Work Text:
Epiphany
The Pack’s Den, January 1412
The soft-spot is still the best. Warm. Squishy. And the puffy feather-thing is good for chewing. Almost as fun as ripping into a hare. But what Goboy loves most of all about this spot are its smells. Every breath he takes in feels like home. All his favourites mixed together—leather, herbs, musk, game and wool. And underneath it all, there is even a hint of that half-forgotten place of his puppy days. The smell of Homescent and his pack. Goboy can still taste the trail Huntbrother left behind before he snuck out last night.
His favourite spot is easy on the joints, too. They began to ache some time ago once it started to get colder. Nowadays he senses the worry in Homescent’s eyes when he pats Goboy’s head or rubs the sore spot above his bum. Everything feels a little harder than it used to. Getting up and down the wooden mountain into the den, jumping onto the soft spot when Homescent isn’t looking. He’s even gotten slower stealing treats from the hot room that smells like meat and flour.
But there are upsides. The females guarding that magical place have started to sneak him food instead of chasing him off. Huntbrother even saves him the best parts of his kills when he comes home from the woods, smelling of loam, game and adventure. The amount of scratches he gets has increased, too. So on the whole, getting older is not such a bad thing.
A scuff on the floorboards, faint but unmistakable, pulls Goboy out of his nap.
He should jump up and bark perhaps. Alert his pack of an intruder. But all he can muster is a big huff and perked up ears.
As the door creaks open, Goboy gets a good whiff of a familiar scent and relaxes: parchment, ink, sweet honey and dust from exploring forbidden places. His tail begins to wag, rumpling up the soft blanket he’s made his little nest of.
Goboy’s head perks up, his mouth begins to water. It’s Littlebrother. And he brought a treat. Good pup!
“Silly doggie,” Littlebrother crows as he closes the door behind him.
He hurries over and climbs onto the soft spot where Goboy’s already presenting his belly for rubs. Littlebrother’s hands are small—and always a bit sticky for some reason—but clever. He knows all the best spots.
“Here, Mutt,” the pup says and pulls a meat-stick from his pocket. Goboy snatches it up to make short work of it.
This seems to entertain Littlebrother, he giggles as he stretches out next to him. “You got slobber all over uncle Henry’s bed, silly boy!”
Goboy licks the pup’s face in thanks as he nestles up to him. Littlebrother lies belly down on the soft spot, chin resting in his small hand, feet kicking the air.
“Do you know what day it is, Mutt?” he asks. “It’s Epiphany! We’ll go hunting today, father promised. Uncle Henry said I should let you nap and we’ll take father’s new hunting dog. But I’d rather take you. What do you think, Mutt?”
Littlebrother is always prattling at a speed Goboy can’t keep up with. There are hardly any sounds he knows the meaning of. Like all pups he’s just very fond of using his mouth. Perhaps his teeth are coming in?
“Well, come on, Mutt! Let’s get going before father changes his mind!”
Littlebrother jumps off the soft spot and beckons him. “Heel!”
Not today, little pup. Goboy yawns and stretches his aching joints. A slow blink at Littlebrother. That should do it. Go play fetch, pup, Goboy thinks. Come back when you have more meat-sticks.
But Littlebrother is a stubborn creature. His small muzzle wrinkles and he rakes a hand through his flax-coloured fur. And then he says the magic sound: “Hares, Mutt! We’ll hunt hares!”
Those twitchy little jumpers! Goboy’s mouth is suddenly filled with the memory of musky fur, rich meat and sweet blood. Aching joints or not—he’ll have his share in this hunt! So he gathers himself, slower than he used to, shakes the last remnants of sleepiness from his old bones and trots after Littlebrother.
His pack’s home lies within a system of big caves, some narrow and others very wide. Some made of stone and some of mud and wood. It’s always buzzing with activity because a big herd of two-legged dogs have claimed this territory. Most of them are friendly to him and very fond of Littlebrother. They incline their heads as the pup walks by.
“A blessed Epiphany to you, young master Hynce,” one of the metal-men says when Littlebrother leads Goboy down the wooden mountain into the clean, cold air.
“And to you, Janek!”
The wide space outside lies still today. Usually there’s always the clang of iron as the metal-men playfight in the pen at the center. Homescent used to join in, too. But lately he’s too busy teaching the pup how to use the death-stick. He’s still clumsy. The smell of old blood trapped under his fur lingers on him. But pups harden fast. This one will as well.
