Chapter Text
George doesn’t know what he’d do without Doriane.
She’s so patient with him, allowing him to cling to the hem of her shirt as they weave through the crowd of wolves around them. Some shifted, some in human form, but all an assault on George’s working senses.
He can’t breathe in through his nose because all he smells is an elaborate concoction of scents and packs and mulch and smoke from the bonfires.
The sound is even worse. Without his sight, his other senses have refined themselves, and his hearing is very sensitive. Meaning every bark, howl, laugh and shout are all exemplified, pounding like needles against his ears. If he let go of Doriane, in this gathering of packs, a place he’s never been before, George dreads to think of how long it would take for him to get back to his pack.
He doesn’t let himself worry about it, though, because for now he has Doriane to guide him through the throngs of people, clutching onto her with a grip so tight it makes the joints in his fingers ache.
It’s a miracle he’s been invited to the pack gathering at all, really. All the packs in the nearby areas, a stretch of about five hundred square miles, divided by ten packs. It’s a display of camaraderie and celebration, a testament to their packs’ strength and community to have survived through the winter. They come together to trade and drink and hunt together.
George is blind. He knows he’s basically useless when it comes to helping out around his pack. They’ve made it pretty clear that he’s little more than a dead-weight. He can’t hunt, he can’t patrol. He gets all turned around and confused when his pack-members run off without him.
He’s fine when he’s with them, using their smells and the sounds of the forest around him to guide him, but without them, it’s a mess of sounds and smells he can’t even begin to untangle. This is even worse. Too many wolves in too little space, all too excited and too drunk.
So— he knows he’s irritating. Knows he’s a burden. Is grateful to be invited to the gathering anyway, despite his lack of talent or abilities. He can stay at the pack-house, can find his way around it pretty well, when everything stays where it’s supposed to be. He can look after pups too, because pups are noisy and smelly and easy to track. But it’s not enough. He knows it’s not enough.
When they had arrived, his own pack had peeled away to mingle and greet the others almost the moment they crested the hill. Not maliciously — he tells himself that, it’s just natural for them in a way it isn’t for him. Like water finding cracks.
Someone told him, “Stay close, George,” and then forgot to stay close so he could find them. He’d hung awkwardly at the edges of the clearing, hearing laughter and conversation but unable to join in, unwilling to plunge himself into the crowd and fight for his place. He’s not a scout or a hunter or a fighter, he’s another mouth to feed, another body to keep warm.
He wishes that they had left him back at the pack-house. It would be easier that way. Maybe Doriane insisted that he come with them. She’s the one that has found him lurking at the edge of the gathering and now leads him through the maze of wolves and bonfires towards their camp.
The hem of her shirt tugs taut, a fragile tether keeping him anchored in the busy sea. Suddenly, Doriane stops short. George nearly crashes into her back, his boots slipping slightly on the trampled earth.
Her voice barely carries over the din: “I'm going to grab us some meat before some other packs strip all the spits clean. Don't move a muscle."
Panic flares bright and cold in his chest, making his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Doriane, wait—"
"I'll be two minutes. Keep your ears open for my voice."
Her shirt slips from his white-knuckled grip before he can plead further. The loss of contact is instantaneous and absolute, leaving him instantly submerged in the sensory storm. Without her body acting as a shield, the wind shifts, blowing a fresh wave of pine ash, wet fur, and sour feral sweat directly into his face.
Doriane never makes him feel like a burden, but that almost makes it worse. She’s newer to the pack, she took pity on him when she’d arrived and stuck her hand out for him to shake and he couldn’t find her palm. He knows she’ll tire eventually. Everyone does. He counts the minutes until her patience runs out. He waits for the sigh. He tries to be smaller, quieter, less. Maybe if he’s less, he’ll be easier to keep. Maybe if he’s nothing, he won’t be left behind.
Maybe he should tell her to go enjoy herself. He should uncurl his fingers from her shirt and let her go. But he can’t. The crowd is a wall of noise. If he lets go, he’ll be swallowed. And no one will notice. That’s the truth he keeps buried under all the gratitude. If he lets go, his pack will realize hours later, maybe at the bonfire, maybe when it’s time to sleep. Someone will say, “Where’s George?” and someone else will shrug. “He’s fine. He’s with Doriane.” And they’ll go back to their stories.
