Lifemate-Soulmate

Inspired by Dawnwind’s artwork in the 2023 SHareCon Zine, Starsky and Hutch are reimagined as characters in the ElfQuest Universe. Our AU heroes each suffer exile from their tribes and must survive in a harsh and lonely world. Little do they realize they are destined to meet and achieve the unimaged gift of . . . read to find out!

“The Elf-kind abandoned their forms of light and pure thought, assuming the guise of woodland beings out of fairytale,” said Drem, the tribe storyteller.

Everyone, including Drem, knew that Chief Kahvi did not approve of Drem’s ‘history’ lessons, but they knew she let him be because he was her best tracker.

“They were eager to greet the shining knights—” Drem went on, but was interrupted by Krimbo, which means ‘Krim’s fawn.’

“What do you mean by ‘shining night’,” the youngster asked. “Like the stars above?”

“A good question,” Drem mused aloud, finger-combing his long bangs off his pale forehead in thought. After a moment, he said, “Imagine a human as handsome as an Elf and strong as a troll, dressed in magic clothes that no arrow, sword, or spear may pierce. That be what a knight looks like.” The handful of gathered children gasped, laughed, or grunted as was his or her nature. But no one left the story circle.

“And let us not forget their velvet-clad ladies that our Elf-kin espied from far above,” Drem added. “Ah!” The storyteller raised a callused finger. “Now you will be wanting to know about velvet-clad ladies, am I right?”

“Yes,” the younglings chorused.

Drem reached into his belt-pouch and brought forth a handful of dried juniper berries and, with a dramatic flair, flung them on the fire. “Breath deep, fawns! Velvet be a pelt as sweet as the scent of juniper, softer than cattail down, and lush as the curlings of young antlers before they harden.”

Hu-chen’s son nodded sagely, his bright blue eyes half-hooded, as if he could feel the velvet on his cheek for true. “Why did they come,” Hu-chen’s son murmured.

“The High Ones were lonely and sought to find when their kind had last trod upon the gentle land they had discovered,” Drem answered. “Their hearts ached to rejoin with kin long thought lost.”

“What happened next,” Sken-sen’s daughter asked, her voice soft. This was the first time Sken-sen had let her fawn join the tell, and she was eager to learn more.

“With the surety of nearly an eternity of practice,” Drem pronounced dreamily, “they guided their sky-palace to land on the World of Two Moons.” Then the tracker slammed the butt of his spear into the firepit, causing gales of sparks fly. “But disaster broke over them with the suddenness of a blizzard! Instead of an easy landing, the High Ones crashed in a clap of thunder and a rain of fire and stone. Never again would these shining beings roam the stars.”

Hu-chen’s son gasped, his heart in his throat. He hated this part of the story. But he loved it, too, for it always awoke in his chest his special feeling. What he thought of as his magic feeling.

“The High-Ones staggered forth and quickly perceived some mishap of time had befallen the sky-palace. Instead of a gentle land with orderly plains and food in plenty, the world upon which they stood now was a wild and bitter place. Their magic flowed weakly on the World of Two Moons.”

Drem’s brows furrowed as he growled this next part of the tale. “Worst of all were the bestial humans. Gone were the clean faces, the festive clothes, and bright-eyed intellect. Shrouded in a foul stink, creatures with broad, brutish features and shoulders well-suited to swinging clubs of bone dominated filthy bodies clad in scraps of uncured animal skins. On sight, the humans feared and hated the sky Elves – and hunted them nearly to extinction.

“A great slaughter ensued.”

Drem waited, knowing that the children of his tribe understood slaughter, for theirs was a hard, cold existence here in the land of forever snow.

“The few survivors fled to what safety they could find in the dark and misty forest. And that’s enough for tonight,” he announced, banking the fire before he stretched out and pulled his bearskin cloak over his face.

“More-more!” The children tugged at his cloak, some with grubby fingers leaving their marks on the white fur.