Goboy trots along as Littlebrother skips past stone-dens lining the path. Frost crinkles underneath his paws and the air smells delicious—meat and sweet herbs lingering in the biting cold breeze. He can sense a kind of hush among the two-legged dogs. The merry, content happiness of full bellies and shared warmth. They’re all wrapped up in thick wool and fur, some howl a strange melody and a high-pitched clang emanates from the big stone mountain straining into the blue sky.
Suddenly, there is a familiar scent in his nostrils. Leather, herbs and home.
Goboy wags his tail and presses his nose to the cold ground, sniffing. A faint track leads to one of the stone-dens. He gives a big huff to alert Littlebrother and darts off as fast as his old bones can carry him.
“Mutt, wait!” the pup calls, sprinting after him.
By the time Littlebrother catches up, Goboy’s already barking at the wooden door—which swings open instantly. Homescent!
“Goboy, Mutt! But what are you doing here?” Homescent kneels down to pat his head, trying to hide a long wooden stick behind his back. His eyes flick up as he spots the pup. “Didn’t I tell you to let him sleep? The old boy’s earned his peace and quiet, Hynce.”
The pup shifts nervously on his feet, but there’s an obstinate little twist to his muzzle. “We can’t hunt hares without Mutt, uncle Henry. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Homescent huffs amused. “You really know how to get your way, young master. Wonder where you got that from.”
He should bite the pup’s neck and pin him down, nip the stubbornness in the bud. But Homescent always was an indulgent pack leader, so he lets it pass.
Spotting the toy behind Homescent’s back, Littlebrother jumps in excitement—the air around him buzzes with youthful energy. “Is that my present, uncle Henry?”
“Aye,” Homescent barks. “You spoiled your own surprise. Didn’t even get a chance to wrap it in cloth.”
He hands the toy-stick over to the pup who snatches it right up and runs his hands over the wood. “That’s a beautiful bow!”
“It’s yew,” Homescent replies. “Eastern style with horn nocks, like your father prefers. Try to draw it, see if anythin’ creaks.”
The pup draws the string attached to the toy, huffing as his little face turns red and his arms begin to shake. “Yes,” he heaves. “It’s perfect, uncle Henry. Quite easy to handle, too.”
Homescent laughs, stretches his back and beckons them down the path lined with stone-dens. “I see you’ll outdo us both today. But leave some hares for the old men, eh?”
Goboy falls into step with Homescent while the pup darts about, skipping ahead of them, then circling back—barking happily all the way. His youthful energy is catching, reminding Goboy of his days in the half-forgotten place. When he was a pup himself, snuck into the fenced off green and tried to herd the wooly prey grazing there.
They reach the place that smells of dung and straw where the big, docile beasts are kept. Goboy wags his tail as another familiar scent wafts over to him.
Huntbrother walks over, glaring at the pup. “Where are your gloves? I told you to don the deerskin pair.”
“But how am I to shoot my new bow with gloves on, father?” the pup quips.
“They’re for the ride, not for the shooting, you little imp.”
An amused bark from Homescent. “Eh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Hans. I got my dagger and packed some Painkiller Brew. When Hynce’s fingers get frostbitten, you’ll hold him down and I’ll do the sawing.”
The pup yelps—a faint whiff of fear-scent in the air—and with a “I’ll get them!” he darts off toward the big stone-den as fast as his little legs carry him.
“Insolent little imp,” Huntbrother huffs—without any bite to it. Then, spotting Goboy and bending down to scratch the sore spot over his bum: “Don’t tell me he chased your poor old dog from the bed.”
There’s a strangely sad smell in the air as Homescent leans in to pet his head. Love, pain and happiness intertwined. “It’ll be alright. Mutt’s always loved hunting. You’ll see—he still brings down more hares than any of us.”
“They won’t count as your kills this time, blacksmith’s boy,” Huntbrother says, touching Homescent’s arm. “Mutt’s participating for himself this time. And if he wins, he’s earned the best cuts.”
A short while later, Littlebrother returns, smelling of sweat, leather and—strangely—sweet cakes. Then his pack mounts their beasts of burden and the hunt begins.
Goboy trots along as they follow a snowy path leading to the hunting grounds. At first, his joints ache from the effort of keeping up. But the cold feels soothing and once his blood runs hot and he finds his rhythm, it’s easy going.