George freezes, swallowing down a spike of nausea. He pulls his arms tight against his chest, tucking his chin low to protect his vulnerable neck. All around him, heavy paws thud against the dirt, and human boots crunch through dry twigs.
A low, rumbling growl vibrates through the ground right near his left ankle, causing him to flinch away hard enough to collide with a towering chest. There’s a wolf right beside him. A wolf he doesn’t know.
"Watch where you're going," a harsh voice sneers from beside him, and a rough hand shoves his shoulder, sending George stumbling backward into the dark.
"Sorry," George stammers, his voice swallowed by the roar of a hundred wolves celebrating a spring they made him feel he had no right to be a part of. "I'm sorry."
He reaches out blindly, searching for the cotton of Doriane’s shirt, the bark of a familiar tree, or anything solid to ground him. His hand catches only empty air, then the back of a shirt and someone snarls at him and he snaps his hands back to his chest.
The smells overlap, a chaotic tangle of foreign territories and aggressive dominances that blur together until he can't even tell which direction his own pack’s fires lie. They’ve done their socialising for the night, coming back to roost. Which means George can find them.
Suddenly, he hears a familiar yelp of excitement and his ears snag on it. Kimi. He’d recognise that pup’s noisy energy from a mile off. He plants his feet and focuses, trying to catch more. Through the haze — Susie’s laugh, followed by Toto’s low, chiding voice.
Only a few dozen feet away, close enough that George can begin to untangle the familiar pack-scent under the chaos of the rest of the packs. If he calls out, they might hear him, but he doesn’t.
Calling out means listening to them pause and decide who has to come get him. He’s done it before. The sigh is always the same, resigned and tired. It’s worse than anger.
Resignation settles heavy in his chest, tighter than the knot in his throat. He won’t make them sigh. Not tonight.
Instead, George takes a shallow breath and focuses entirely on Toto’s low, rhythmic baritone. It acts like a beacon in the storm. His pack’s alpha. His chest aches to return to him, to call out for help, for someone to come and orient him. But he won’t.
Keeping his elbows tucked tight against his ribs, he takes one careful step forward, then another, feeling out the uneven ground with the toes of his boots. It’s an awkward shuffle, but thankfully George can’t see the weird looks he must be receiving.
He navigates by the shifts in warmth and sound, flinching as a sudden burst of howling erupts to his left, but forcing his feet to keep moving toward the familiar rhythm of his pack.
A stray tail sweeps across his shins; he freezes until it passes, ignoring the low snarl that accompanies it. He’s visible only when he makes a mistake.
Ten paces. Twelve. His pack’s distinct scent begins to cut through the oppressive fog of foreign scents and he almost goes weak with relief.
"Toto, you're letting him eat the gristle again," Susie’s voice comes into sharp focus, remarkably clear now, just past a thick cluster of voices.
George lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He made it. He’s only a few yards away, close enough to slip into the backdrop of their circle without causing a scene, without burdening Doriane when she returns with food to find him missing.
Then—
George’s foot collides with something. A chest or a carrier of some kind, right in the way of the trail he was following, the earth more baked here and the mulch cleared, more packed down to signal that lots of people had walked this way. Something square and heavy.
George trips over it, meets the ground hard. Pain spikes up his chest and he lies there on the spongey, pine-covered ground, winded.
The laughter and the conversation putters out. George’s face burns. He gets his knees beneath him, then slowly gets back to his feet.
“George,” someone says. He can’t tell if it’s a greeting or a chastisement. He swallows. His wrist throbs from where he caught himself.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
He can hear the gentle crackle of his pack’s fire just a few yards away, but nobody moves toward him. No hands reach down to help him brush the damp pine needles off his jeans or help him to a log to perch on. Instead, the quiet stretches, punctuated only by a small, awkward rustle of fabric: someone shifting uncomfortably, he’s willing to guess.
"We told you to stay with Doriane, George," Toto says, his voice flat and heavy with that exact, predictable weariness George had fought so hard to avoid. The back of his neck prickles. A long, slow exhale follows. "You know you can't navigate the main thoroughfare by yourself. People are moving supplies."
"I was coming back," George says softly, staring uselessly at the dark space between his own boots. "I heard your voice."
"You tripped over the supply crate," Susie adds, her tone not unkind. "It's been sitting there since we set up camp.” Two hours ago.