“Tomorrow is another day,” Drem said, his voice muffled by the heavy animal skin. “I will tell you more tomorrow.”

Hu-chen’s son remembered well that last night in the cave of his tribe. Drem’s stories were about his family’s ancient history. He thought of that night often, as he did now, as he and his mount – Squash-Blossom, a young white-tailed doe – ambled along quietly in the evening’s dusk.

Keeping just within the tree line, Hu-chen’s son allowed his mind to roam the eternal now of wolf-thought, his senses alive and on the lookout for danger, even as he delved deep within his memories. He trusted Squash-Blossom to continue to follow the river in the direction of Sun-comes-up. And if she strayed, what matter? One direction is as good as another when you are an exile.

The next day dawned cold and clear and Kahvi decreed there would be a great hunt. Everyone two-hands-of-years or older must go, leaving behind only young fawns and nursing mothers to mind them. Hu-chen’s son eagerly went to the pens of their caribou friends, as he termed them. He’d recently tamed to ride the offspring of his mother’s mount, Cut-rack – a beautiful white calf he’d named Snowflake.

Fortunately, Hu-chen’s son had just turned one eight and though he was tall, his build was slight, which meant the yearling caribou would have no trouble bearing his weight. He hopped atop Snowflake’s back with joy in his heart. Snowflake stood calmly, and the Elf child – to reward her good behavior – scratched lovingly between the horn buds that would grow by next year to spiked daggers. When she had her full rack at age five, he would be an adult with an adult’s name and could forget the childish moniker he bore now. A naming could happen at any time a fawn reached the age of one eight. Hu-chen’s son longed for that day.

Maybe it would be today.

<>Pay attention,<> Hu-chen sent to her son grimly. His mother rarely spoke aloud. An old wound that she had garnered killing a snow bear made her voice a low growl. It was in this same hunt that his father had died, while his son yet grew in Hu-chen’s belly. <>Keep behind me and Cut-rack,<> his mother sent sharply. <>Or you will feel my bow across your backside come nightfall.<> Having often been on the receiving end of her bow for even minor transgressions, Hu-chen’s son nodded obediently. He could imagine the beating she would give if he somehow ruined the hunt.

Kahvi did not approve of her Elves sending out their thoughts, it smacking too much of magic, a thing that weakened her tribe, as had happened in the past. It made them dependent upon a handful of magic-users, failing to learn the skills necessary to survive on their own. Not so, now. Every Elf had a real calling – warrior, hunter, trapper, tracker, weapons maker – and did their job without magic. That was the Go-Back way.

The entire tribe was mounted when Drem came up the trail and into sight on his mount, Ten-knives. Hu-chen’s son realized then that the tracker had gone to sleep early the night before so he might be up before the dawn to seek game by the light of the full moons.

“What have you found, Drem?” asked Chief Kahvi.

“Down the mountain in the direction of sun-go-down and across the frozen river is a pine forest. Not far into the forest is a knoll with a stand of aged oaks. There is a great deer yard amongst the oaks,” Drem answered heartily. “I counted five eights of beasts, sleepily chewing acorn cud, enough to feed us into spring, and plenty of doe-skin rugs to keep us warm of a night.”

“Good.” That was all Kahvi had to say. Giving a nod of assent, Drem about-faced his mount and led them down the mountain.

Being the youngest of the band, Hu-chen’s son knew his role was to watch and learn and help with the skinning and the hauling of meat and hides when the deed was done. He did not even carry a weapon, only a small bone dagger used for eating. This was his first hunt and he desperately hoped he would do something worthy of earning a real name.

It turned out that the Elves were not the only hunters after fresh venison that morn. Drem pointed out the broad prints left by hobnailed boots. A gang of trolls had silently encircled the little knoll, no doubt intending to kill as many of the beasts in the deer yard as possible. Kahvi, ever flexible, changed her plans. Using silent signs, she ordered her tribe to surround the trolls, and then attack when she gave the war cry.

Her plan was good. Soon all the trolls were dead, and her archers even managed to bring down a few deer, as well, in the chaos.

