Unfurling by firstamazon

Unfurling

Read Unfurling

He ran. Moss, turf, and mud flew under him swiftly, leaving imprints of his passing. He ran, feeling the summer breeze on his face, the air heavy with the scents of flowers, plants and of flesh, blood, fur. And still, he ran. There was no food in sight, but he kept running. He might find some prey to hunt before the rain fell again. The bliss and the curse of Summer. Rain drenched the soil and made it easier to follow careless victims but, when it poured, the animals hid in their caves and dens and holes in the ground. If he wanted to eat at all, this was the moment.

He ran faster, feeling his muscles stretching, his sinews bending with every land of his lithe (famished) body. He didn’t remember how long it had been since he had a proper meal. He didn’t remember anything if he thought about it. He only remembered waking up and feeling this new skin, as if he was suddenly born into a new body. Well, in many ways, it was true. But the “why” escaped him.

No time to think about that. A defenseless deer grazed ahead, and he lowered his head, watchful, ears catching the loud chewing of grass, nose sniffing fresh herbs as the animal moved slightly. The deer had his back to him, it was… now!

A whizzing sound, and he froze. The deer gave a terrible scream and fell to the ground. Curses! Another hunter got the better of him. But this was his prey, and he wouldn’t just let another have it! He jumped ahead, fangs showing, an aggressive growl bubbling in his chest and coming out of his half-opened jaws.

The hunter froze also. It was a man. Long hair, black as the pits of his Master’s eyes, falling in a cascade of tresses around his shoulders. And those eyes... the storm that raged behind those gray eyes was familiar. The hunter wore nothing but light breeches. His bare feet were noiseless, and the smooth skin exhaled a musky smell that got to his senses like heady, intoxicating perfume. He could almost taste the sweat of the man on his tongue, but there was no fear. No fear? That was new. There was not one of his victims who didn’t fear the sight of his mighty body and powerful stare.

The man didn’t waver. He had crouched beside the deer and now stood up, carefully and slowly. If he didn’t fear, at least he was wise enough not to make brusque movements. The man had a knife on his hand, a quiver and a bow strained to his back. The blade had already put the animal out of its misery and had started cutting its side. The sweet, metallic smell of blood almost made him stagger. He had a terrible hunger, and he wouldn’t hesitate if the man proved to be a menace. He would have his meal, be it human or deer!

They stood staring at each other for some time until the man, sensing there was no real danger, crouched again to continue skinning the animal. He growled louder, and the man raised both hands, palms facing him, in front of his chest. Somewhere in his brain, he knew this was a sign of peace, but why would the man make this sign to a wolf was beyond him. Perhaps the human sensed he had a conscience, after all? No matter. He didn’t need peace offerings. That prey was his, it didn’t matter who had killed it. The man would pay with his life if he tried taking it from him.

He approached the prey licking his nose, knowing he walked like a king who deserved reverence. The man just watched but didn’t back away. This was one stubborn human! Perhaps he, too, was famished? Now that he approached close enough, he noticed the man’s constitution. He was very tall, broad back, and flat, muscled belly. And those eyes. Behind them, the storm raged ceaselessly. This was a man who had lost everything and feared not the confrontation of death. Well, if the man wanted to die, he could facilitate. If he had a human mouth, he would have smiled.

Another whizzing sound and blinding pain. Prey and man forgotten, all his mind could focus was on the searing burn on his flank. He knew he had screamed as his vision blurred. Damned be them all! Another man approached running, the bow ready for another shot.

“My lord, is everything all right?”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have shot it. I don’t think it would have hurt me,” the first man said with a hushed voice that made him, unexpectedly, shudder.

“He was showing its teeth! I couldn’t take the chance to lose you for a fell-wolf!”

“Is he really one?” The first man frowned, curious, still unafraid. “I thought they would feel more… dangerous,” he muttered almost to himself.

Dangerous ! He growled low in his throat, wanting to say he knew their speech – even if he didn’t know how – and that was a ridiculous thought. Of course he was dangerous, far more than any of those weakling humans! But… why? Who… who was he, in fact? Something told him animals didn’t have any conscience, but why did he? What was he? The second man approached the first, and he forced out what would be a terrifying sound to all his enemies, and both men stopped moving. Damned it, how it hurt!