"Right. Sorry." He shifts his weight, his throbbing wrist tucked against his stomach. How was he supposed to know that? He feels completely exposed, an awkward anomaly standing at the edge of their tight, functional circle. Like there’s no trees around at all, maybe no people, maybe he’s just floating in a void.
"Where is Doriane?" Toto asks, the rustle of leather suggesting he's rubbing the back of his neck.
"Getting food for us," George mutters. "She told me to wait. I just... I wanted to get closer."
A beat of silence. "Well, don't move now," Toto instructs, turning back toward the fire. The scrape of a wooden bowl against a log signals that the alpha is resuming his meal. "Just stay right there until she gets back. We don't need you wandering into any other pack or breaking anything.” George nods jerkily.
The conversation around the fire slowly sparks back to life, Susie teasing Kimi about a missed pounce, Toto grunting in low agreement, and just like that, George is relegated back to the background. He loiters awkwardly, too afraid to move lest he trip over again and cause any more fuss.
Eventually, he settles himself onto the floor, in that very spot.
His trousers get a little damp but he doesn’t mind. He hopes he’s out of the way. In some other universe, his pack would guide him to the campsite, there’d be someone there to describe the layout of the site so he doesn’t trip, there’d be a proper introduction like he’s a respected member of the pack. Someone would always be nearby, ready for him to touch them, to navigate his way through crowds with them. There’d be food for him during the main meals. He wouldn’t be forgotten. They’d be proud to have him as part of the pack.
When they’d arrived, his pack hadn’t introduced him. He stood at Doriane’s side while they greeted other packs, their voices bright. He hears his name once, maybe, tossed into a sentence like an afterthought: “Oh, George is here too. Somewhere.” Somewhere. Like he’s a misplaced object. He is right there. (He is always right there, if only they’d look. The irony isn’t lost on him.)
He swallows. His throat is tight. He tells himself he’s grateful. He is. He’s grateful for the invitation, for the scraps of attention, for Doriane’s shirt hem between his fingers. But gratitude and grief are the same shape in his chest. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Doriane. He doesn’t know what he’d do if she ever let go.
The quiet snap of a twig signals a return before her voice even breaks the air. "George?"
Doriane’s voice carries a sharp edge of alarm, cutting straight through the surrounding background noise. Footsteps approach rapidly until a familiar scent, lavender and soapy wool, settles like a protective blanket over his senses. He tilts his head up like a flower seeking the sun.
"I told you to wait right where I left you," she says softly, though he can’t find any true irritation in her tone. She smells concerned. The ground thuds beside him as she drops to her knees in the dirt, her breath coming in quick, shallow hitches. A warm hand reaches out, hovering for a fraction of a second before gently cupping his elbow, grounding him completely. "Are you alright? What happened?"
"I tripped," George mutters, keeping his head down.
Doriane’s fingers slide down his arm, wrapping firm and steady around his sore wrist. She doesn't pull back when he winces; she softens her grip a little, running her thumb over the swollen joint to inspect the injury.
"You're hurt," she notes, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register that isn't directed at him. Her voice changes like she’s turned her head, presumably to where the rest of their pack continues to chatter, oblivious. "Toto. A little help?"
The conversation around the fire pauses again. "He's fine, Doriane," Toto’s heavy voice rumbles across the dirt. "He just scraped himself. He needs to stop trying to wander off on his own." George swallows thickly, ducking his head.
"He was trying to reach you," Doriane retorts, her tone sharp enough to split wood like an axe. She doesn't wait for a reply. Slipping her shoulder under George's uninjured side, she begins to lift him up. "Up you get, George. Come on.”
George hesitates, his boots dragging slightly in the damp pine needles. "You don't have to—"
"Quiet," she interrupts, but her grip on his waist is solid, unwavering. "I brought the roast stag. And we are not eating it here in the cold. Let's get warm, eh?”
She guides him past the crackling fire, ignoring the sudden, heavy silence from Toto and Susie. George can feel their eyes. She doesn't take him to the edge of camp where he’d be the most comfortable, where he can tuck himself away, nor does she leave him standing on the periphery like a forgotten piece of luggage. Instead, she leads him directly to a large, smooth log right near the embers, nudging his knees until he sits down safely. Warmth licks against his thighs.