There was only one casualty, given the completeness of their surprise: Cut-rack’s front right leg had been broken by a troll ere his mother’s spear drained the life from him. She bent to examine her mount’s wound.

“It will not heal,” his mother husked aloud. She drew her knife. <>We will eat caribou tonight as well as venison.<>

“No!” Hu-chen’s son cried, even as he flung himself off Snowflake’s back. “Let me see the wound.” It was the first time he had ever opposed his fierce mother. Little did he know it would be the last.

“Shhh-shhh,” he said soothingly to Cut-rack, who stood trembling on three legs. <>I am here to help,<> he sent to his mother’s mount, projecting calm. He touched the broken foreleg, and he could perceive her pain. It was then that the special feeling in his chest – his magic feeling – drained the pain from the frightened animal. Cut-rack’s trembling stopped, and Hu-chen’s son instinctively knew what to do.

He placed both hands on the injured leg, one above the break and one below, and he imagined the bone rejoining, picturing it in his mind as smooth and whole. A gentle light emanated from his hands, and in a moment, the deed was done. Hu-chen’s son sat back in the snow, exhausted, feeling as if he had run a race, so heavily did his heart beat against his chest. But Cut-rack stood tall and proud and whole, giving a great lowing sound that all who lived with caribou knew was a sigh of contentment.

Only then did he notice the formidable Kahvi standing over him, her face set in lines of disgust, as if Hu-chen’s son were night soil. “Elves have no need for fish-poking magic,” she pronounced, her green eyes mere slits. “Especially not that of a Healer, one who will only soften our grit in the war against the trolls.” She placed one booted foot on the child’s chest and pushed him deep into the snow. “You are exiled, youngling. Be off with you, unless you want to feel more than my boot.”

Hu-chen’s son scrabbled up, out of the snow, and looked to his mother, expecting her to protest.

She did not.

Instead, Hu-chen turned her back on her fawn, and neatly sliced Cut-rack’s throat to the bone. In the space of three heartbeats, the caribou crumbled into the red snow and breathed no more. Kahvi nodded once in approval, and was gone in a swirl of tiny braids, her spear in hand.

It was Drem who came forward and gave the child his food bag and water skin, before gently helping him mount the skittish Snowflake, who bawled her distress over her mother’s death.

“Your life is not over, little one,” Drem whispered into the shocked child’s pointed ear. “Ride through this pine forest, until you leave the land of forever snow. Keep Sun-comes-up on your left in the morning, and Sun-goes-down on your right in the afternoon. Set a close watch and avoid the camps of humans. You will know them right away by their stench. Do you hear me, fawn?” Drem asked.

Trembling, Hu-chen’s son nodded.

“There be a line of mountains that divides this part of the World of Two Moons. In the direction of Sun-goes-down are many human tribes. Best to travel in the direction of dawn.

“Find others of our kin,” Drem advised softly. “Make a place for yourself amongst them. You may not be a Go-Back anymore, but you are still an Elf, and the blood calls to blood. Good luck.”

With that last well wish, Drem the Tracker slapped Snowflake’s white rump, and the yearling caribou and his young rider were away, though the oaks, into the pines.

That was the last that Hu-chen’s son ever saw of the Go-Backs.

Hu-chen’s son was lean with travel. There was no shortage of Squash-Blossum’s food – grasses and barks – while he had been surviving on a short shrift of pine nuts, last year’s acorns, and a tea made from the boiled juice of the red-leaf tree mixed with herbs and sweet leaf. His skins were worn thin, and his caribou coat (all he had left of his first friend Snowflake, who had died many eights ago) did little to fend off the cool breeze.