“It’s all right, Herluion. Leave this to me.”

“My lord… are you sure?”

The first man gave the second just one glare, and the latter shut his mouth and left them, albeit reluctantly. Well. That was something he could no doubt admire in his foe. The first man gradually approached him, step by step, and crouched beside his sprawled figure without ever taking his eyes off him. As gently as the Summer breeze, the first man touched the arrow that was stuck on his thigh.

He yelped and growled and moved his head frantically, sweat dampening his fur and pain, agonizing pain. His teeth grazed over the man’s skin unintendedly, leaving a deep cut on his hand. The man grunted and withdrew quickly but, again, he didn’t step back. The wolf licked his snout and closed his eyes, remembering.

This taste… this smell… the blood was familiar, but… this was no Man. No. He remembered the taste of Men’s blood. He remembered biting their flesh with the fangs on his mouth and the fangs of his hands, pointy and sharp as the knife the hunter still held. No, this blood was sweeter. Elven. It reminded him of…

The Elf sheathed his knife and raised both his hands again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he hesitated and moistened his lips, uncertain of his approach, blood dripping from his hand.

Yes, it would sound ridiculous for anyone to be talking to an animal, but there were skilled Elves who could. He had heard of one, the famous Hunter, his old Master’s enemy, and as ferocious as Oromë himself. But he couldn’t remember his name…

“I can take the arrow and heal your wound. Let me help.”

The wolf stared back. There was no possible way he could make himself understood by the man, he knew it. But why? He was starting to get annoyed by the absurd amount of unanswered questions he had in his mind. Why would this elf want to help him when they were clearly about to jump at each other’s throats? He turned his head, sick of the thinking. It made him dizzy. He was hungry, and all that blood around him didn’t make it any easier! The Elf took this as a sign and hunched over his wound.

He felt another stinging bite on his flesh and whimpered as the Elf cautiously withdrew the arrow. The hand bled profusely, and the wolf hated to admit it, but he was grateful - and ashamed. He despised any who had ever tried to help him, but the Elf had saved his life and nearly lost two fingers for it. Were those be other times, he would have laughed at the Elf’s compassion. Today, though, he was exhausted and dazed. He did the only thing a wolf could do: he licked the blood and the wound, not thinking about his hunger anymore. The Elf smiled, then, and it seared through him as lightning on dead wood.

Something funny happened to his heart as he watched the Elf’s face transfigure from grim to... lovely. Pf. What wouldn’t his old self say if he ever heard someone being called that. And his blood… His blood was familiar. He knew it. It was the sweetest of nectars he had ever tasted, and it reminded him of another’s, as rich and as addictive. Copper hair and shrieking that raised on the walls like the wail of the undead. Music to his ears. A fortress, deep underground, and a dark, titanic presence that held him enthralled. Not anymore.

The Elf still smiled at him, broken arrow in his hands.

“See?” The Elf pushed the head in front of his eyes. “It came out clean, which means there are no shards inside of you. It will be a quick mending,” he smiled broadly and went around the deer to find a flask of water and a clean cloth. The Elf washed both their wounds and wrapped his injured hand tightly.

Why?

Why was the Elf smiling, and why on the seven hells was his own heart softening? He wanted to kill, feast on the flesh, feel the bones and organs crunching under his teeth. The Elf, unaware of his intentions, stood up and crouched beside the dead deer again.

“There is plenty for the both of us here,” smiling again. Entrancing. “I am sure we can share it. Do you have a family to feed?”

How miserable and lonely must this Elf be to be talking to him like he was a human? He didn’t move. He had no family, needed no one but himself. Forcefully, he stood up but fell on his front legs.

“Don’t do it! You have lost a lot of blood. Here, take it.” The Elf cut the deer in several pieces and threw him some.

The wolf had no will force to continue hating the Elf, not after this. It was utterly humiliating that he couldn’t do it alone, but the Elf looked away, avoiding his struggles to appear dignified.