Winter air tastes different. Crisp and clear. It carries fewer scents as most of the prey have gone into hiding until the ice recedes, but the smells that remain are sharp and precise. When they reach a small clearing among the tall, snow-burdened trees, his two-legged companions dismount and tie their beasts to branches. Littlebrother pulls the leather-things from his hands and stashes them in Homescent’s pockets.
The snow looks like a soft woolen blanket thrown across the woods. Sounds carry far and clear over the still air. Goboy hears rustling in the shrubbery, small critters taking flight as their pack tracks deeper into the forest. He darts ahead, nose pressed to ice-crusted stones and patches of frozen earth. Discarding the faint scent of an old deer-trail—long abandoned—he follows the smell of wet fur instead.
Behind him, his little pack makes a ruckus, probably chasing off all the hares from here back to their den. The pup, of course, is loudest of them all—branches snapping under his feet as he stomps along.
“We’ll never shoot anything this way,” Huntbrother huffs. “Hynce, you need to mind your step. Go slower, touch the ground with your toes first, not the heel.”
“Like this?” The pup starts sneaking, somehow stepping onto even more branches.
Homescent barks amused. “We’ll work on your footwork next, young master.”
Spinning around, the pup flashes his canines in a big grin. “Will you teach me how to get into places unseen, uncle Henry? You once snuck into a fortress to free father, didn’t you?”
A huff from Huntbrother. “Why not? And next he’ll show you how to use lockpicks. So you can crawl around in places you’re not supposed to be in even more efficiently.”
“Really?” the pup jumps in excitement.
“No.”
The stubborn little twist to the pup’s muzzle makes a reappearance. Goboy’s had enough. If his pack won’t rein in their litter, he’ll have to do it himself.
Jumping up at Littlebrother, he snatches the fur-lined end of the blanket he wears over his shoulders and gives it a good tug. Behave, insolent pup!
Somehow, Littlebrother finds it amusing—he starts to giggle.
“Can I try on my own first, father?” the pup barks. “I want to get a feel for my new bow!”
Huntbrother nods, points in the direction of a small hill and says: “Alright, but stick to the clearing and don’t go so far that we can’t hear your call.”
“Watch out for boars and cumans!” Homescent barks after the pup as he races off.
Littlebrother stops abruptly, turning around. “Mutt, heel!”
No, thank you. Goboy plops down next to Homescent, nestling up against him to soak up the warmth.
“My heel, you silly doggy!”
An annoyed huff from Huntbrother. “Let the poor old dog catch his breath and hurry along, Hynce!”
The pup lingers a moment, then runs ahead—happily crushing more branches as he crests the nearby hill.
Leaning down to pat his head, Homescent pulls a strip of dried meat from his pocket, which Goboy devours with one big bite, tail wagging.
“The pretty Bracke’s had pups, you know.” Huntbrother’s voice is low and warm. “They’ve got excellent noses, perfect for tracking. Or maybe you’d like an Alaunt—you’ve got a soft spot for stubborn creatures after all.”
Homescent’s fingers find the sore spot above Goboy’s bum as he kneels down to pet him. “It’s alright,” he says. “I’m not looking to replace—”
“That’s not what I meant, Hal.” Huntbrother steps close, then kneels to press his mouth to Homescent’s face. Their scents mingle. “I just don’t want you to feel lonely.”
“How could I? With all the bustle going on. And that imp to look after.” A short pause. “It just wouldn’t be the same. I think the best things find you, not the other way around.”
Huntbrother rakes his fingers through Homescent’s fur. “I think you’re right.”
“I hope you didn’t pick out a pup as my gift for Epiphany,” Homescent says, standing up.
Suddenly, the air around Huntbrother tingles with nervous energy and sweat-scent. “O-of course not. That would be insensitive. What do you take me for, blacksmith’s boy? Your gift… it’s back at the fortress. I’ll show you tonight, in private.”
Straightening his back, Homescent laughs, then walks a couple of steps toward the hill where Littlebrother’s trail lingers on the snow. “Let’s move a bit before the frost gets its teeth in us.”
They follow the pup’s trail at a leisurely pace, Goboy’s nose pressed into the soft snow. Not far off he can sense twitchy fur-balls shifting in their dens under the frozen ground and above them, birds flit between leafless branches.