Pressing a warm, wooden bowl into his hands, she takes a seat right beside him, her shoulder resting firmly against his. "Three feet to your right is the edge of the pit," Doriane says clearly, her voice steady and matter-of-fact as she lays out the landscape for him. She leans in close, too, so the others can’t hear. "The ground is clear between your boots and the log. I'm right here on your left. And the spit is directly in front of us."
George holds the warm bowl against his chest, his throbbing wrist resting in his lap. “Thanks,” he croaks, and then she uncurls his hand and presses a fork there. He starts to spoon food into his mouth and it helps him relax, the flavour smokey and salty.
And then he hears the lolling of a tongue and the padding of feet. Snuffling by his knee. He reaches out and his hand finds fur. Kimi’s scent, still young, only on the edge of adulthood. In his wolf form, he rests his muzzle on George’s knee as George strokes his hand down the thick fur of Kimi’s neck. “Hello,” he says softly, and Kimi boofs in return. Then he reaches and snuffles hopefully at George’s bowl. His tail thumps rhythmically against the log.
George gently pushes his nose away. “Not for you,” he murmurs, “you’ve already eaten.” Everyone’s eaten but he and Doriane. Because Doriane came looking for him and missed dinner. “This isn’t for you,” George says again, gently, and there’s no heat.
“Go on, George, let him have some,” calls Toto. George hadn’t even known he was watching. Kimi huffs and tries again, and George lets him, the wolf sneaking a scrap from the bowl, then another and another, even as Doraine says, “Kimi,” all chastising, there’s no weight to it.
Kimi’s everyone’s favourite. He gets away with everything. George wonders distantly what it would be like to be loved that much. Hunger gnaws at his stomach. Kimi leaves a bit of stag left.
Conversation flows around him. Kimi is a warm weight on his lap and Doriane is still by him. Even so, he feels like a stone in the river, stagnant, awkward.
“—and then Susie actually missed the deer. Completely. It was standing right there—"
"It was moving, Toto—"
"Standing perfectly still, I might add—"
Laughter. The crackle of the fire. The clink of bowls. George chews his venison slowly, focusing on the texture, the smoky flavor, anything to anchor himself. He could say something. He could. He has stories too — he spends all day with the pups, he knows which ones are sneaking out past the den at night, he knows that some of the youngest ones have been hiding food under their bedroll because they’re scared of another lean winter. He knows things. He's not empty.
But the pause between sentences stretches, and someone else fills it before he can find his opening.
"—so I told him, if you can't track a rabbit in fresh snow, you've got no business calling yourself a scout—"
More laughter. George's jaw tightens. He takes another bite. The meat is tender, perfectly cooked, and he can't taste any of it.
"You're quiet, George." It's Susie. Her voice is kind, the way you'd speak to a nervous pup. "You doing okay over there?"
And there it is. The question that isn't really a question. The one that says we noticed you exist, are you satisfied now? George feels Doriane tense beside him, feels her shoulder shift as she turns to look at him.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just tired."
"He's been running after the pups all week," Doriane adds, and George could kiss her for it, for the way she tries to build him a bridge into the conversation. "Some of them just learnt to shift, remember? Payton’s been giving him trouble."
"Payton’s always giving someone trouble," Susie says, and then — like a door closing abruptly in his face — she turns the conversation back to Toto, resuming their conversation about the hunt. The bridge collapses.
He gives up, bids a worried Doriane goodnight, goes to his tent in retreat.
George wakes up and is cold. He squirms out of his bedroll, smelling damp earth and old smoke, the bonfire reduced to embers. He sits there for a bit, getting dressed silently in his tent, listening to the breathing of his pack around him, the dripping of dew outside, the whistle of the wind through the pines.
He emerges into the cold morning air, his nose working, trying to place where every member of their pack ended up in the night. Most retired to bed, but some he thinks are still around the remnants of the fire. He hopes he doesn’t trip on any of them as he edges through the camp, slowly shuffling foot-by-foot.
It’s not time for breakfast yet, he doesn’t think, so Doriane isn’t around yet. She’s quite a late riser, so George is on his own for a bit. He doesn’t mind. That means he can actually try and map out the camp in his head.
He starts by his tent, and walks back on himself, trying to figure out how many paces between him and the fire, then he goes to the storage boxes, the spits, the tables, and back round to the tents on the other side of the bonfire. Where the logs are, where the stray boxes are. He almost trips a couple of times but it helps. He’s got a mental image in his head about the layout. It means he doesn’t have to cling onto Doriane as much when he’s in this area. This is safe.
