sword, leaving the young girl gasping for air, kneeling on the ground.
The master used the tip of the saber to pull her face up by the chin, annoyance clean in her gaze.
“That was a low blow.”
Lappland smiled despite the pain, her teeth looking sharper when reflected by the steel. “That was a blow that worked .”
“Had it worked, you wouldn’t have lost. Disqualified at best, and dead at worst. Your form is still terrible, and everything except your little surprise-” She spat the word like a particularly nasty curse, making Lappland’s eyes almost sparkle with glee. The old crone hated surprises with a passion. “Was amateurish at best.” She pulled her chin further up, making it just hard enough for Lappland to breath as needed to make her point. “Instead of trying more and more cheap tricks, you should strive to be mediocre at the basics. It would already be a marked improvement.”
“ Certamente, maestra. ” Lappland raised a hand at Paola, who waited by the window at her left and had motioned to help her young master. The tip of the saber doubled as a helping hand for her to get up, and so she did, picking both swords off the ground. The blow would certainly bruise her, but the fire in her stomach was almost welcome at this point. Making her teacher mad was a sign she was on the right track. “One more try is fine though, right?”
“This time, properly -” Elzbyeta straightened her back and primly, properly, rested the tip of the saber on the ground, hand tightening at the pommel. Lappland didn’t even need to look at the mirror to know why the hard edge melted away from the old crone’s voice, as the old knight nodded respectfully, almost meekly, at the door behind her apprentice.
“Don Alberto.”
Lappland turned to the door as he nodded at the instructor and approached. Deliberate, slow footsteps echoed and owned the room, as if the air itself had no choice but to acquiesce to his presence, ice-blue eyes desaturating even the sunlight as they scanned the room. God help whatever got their attention.
Paola gulped and bowed her head almost too much.
Elzbyeta took a step back, head still held high, but gaze softened - tamed.
Lappland grabbed the hem of her inexisting skirt in a mocking curtsy, a sweet smile gracing her features.
“ Buon pomeriggio, padre mio. ”
He locked his gaze onto hers for a few moments, no discernable emotion whatsoever in them. She could see her own detached, childlike glee reflected in those fields of ice.
“I expected you for breakfast, figlia mia .”
“My sincerest apologies, Father. It seems the clock you graced me with is of too low quality for your discerning tastes.” It was a game for her, to try and find the worst possible answer to his every word until she could get the smallest hint of anger out of him.
“For lunch as well. I try to leave my busy schedule open in these mornings specifically to spend time with my dear daughter, and you won’t even give your father the joy of your presence.”
“I wasn’t particularly hungry when I woke up, Father. But I intended no offense by not joining you.” Her smile mellowed. “I merely had better things to do.”
Paola failed at holding back a gasp, but neither Saluzzo cared enough to notice it. They merely stared at each other in silence, the air growing leaden between them.
“I am sure you did.” He dragged a finger through a nearby rack filled with wooden and steel training swords, as if looking for dust on them. His eyes glanced for a fraction of a second at the nervous maid at the back; she looked like she would explode if he did more than that. “A pity. I hope, however, that you will join me for dinner, then.”
“Provided I’m hungry enough for it, I will be more than glad to, Father.”
“It would make me very happy if you did. We are to receive important guests, as you know.”
“My, it’s already the day for us to host the Lucchesi? I had forgotten! Silly me.” The smile never left her face; she knew he found it insufferable. She had been told it reminded him of her , after all. “But as much as I would like to see zietto i zietta , I can’t guarantee I’ll be available.”
“Have you made plans for the same day your own blood is coming to visit, Lappland?” Too subdued still. He didn’t even use any imperatives yet. “I raised you better than this.”
“That you did, padre mio ! That you did. But you also raised me to honor my word, and I promised I would visit my dearest friend Cellinia later today, and I can’t go back on it.” Her smile grew more and more apologetic as she brought her hand to her chest. “Besides, it’ll work better for everyone involved. I get to spend some quality time with a friend and strengthen our relationship with the Texas; and you get to spend the night reminiscing about Mother!” She closed her eyes, so incredibly satisfied. “They’ll be thrilled to have you explain how, exactly, you let her di-”
When she was able to fully realize what happened, her body was already twisting in the air and away from him, and the sound of the slap reached her ears before its searing hot pain or the coppery taste of blood in her mouth reached her brain. She fell hard on the wooden floor, face turned to the mirror wall; Paola had closed her eyes and bowed her head, and the stalwart night had her own gaze fixed at the floorboards.
No one dared truly cross the Don.
Alberto stood in place, fingers with the slightest speck of his daughter’s blood in their tips, as he gazed down at his successor and disappointment. Blue met blue, the cold of Lateranian steel meeting the maddened fearful instinct of a cornered beast. His voice pinned all present down in place.
“I can tolerate your insolence, figlia mia . Your disdain. Your obstinacy. Your petty acts of rebellion. All of these are my cross to bear as your father.” He flicked his wrist, the blood falling a few centimeters in front of Lappland’s fallen body. “I won’t tolerate your malicious faux ignorance. Have I made myself clear?”
The Saluzzo heir found herself able to still smile, even with the pain intensifying. It was the best - the only - act of resistance she could offer. A shame it wasn’t followed by her eyes or voice. “Yes, father.”
He turned to the door, a single flash of disgust and sadness showing in his stern countenance. “You will come to dinner at eight sharp. With the blue dress I gifted you last month.”
“Yes, father.”
“The Texas will be made aware of your indisposition for the night. Your little friend will certainly understand.”
“Yes, father.”
Alberto stood in the doorstop for a brief second, turning his head only enough for her to behold what absolute control was like. “There may be hope for you yet, my dear daughter. I will make it so.”
Only when his footsteps couldn’t be heard anymore did the room dare breathe again, the shaking maid helping her young master up, and the old knight mumbling something about it being enough training for the day. Each member of the troupe had their role, and they were damn good at playing it.
The night passed in an interminable, brief haze. Lappland dressed as requested and, serene smile in place, played her assigned part of the troublesome albeit good natured heiress. She didn’t taste the fine cooking or the little wine she was allowed; she made small talk (barked), curtsied (rolled), shook hands (pawed) and obeyed (played dead) perfectly. Exactly as she was trained to do. A perfect night for all those who truly mattered.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, after asking her dearest father for a blessing of a good night, she turned on the lamp on her bedside table as she let the navy blue sleeveless dress roll off her body. Reverently, she picked the lacquered jewel box, a memento of her mother, and picked the black velvet, a familiar, thrilling tingling sensation already inviting itself into her fingers, and she let its contents out into its rightful place.
The active Originium stone on the bed, a fragment taken from a broken Arts unit, caught the light of the lamp, reflecting a wickedly white fanged smile in its black surface, and Lappland didn’t even bother putting it back in its bag; like every night before, she put her pillow on top of it and started to get ready for a good night’s sleep.
If freedom wouldn’t come in life, she would snarl to her owner unto death.