But spring was in the air; his sharp nose sensed it. As the ground softened, he would once again be able to dig up nourishing roots and bulbs, and graze on edible flowers. Soon the land would burst forth with seeds for hot gruel, made especially good when mixed with bee comb – filling both his stomach and his muscles. He almost moaned aloud at the thought of dandelions, broadleafs, nettles, chickweed, sass-leaves, wild spears, curly dock, crabapples, and the wealth of berries that awaited him. For Hu-chen’s son did not eat flesh. His Healer’s powers rebelled at death, even that of a fish. He lived off the land. He knew what his mother would have had to say about that.

A dozen eights had passed since his exile from his mother’s tribe. With nothing more than a firestarter, the clothes on his back, and a child’s bone knife on his hip, he had been banished. If the tears on his cheeks sprung from biting wind or something else, who could say?

He had rationed his food. After several days of keeping the Sun on his left in the morning and on his right in the afternoon, he exited the belt of perpetual snow and entered yet another pine forest. He knew from lodge-lore and Drem’s final words that bands of humans lived in the direction of Sun-goes-down. Best to head the opposite way, as the tracker had advised. And so he skulked on the edge of the forest, traveling slowly, stealthily, ever shadowing the mountain range that cut the world in two, ever traveling towards the Sun, but never reaching Her.

Many moons later, when the mountains finally petered out, Hu-chen’s son chose to alter his course. He skirted the little foothills and entered lands of legend. He slowly traversed dense forest, seeking here and there for others of his kind. Perhaps they would welcome a Healer? He hoped so, as loneliness had begun to eat his soul. He could not remember the last time he spoke or sang. What good either with no one to hear him? His sending powers were of the best, though, and he could “talk” in the straightforward way one did with animals, projecting images of food or shelter or danger to Squash-Blossom. But it was not enough.

His heart ached for the company of his kind.

One night, his back warmed by Squash-Blossom’s side as they lay together in a convenient hollow under a huge holly tree, he heard the far-off howl of a lone wolf calling plaintively into the night: I am lonely! His wolf blood stirred. On impulse, Hu-chen’s son answered the call. Tipping his head back, a croak came forth from a throat hoarse from lack of use. Clearing his throat, he tried again, and this time mustered up a cry that would be heard and understood: “I am here.”

On edge, he cocked a pointed ear, hoping for an answering call. Unlike many in his tribe, he had bothered to listen at the storyteller’s feet and knew well the tale of their race. The Elves were one with the wolves, all because of Timmain.

Perhaps not the wisest of the sky-palace’s survivors, though certainly the most pragmatic, was Timmain. A shapeshifter by nature and training, she could assume the form of any element, plant, or creature on the World of Two Moons. Whether the lifegiving fire to hoary trees to the forest deer, no matter; Timmain became them all. Though her shivering folk could gather ’round the flames she conjured, her people could not eat leafless trees or the grasses the doe’s horned toes dug from the snow. Meat they needed. And there was only one hunter in the forest to teach them – the great wolf pack. Thus, Timmain gathered all her magic, and the deed was well done: She transformed into a huge silvery wolf, the size and like of which the World of Two Moons had never seen.

Timmain hunted for her tribe, bringing them feather-foots, winter-white rabbits, and young velvet-antlered bucks that provided clothing, food, and tools. For seasons beyond count, Timmain’s folk lived off her largess, and eventually joined her in the hunt, finding they enjoyed shifting for themselves rather than the endless waiting, waiting, waiting to see what Timmain would bring them.

Then came a season when Timmain did not return.

The Elf-tribe searched long and hard, and eventually caught glimpses of her running with the wolves, always at the side of the shaggy black beast that led the pack. They sang to her, remembered songs from the eons spent amongst the stars, calling out to the Elf spirit within the wolf, to the spark that was yet Timmain; only growls met their efforts.

Until, one day, Timmain returned to her people with a strange cub. In form and shape he was outwardly an Elf, but his blood and bones were that of his wolf sire. An Elf and a wolf. Equal parts magic and of the World of Two Moons. The surviving High-Ones named him Timmorn Yellow-Eyes.