“It’s all right. I won’t tell anyone,” the Elf said as if reading his thoughts.

The Elf just smiled, as sweetly and beautifully as the taste of raw meat on his mouth. The Elf finished skinning the deer and left him another piece.

“For later.” He added, a tight smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

This was goodbye. And the Elf hated those, for his eyes were brimful of sorrow, a frown striking his beautiful features; he packed his gear silently before shoving the remains of the deer on one shoulder. Without a word or look back, he walked away. The wolf ate without tasting, the face of the Elf dancing before his eyes. The taste of his sweat, his fragrant blood, his twinkling eyes, and spellbinding smile.

The wolf fell asleep longing for more. When he woke up, it was night-time, and darkness embraced him like a lover. He ate the rest of the meat the Elf had given him and stood up. His wound didn’t hurt so much, and he found out he could walk. Slowly, not running, but he could. And the dark had always been his friend and ally, so it took him no time at all to find the Elf’s trail. The boots left light footprints on the mud, and he followed them back to an Elven camp.

He didn’t have to look much. His Elf sat beside a fire, gnawing at the remnants of a bone. He threw away the rest and drank from a cup. The wolf smelled the cinnamon, and the ginger added to the strong wine. That had tasted good a lifetime ago. He approached carefully, eyes fixed on his Elf. He was surrounded by other Elves, male and female, but none spoke to him, and the wolf understood why: smiles were rare upon that fair face. Somehow, he felt privileged to have witnessed so many of them in one single day.

As he came closer, someone shouted “WOLF!” and there was a rustle of clothes and clanging of metal as people sprang to their feet and gathered bows and spears. He stopped, assessing his enemies. He was flanked, but his Elf hadn’t moved.

“Stop!” He cried and rose an elegant hand to the air.

The soldiers hesitated but slowly lowered their weapons. The Elf stood up. Yes, come to me, my beauty! He came, outrageously brave, and stood at an arm’s length.

“Tyelpë!” Someone in the back shouted.

Tyelpë? The wolf savored the name, rolling it over his memory alongside everything else he had remembered this day. Beautiful, courageous Tyelpë.

The golden-haired warrior, waves falling over his shoulders, came with a warning in his eyes. He, too, was beautiful, but not like his Tyelpë.

“It’s all right, all of you,” his Tyelpë said. “I know him,” he muttered breathlessly.

His Elf crossed their short distance, and touched the wolf’s snout, cradling it inside the palm of his uninjured hand.

And then, memories came back rushing to him. He closed his eyes in rapture. Yes. Blood, liters, and liters of blood. A black altar, and hot, delicious blood flowing from his blade to his elbows. Yes. A massive wave that darkened the sky and his maniacal laugh still rang on his ears as it climbed over the walls of the palace alongside the water. Pain, unbearable pain that had disembodied and crippled him for… how long? Ah, how glorious, joyous pleasure!

He knew he had his eyes closed as his entire body trembled and reveled in the memories, the Fëanorion’s hand still touching his nose. Yes, that blood is mine! Had he a human mouth, he would have laughed. Now, he threw his head back and howled in ecstasy. The entire camp stiffened their backs as they were supposed to, but not his Tyelpë. No, he was braver than any of them.

He felt like running. His body wasn’t healed, but he needed to run and waste the energy and the hotness of his blood that he would have quenched otherwise had he wore the skin of an Elf. So he licked his Elf’s hand one last time and ran into the night, howling as he went, laughing, remembering. He was back.

***

A few months later

He looked at himself in the mirror. His newly formed body was perfection. He wore the skin of an Elf, but not just an Elf. He looked stunning, attractive, his voice deep and enthralling like his dead Master once had been. His white-golden hair fell over his naked shoulders and reached his thighs. It was soft as silk. His new body was irresistible. Good. He needed it to be. For his Tyelpë.