“I got you something, though,” Homescent says, pulling a little piece of leather from his pocket, handing it over to Huntbrother.
He snatches it up with the same giddy energy the pup showed at the toy-stick and pulls something small and shiny from it.
“That’s lovely Hal, did you make it yourself?” Huntbrother asks, pinning the little silver thing to his chest. “Is it a bird?”
“Sakra—of course it is. Can’t you tell? There’s the beak and those are the wings.”
Huntbrother huffs, amused. “Ah, indeed. Now I see it. I held it upside down by accident.” A pause. “You know, we could fit the smithy with a smoldering hearth, if you’ve developed an interest in this sort of thing.”
“Would be fun, I think,” Homescent replies. Then he looks up and his brow creases. “Where’s that imp run off to?”
They reached the top of the hill, a small, snow-covered clearing littered with prey-trails. Goboy smells hares—a whole bunch of them—and bigger game, too, lurking nearby. The air is heavy with musk.
“Hynce!” Huntbrother calls, trudging through the snow towards the middle of the clearing.
The forest lies still.
“He can’t have gotten far,” Homescent replies. There’s the faintest hint of the fear-scent clinging to him. “No doubt he spotted some interesting looking rock to climb.”
“Well, that’s what I’m worried about. For a boy so fond of climbing he’s woefully ham-handed when it comes to getting down again.”
Homescent kneels down in the snow, one hand pulling a piece of leather from his pocket. It smells of the pup’s sticky hands—ink, honey and stubborn dirt. “Here, Mutt,” Homescent barks. “Search Hynce, search!”
Goboy takes a good whiff. The world has grown duller somewhat, but his nose is sharp as ever. He presses it into the snow, and breathes in the forest. Loam, slumbering under the ice, cold and wet. Hare droppings, the stink of a bear—very faint but sharp enough to make him shudder—and there! A distinct sweetness mixed with wool and leather.
Pup-smell.
Goboy barks and bolts along, muzzle close to the ground.
His little pack races into the woods, skirting slippery boulders and tree-trunks buried under snow. Frost crinkles under his paws; his breath plumes in the cold air. For a moment, Goboy feels like a pup himself again as memories pop up in his head. Countless hunts spent in these woods with his pack. Small, secluded hiding spots where the smell of Homescent and Huntbrother mingled until it felt like home. Good times full of adventure, belonging—love.
A short way off, his nose leads him to a spot by a tree. There’s a sharp stick with feathers at one end stuck in the trunk—and Littlebrother’s scent clings to it.
“He came this way,” Homescent says.
Huntbrother circles the tree, then points at fresh tracks in the snow. “The imp went that way, northwards.”
Following the trail, Goboy soon overtakes his pack as the snow grows deeper and the terrain steep. Four legs still give him the advantage, aching joints or not.
Then he sniffs him—Littlebrother.
The pup sits nestled up in his blanket underneath a rocky outcropping. He jumps as he spots them, hands shuffling with something under the fur-lined blanket before he scrambles to his feet.
“I’m here!” he calls, red-faced and bright-eyed.
The rest of the pack arrives, huffing. There’s a stern look on Huntbrother’s face. “I told you to stick to the clearing, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I heard something and—”
A bark from Huntbrother, sharp and short. “So obviously you had to check if it’s a boar, a bear or a bandit. I see how it is.”
Homescent gently elbows him in the ribs. “Your father means to say he was worried about you.”
The angry-scent around Huntbrother scatters on the wind, replaced by something warmer. “Well, yes. Of course.” He ruffles the pup’s fur and pulls him in to mingle their scent.
Goboy approves. Pups need to be taught, but only with a loving kind of nip. Not to hurt, just to correct. This pup will learn, too. One day.
“We haven’t shot a single hare so far,” Homescent says, smiling. “How about we go back to the clearing and then the Ghost of Kopanina Forest can teach you how to follow tracks in the snow?”
The adults turn to go, but the pup lingers, spreading a nervous, twitchy scent.
“Errr, I think I’d like to go back to the castle now, father,” Littlebrother says.
“What? Already? We just arrived, Hynce.”
There’s an odd noise coming from underneath the pup’s fur-lined blanket. A scratchy, antsy little chafing. Goboy takes a sniff—
Prey-scent.
Barking, he jumps up to snatch the blanket, but Littlebrother wiggles away before Goboy’s teeth can sink into cloth.