In the fullness of time, Timmorn led the tribe of the High-Ones. He sired many cubs, Elf and wolf, both within Recognition and without. Forever was the wolfpack united by blood with the Elves. Forever were the Elves tied to the World of Two Moons by the blood of the wolves. Thus were the Wolfriders born. Thus was the Hunt born – wolves with Elfish blood that could send forth their thoughts.

Then came the great schism – Chief Two-Spear’s madness – that split the Wolfriders into two tribes. One tribe stayed in the Holt, while the other followed the wolf star into the land of forever snow. They were determined to go back to the sky-palace and reclaim their ancestral home. And this is how the “Go-Backs” came into being. They rejected magic, preferring to rely on the cold steel weapons they pulled from the hands of freshly felled trolls.

And thus was Hu-chen’s magical son forced to become a “Go-Away” who now sat under a holly tree far from his tribe, his rest disturbed by a haunting cry.

He listened intently, but no answering howl came. Not even the wolves wanted to talk with him. Sighing heavily, for he was tired of memories, he flopped onto his side and snuggled close to his mount. The doe readily shared her body’s heat with her master and friend. Just as Hu-chen’s son was drifting off to sleep, another mind touched his. The sending was weak – the sender was injured! Near death. This time, the wolf’s howl cried plainly enough for anyone of Wolfrider blood to understand: “Danger!”

Hu-chen’s son woke Squash-Blossom, and urging her on by tight-beam sending, they ran swiftly as the wind in the direction of the plaintive howls.

The Elf-kind never knew Timmorn Yellow-Eyes had a twin sister named Blackstar, for she stayed behind with her father’s pack, being more wolf than Elf. The High-Ones knew nothing of Blackstar’s son, the scion of Timmorn Yellow-Eyes, born of Recognition, who favored his Elf-grandmother’s people. Blackstar was no Timmain; she would not yield her cub to the two legs to raise. And her cub, Star-sky – so named for night-blue eyes filled with the light of intellect far beyond that of his furry kin – became an outcast too, when the pack rejected Blackstar for his sake.

Like all Elf-kind, Star-sky grew quickly. When he was small, little hands tangled in her ruff and his chubby legs gripped her sides so tight that, at times, Blackstar gave him a good nip to remind him it was a privilege to ride her – not an inherent right. Then came the time of lean youth, when her two-legged cub (and oh, how hard Blackstar had tried to keep her precocious cub on four legs!) would keep pace with her on the hunting trail, with only his right hand gripping her ruff as he ran light-footed beside her, a spear of sharpened wood in his left hand. They killed and lived well.

The two exiles, Blackstar and Star-sky – both gifted with long life by their Elf blood – followed a scent that led nowhere. Unaware of another exile, they, too, shadowed the ridge of mountains that split the world in two, like the bony spine of some great monster that had died long ago.

Instinct and their keen sense of smell warned them whenever they chanced upon an encampment of the filthy humans. They always gave the man-beasts a wide berth. Soon they would return to the direction of Sun-comes-up and travel onward, satisfied with the eternal now of wolf thought. Am I tired now? If so, sleep. Do I thirst? Then drink. Pangs of hunger? Hunt and feast on hot blood and tender liver! Strip the bones! Snap and sup the soft, sweet marrow within. Scrape the skin clean of veins and fat and wear your trophies as protection during the times of long-cold.

But there was one hunger that Star-sky could not fill. Of the few words he possessed, sent to him by his grandmother Timmain before they were driven from the Hunt, none of them described the ragged, aching emptiness in his chest. At times, Star-sky thought he would die from the pain of it. Then Blackstar, white-faced and bony with great age, would nip her errant son, drag him away from the thoughts she found so alien, and keep them moving forward to nowhere.

Star-sky loved the chase. It was harder now, with his elderly mother being so slow. Come along she would, though, unless he managed to sneak away while she slept. He was not so lucky this time. Blackstar woke and sent him a message that made it quite clear they would hunt together this evening. She rose and shook herself. Star-sky could not remember when her coat turned all silver, much like her mother Timmain’s, only that many moons had passed since he had last seen a black hair.