He gave himself a charming smile and dressed in robes as white and gold as his hair. He put on the most exquisite jewelry he had crafted over the past months, and the rubies and emeralds shone in his ears, slender neck, and fingers. They were a feat that not even the Noldor would have accomplished. Over the robes, he dressed with a wolf’s pelt, as white as the skin he had once worn and smiled. He frowned, then, for the smile didn’t reach his eyes. But it would have to be enough.

There had been a night in which Telperinquar Curufinwë Fëanorion had given him a gift, and now, he was going to return it. He had envisioned Tyelpë, his perfect Tylpë, lying on the bed, naked and bound as he should be, the pool of ink-black hair enticingly inviting him for another round. He had thought about Tyelpë’s submission many a night, and it always made his blood boil with dark lust. But no, that was not his gift; sex would be Tyelpë’s tribute.

No. His gift, Annatar’s gift, was a place beneath his throne. He would rule the world, and his Tyelpë would be there. Ready for him. He remembered the smell of his Elf’s sweat, the musk that had reached his senses, the taste of his blood, his family’s blood. And that touch. The touch that had awakened him inside the wolf’s pelt. He didn’t know how that had happened, but by now, he had stopped asking why.

He licked his lips, red tongue savoring the memory. It was time. He attired his brow with a beautiful copper circlet that shone like blood on his hair. The topaz, big and smooth, crafted with all his skill, reflected the light of his golden eyes. Yes. He was coming for his Tyelpë.

***

He stood in front of Lord Celebrimbor’s office, solemn and elegant as a statue. The men around him were in awe of his figure, as he had announced himself a Maia of Aulë that sought refuge and shelter in their Lord’s city. The guards didn’t know what to make of him and, even though they had said the Lord would be in council all day, he said he’d wait. And he had waited for hours.

But as a wolf, patience was one of his strongest traits, and so he prepared his lunge as thoroughly as an ant building their colony. Small steps that seem to take forever but had a grandiose destination.

The double doors opened from the inside, and Elves left the council chamber. Some of them turned suspicious eyes to Annatar as they passed. Others threw him fearful looks. He wanted to laugh, so he managed to smile softly to those who inclined their heads in his direction. At last, four Elves came out still engaged in excited talk.

“We can make the Noldor great again!” Was saying what seemed the youngest of them all, black hair and blue eyes like the kings of old.

He got a hard tug on his ribs and yelped, throwing a golden-haired Elf an annoyed look. The latter didn’t seem moved and passed Annatar by with narrowing eyes, like a hound scenting a prey. Annatar broadened the smile, for he recognized this one. Yes, golden o ne , your time will come. Beside the young elf, there was another of jet hair and amber eyes, cunning as a falcon.

Last but not least came a stunning man attired as a King, for he surely was one. Blue eyes bright and fierce as the winter sky pierced him and tried to strip him open. Annatar merely smiled and bowed respectfully. He wove his subtle influence over the group until they had forgotten what his face looked like.

“You may go in now,” the guard announced.

Annatar entered the room triumphantly as if he owned it, but what he saw stopped his track of thoughts. The Elf sat at the end of a table was pensive, sketching something over a piece of parchment. Annatar didn’t remember ever feeling this odd. His heart raced without logic and, when Telperinquar raised his black eyes to face him, he sucked in a breath. He remembered how beautiful his Elf was, but nothing had prepared him for the regal casualness of his poise. The King was nothing compared to him. He was perfect!

Their eyes met and locked. Telperinquar’s mouth dropped in astonishment, almost as if in recognition, and he raised from his seat. Without a word, he stepped closer to Annatar, who inclined his head and called him lord with a low, sensuous voice. As if answering a call, Telperinquar extended his hand and reached out to almost touch the fur that adorned his shoulders but held back at the last moment.

Annatar, disregarding his primal instinct of self-preservation above all else, felt as his hand, illogically, raised to meet Telpeqinquar’s. Slowly, heart thundering in his ears, the fingertips touched first, then their palms, until their hands were joined entirely. The animal inside him roared, for the prey was caught in his trap. His mind laughed hysterically as their fingers intertwined, but his heart, his treacherous heart, hold on to the sweetest of smiles that birthed on Tyelpë’s lips.