He’s just about to relax when he hears and smells Kimi, and manages to brace just in time for his younger pack-member to ram into him. Kimi wraps his arms around George’s shoulders and sends them both stumbling.
"Kimi," George huffs, startled.
A sharp, eager yip cuts through the morning quiet. “Georgie! Come with me, please, come with me! I met some guys last night, my age, and we said we’d meet up this morning before breakfast. Do you wanna come?” He doesn’t give George time to answer, wrapping both arms around George’s arm and tugging insistently, pulling him out of the campsite, out of his safezone.
"Wait, slow down—" George stumbles as Kimi gives a relentless yank. "Kimi, stop, I can't—"
"Come on, George! You gotta see!" Kimi’s voice is cracking, bright and loud. "Isack bet me he could jump over a supply wagon!”
"Kimi,” he snaps, “I can't just see—"
"Just come on!" Kimi doesn't listen, his fingers wrapping around George’s sleeve, pulling him bodily away from the safety of the log. George’s boots scuff wildly over the uneven ground, his uninjured hand extended blindly to protect his face from low-hanging branches.
He relies entirely on Kimi’s pulling force to know where to step, his heart hammering in his throat as they plunge back into the thick, terrifying press of foreign scents.
The gathering is waking up. The smell of roasting fat, wet canvas, and dozens of strange, territorial wolves hits George like a wall. He collides with someone’s heavy shoulder, mumbles an apology that gets swallowed by a loud bark, and lets Kimi drag him through a tight gap between two tents, trying not to panic as he’s immediately turned this way and that and he’s lost his sense of direction.
"Liam! Isack!” Kimi announces loudly, dropping George’s arm so abruptly that George sways, almost losing his balance on a patch of slick frost.
"Who's that?" an unfamiliar voice asks from somewhere above George’s head. "Is he from your pack?"
“That’s George,” says Kimi, and George senses the two strangers turning toward him. Their scents hit him young and curious, but not hostile.
“Oh,” says one. “Is he from your pack?”
“Yeah,” Kimi says, already bored with the introduction. “He watches the pups.”
George keeps his face still. There it is. His whole life reduced to a job anyone could do. He waits for more— Kimi doesn’t say: he knows every den by sound or the pups trust him with their lives or he could sniff out a poisonous mushroom from a mile away. Just that he watches the pups.
“Can he not see?” Isack asks softly.
“Nope,” Kimi says, popping the p. “He’s blind.”
George’s jaw tightens. He could say it himself. He has said it himself, a thousand times, in a thousand tones.
“Oh,” Liam says. “Shit. Sorry, man.”
“It’s okay,” George says. His voice comes out steady. He’s proud of that, he’s had to practise it.
Silence stretches all elastic and uncomfortable. George can imagine them exchanging looks. He can smell the awkwardness rising off them. They don’t know what to do with him, don’t know where to put him.. He shifts his weight. Why did Kimi bring him here?
“So,” Isack says, clearly ready to move on. “You coming to see me jump the wagon or what?”
“I bet I could jump two wagons,” brags Liam.
“Yes,” Kimi says, already moving. “No way you can jump two! You gotta stay human, remember!”
“As a wolf, I could jump four!”
And then Kimi laughs and is gone. Not really gone, that is, George can still hear him, a few feet ahead, laughing with Liam and Isaac, but gone from George’s side, having dropped his arm a while ago, leaving George unmoored. He does that sometimes — treats George like he’s some interesting thing to show off to his friends, and then gets bored and moves on.
George takes a step. Then another. The ground is uneven, frost-slick, littered with roots and rocks he can’t see, gnarled beneath the soles of his boots. He hears them ahead, their footsteps fast and sure. He tries to follow the sound.
“Kimi?” he asks, afraid to raise his voice too loudly lest he bother someone.
No answer. Or, maybe Kimi answers, but his voice is swallowed by the camp waking up: a wolf yipping, a woman shouting, the clang of a pot. George stops. He doesn’t know which way he’s facing. He doesn’t know how many steps he’s taken from his tent. He doesn’t know anything.
Idiot, he scolds himself. Such an idiot. He stands very still. His heart is a trapped bird in his chest. He thinks, this is why they don’t take me anywhere.