What worried him most was the change in her scent that had filled his nostrils all his days. He knew when she was happy, sated, worried, hungry, angry. Now, she smelled like none of these things. She smelled like the rabbits whose necks he broke. The long-necks on the wing he brought down with his spear. The deer he pounced upon from above, having cleverly hidden himself amongst the branches, waiting to leap and slash with the long flake of fire-glass he kept just for this purpose.

His mother smelled like death.

And it scared him.

<>My babe,<> Blackstar sent to her son, using the few words she knew overlaid with scenes from their long life together, the image of the red moon uppermost in her thoughts. <>We hunt. Then you go.<>

<>We hunt! We go!<> Star-sky sent back, his dark, curly hair bristling with fear. His wrists were white with scars from where she had given him many good nips over the years, always to his betterment, as the small pains reminded him of the misdeeds that could get him killed. Her love had made him strong, wise in the ways of the wolf.

<>You . . . cub,<> she sent. <>Me . . . old.<>

Star-sky flashed the four fingers of both hands eight times, the number of red moons they had seen together, which came once in ten years. Neither could count, but if they could, they would know that six hundred and forty years had passed since the Hunt had rejected them. Blackstar’s Elf blood had gifted her with a lifespan fifty times that of her father’s kin. Even magic has its limits.

<>Tired. Old. Ache,<> Blackstar sent. <>Babe. Young. Strong. Live as long as the stars.<>

<>Not without you. I— <>

Here Star-sky opened his heart to her, allowing a glimpse of the aching hunger that consumed him to leap forth. Like and unlike a night without stars, a dark emptiness was revealed. Its name rolled out like thunder: Loneliness. Star-sky tipped back his head and howled his pain. <>Alone. I will be alone without you.<>

<>Seek your mother’s mother’s pack,<> Blackstar sent urgently. <>Gone too long. Go home.<> She sent an image of the lovely woodland whence he was bred. <>Return to the Holt. Lead the Hunt. Be Recognized and find a mate.<>

Star-sky knelt and wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck, his tears soaking her ruff. <>Recognition,<> Star-sky sent with a sob. <>The bond that brings two together and makes them of one heart and one mind . . . such is not for me. Once you leave me, I will be forever alone.<>

Blackstar could not bring herself to nip him.

Hu-chen’s son was not the only one to hear the lonesome howl.

A young long-tooth – heavy fleshed and just the right age to be sent packing when his mother birthed a new litter of kittens – heard the first howl, quite nearby. The answering howl he ignored as too far away to be worth notice. His clan had no Elfin blood, and therefore he did not “send” the way the wolves of the Hunt did with each other.

From long practice, though, he recognized many of the sounds made by wolves, the yip and yap as they gave chase, the excited cries of success followed by the rending of flesh at the end of a successful hunt. The crunch of bones was one of his favorite sounds – easy work to steal another’s kill. Long-tooth also recognized the song a single wolf makes to find another. Wolf-flesh was not as sweet as deer or elk, but anything tastes better on an empty belly.

Long-tooth loped silently in the direction of lone-wolf’s howl.

Crouched on all fours, deep in the shadow of a towering pine, Long-tooth kept downwind of his prey. He was confused. He scented wolf and not-wolf. Yet, there was something of wolf about not-wolf. Equally confusing were the strange sounds made by not-wolf. Like and not-like the mewling of kittens. What did it mean? There was no scent of blood, so injury did not inspire not-wolf’s whimper. Long-tooth crept closer.

Now he could see his prey in the light of both moons: A ragged, old wolf, far past her prime. She would be a tough and stringy meal. Clinging to the old wolf was something else. In shape, it was not unlike a man. His mother had taught him that one man alone was prey, but he must always run and hide from a pack of men, lest they become the hunters and he become the prey. Yet man was a tasty treat – all soft skin and sweet meat. Not-wolf was not rank with man stink. Long-tooth twitched his tail in thought. He would kill the old wolf first. The not-wolf would probably run away, and he could easily chase it down and kill it from behind. And if not-wolf did not run away? No matter. Long-tooth would find out what not-wolf tasted like.