“Stop, Mutt! Stay!” the pup barks—then his hands shoot out from the blanket, revealing the secret he tried to hide.
“Hynce,” Huntbrother says, sternly. “By God—is that a squirrel?”
“It’s hurt!” the pup calls and scrambles away from them, gathering the little critter to his chest.
Goboy means to go after it, but Homescent grabs his collar to hold him back. He seems to really mean it this time. So Goboy plops down in the snow, a growl rumbling in his chest, eyes glued to the twitchy little snack.
“We went out to hunt, Hynce. You do know what that means, right?” Huntbrother says. “Usually you bring down animals on a hunt, not nurse them back to health.”
The pup’s eyes dart to Homescent, then back to Huntbrother. “We can make an exception, right? Just this once? Can’t I keep him?”
Huntbrother turns to Homescent. “Why’s it impossible to deny either of you anything?”
“Ah, c’mon. Indulge him.” Walking over to the pup, Homescent takes a look at the critter. “Looks a bit dazed. Fell off a tree, no doubt. We’ll gather some nuts, put him somewhere warm to rest and he’ll be right as rain. Have you thought of a name yet?”
“Kašpar, since it’s Epiphany.”
Beside Goboy, Huntbrother sinks down on one knee to pet his head. “I’m outnumbered, Mutt. Again.”
Pulling off the strip of wool around his neck, Homescent hands it to the pup and says: “Here, wrap Kašpar up warm. I’ll watch over him and you go and find some nuts for him to eat.”
The pup beams, does as he is bidden—for once—and darts off happily.
Homescent pulls Huntbrother to his feet, smiling. “A pet’ll be good for him, you’ll see.”
A big huff from Huntbrother. “I didn’t think it would be this nerve-wracking, Hal. The boy went missing for less than half an hour and my heart was beating as if we were back in Suchdol, facing down a trebuchet.”
“Worrying’s fine,” Homescent replies. “You could show it a bit more.”
“Thank fuck one of us had a kind father and knows what to do. I’d be lost without you. It’s just…” he hesitates. “A lot of running after some unreasonable little creature who expects to get his way all the time. And you can’t even get angry at him because he’s too adorable to scold.”
Homescent snorts. “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” Then, under his breath: “Fortune’s wheel turns…”
They make their way back down the hill, slipping on ice occasionally while Goboy darts ahead sure-footed. The air is turning wet and heavy—more snow will arrive soon. Up ahead, the pup digs through snow and frozen earth, occasionally yelling “found some!” as he stuffs his pockets with nuts.
When the new snow arrives, the forest is already turning dark. The pack gathers by the tree where the beasts of burden wait for them and Homescent places the bundle with the little critter back into the pup’s arms.
“Not a single hare, Hal. Not one. This is worse than our first hunt together,” Huntbrother says, mounting his beast.
“At least you didn’t get kidnapped. No rockslide either,” Homescent replies. “Besides, Rattay’s larder is full to bursting. We’ve no need for more.”
A smile plays over Huntbrother’s lips as he looks down on Homescent from the back of his beast. “Aye, I reckon you’re right. We’ve got everything we need right here.”
Bending down to scratch the spot behind his ears, Homescent pulls another strip of dried meat from his pocket.
“Let’s get home, Mutt,” he says, mounting his own beast.
The way back leads downhill—a small mercy on Goboy’s joints. Soon they leave the cover of the trees and follow the flat path back to their den. Their own tracks from earlier still linger in the air. A sweet, familiar scent that fills Goboy with warmth despite the snow now falling in earnest. Then the shape of their den appears on the horizon. Dark and hulking like a mountain, but covered in flickering lights. Little beacons beckoning them home.
Goboy shakes the tiredness from his old bones and darts off the path to chase a pack of crows on a snow-covered field. The feathered fiends scatter before him, taking into the air before he can sink his teeth into one.
That’s alright, though. He always loved the hunt more than the catching.
Behind him, Littlebrother barks in amusement and Goboy skitters to a halt, waiting by the side of the path until his pack catches up. Briefly, he wonders if this was his last hunt. If the days of keeping up with the pup’s restless energy have come to an end.
But if so, that’s alright, too. It was a good one, after all. Too little blood spilled perhaps, but surrounded by the scents he loves best. A good life, too. Full of adventure, warmth and companionship. No dog could ask for more.