Old age had not dimmed Blackstar’s sense of smell. The acrid musk of a great cat filled her nose a moment before a paw as large as her head struck her side, shredding fur and flesh alike. She was mortally wounded, yet she must protect her cub. So hot was Blackstar’s temper that she felt no pain as she spun about and bit into the long-tooth’s tail, neatly severing it. Blood sprayed her face, and long-tooth’s scream brought joy to her heart. But quick as a snake, the cat turned and raked her face with his claws. Blackstar fell. As night came to take her, she saw her brave and foolish son run toward the long-tooth and clamber upon its back. Before sight left her forever, Blackstar saw her Star-sky lift his shiny black “claw” – the sharp thing he had found at the foot of a smoking mountain – and plant it deep in the long-tooth’s neck.

She did not live long enough to see the great cat whip around and sink its fangs into her son’s neck.

Once within sight of the great cat, Squash-Blossom froze and could not be made to move. Hu-chen’s son flung himself off and raced toward the killer. In its mouth was a black-haired Elf. The long-tooth worried his prey as easily as a wolf might rend a rabbit. Not bothering to draw his bone knife, Hu-chen’s son leapt upon the beast’s striped back. Mustering every bit of magic in his possession, he sent a single message into the mind of the long-tooth: <>SLEEP.<>

The long-tooth immediately sagged upon his Elfin prey, unconscious.

Trembling with fear, fatigue, and the exertion of so much magic, Hu-chen’s son was nevertheless left with no choice but to keep moving, if he would save the life of the Elf. He slid off the predator’s back and went to the tangled heads; the cat’s long teeth were still embedded in the neck and shoulder of the Elf. Pale where he was not drenched in blood, the Elf looked dead, though when Hu-chen’s son laid his hand upon the wounded Elf’s forehead, he felt a fiery spark of life.

It took all his strength to lift the great cat’s head. The sickening, sucking sound as the fangs slid out of the Elf’s shoulder was almost more than he could bear. It was then he saw that long blade of glossy black rock – what he called “smoke-rock” because you only found them near smoking mountains – embedded in the long-tooth’s neck. Not all the blood drenching the Elf was his own. The long-tooth was still deeply asleep, and Hu-chen’s son felt the moment when the creature breathed its last breath, having bled itself dry. “Brave Elf,” he muttered aloud. “Your would-be killer would have joined you in death.”

A moan brought him back to the matter at hand. He realized he must work quickly. Once again, the Healer reached within to that secret place that held his gift. He sank his fingers deep in the welling holes left by the fangs, slowing the flow of blood even as he imagined the wounds closing, the flesh binding together. A gentle light filled the little hollow, climbing higher and higher, bathing the very tops of the trees.

Magic.

The wounds resisted his power, and Hu-chen’s son despaired. He reached deeper within himself, determined to give his own life to save the stranger – the first of his race he had seen in nearly a hundred years. It was a battle fought in near-silence. Only Hu-chen’s ragged breathing and the occasional moan from the wounded Elf could be heard.

At long last, the wounds closed. The dark-haired Elf was in a deep, healing sleep. He would not wake before dawn. Still kneeling beside the Elf, Hu-chen’s son realized he was covered in blood – both Elf and cat. The very tips of his long blond hair were tacky with it, and as for his patient, he looked as though he had bathed in gore.

Exhausted, he first pulled the Elf from beneath the cat. Then bending, he picked him up and carried him a short way down the hollow, closer to the streamlet he heard trickling in the night. Tired. He had never been so tired. Nevertheless, he cut fresh evergreens to make a soft and fragment bed for them to share. He fetched water from the stream and washed the blood from his patient, then cleansed himself.

Hu-chen’s son did not kill, but for years he had scavenged for what he needed, taking the larger bits of hide left behind by other predators, cleaning them, and sewing them together with sinew. He covered himself and the Elf whose life he had saved with a crazy patchwork blanket of rabbit, badger, deer, and fox. Even as his heavy eyelids closed, he wanted to stay awake and greet what he hoped would be his new friend.

His first friend.

Star-sky woke slowly. He felt as if a stone weighed upon his chest. Instead of a stone, it was a long, pale arm that clutched him tight. He turned his head and came face-to-face with an Elf who lay beside him. The long blond hair partially obscured the fine features, the curve of a pointed ear, but he could tell the stranger was a son of the High-Ones. His own cloak was balled up under their heads and a colorful patchwork of furs that he did not recognize covered them both. Only then did Star-sky realize he was clean and whole. Did he dream of the long-tooth fight? He drank in the morning breeze, and he could smell the rank scent of the dead cat close by. Another scent came to him – his mother’s blood. <>She gave her life for me.<>

<>Yes. She did.<>

He whipped his head around and looked straight into the most wonderful pair of eyes he had ever seen. They were the pale-blue sky on a cloudless morning. The yellow-gold brows arched neatly over the crystal orbs that grew wider the longer he gazed into them. Rolling on top of the blond Elf, Star-sky thrust his face into the stranger’s fine hair, breathing deep a scent far sweeter than bee honey. He pulled back, heart racing, needing to see those eyes. Pools to drown in! Though the morning was cool, a sweat broke upon his brow and Star-sky could see the stranger was in no better shape than himself. The stranger’s smooth chest heaved, as though he had run down a deer.

The stranger stretched his long neck upward, taking a tentative sniff along Star-sky’s jaw. A low moan filled his ear, and a moment later sweet lips nipped their way round and found Star-sky’s lips. Four arms flexed, surrounding the other, pulling each into a tight embrace as they shared the breath betwixt them. Soon, Star-sky felt the stranger’s hips grind against his own. And then he felt something unimagined. His little leg, the one he used to urinate and mark his territory, was swollen and hard. Likewise, the stranger was hard as well.

Suddenly, Star-sky felt that his leather kilt and loincloth of soft doe skin was too much, and he reached with his left hand and snapped the rawhide thongs that held them on. The stranger’s lower body was covered in leathers that encased those long legs, and his not-so-little middle leg was trapped beneath them. With a snarl of frustration, Star-sky found the lace in the front and tugged at it. Then the warm, strong hands that had been cupping his flanks left and wormed between them.

“Let me,” the blond Elf panted. In a twinkling, the leather breeches were pushed down, if only just far enough to release his member.

Instinct took over. Graceful hands sank deep into his thick curls, pulling Star-sky into a bottomless kiss. As his excitement grew, the hole in his heart filled with a golden light that banished all darkness. Cries, grunts, and the occasional growl were dragged from his lungs and swallowed whole by the stranger. And then there was a second light – not one seen with the eyes, but rather felt with the heart. Pale and white like the fingernail moon and the wolf star that forever chased it, this light filled his being, bringing a joy unimagined. The light of the star and the moon pierced Star-sky at the pinnacle of his pleasure, joining him forever to the stranger – the stranger forever joined to him in Recognition.

<>Recognition.<>

Star-sky flopped down upon his side, facing the stranger. Stranger? He knew every eyelash, every hope, every fear, every dream this scion of the High-Ones had ever felt. Trembling, trying and failing to capture his breath, Star-sky reached out and stroked the long, soft hair away, that he might once again feast on those irresistible eyes.

“Ken,” Star-sky said aloud. But words were limiting, and he sent instead. <>You are Ken, to the very marrow of your bones. Ken is your soul-name, meant only for me to know. And you are forever mine.<>

<>Dav,<> Ken answered. <>This is Recognition. And your secret soul-name is Dav. Only for me to know . . . forever mine you will be.<>

It was strange and wonderful and a little frightening to be one soul in two bodies. But as each moment passed, the bond sank deeper, and with it came contentment.

After a goodish silence, each quietly absorbing what had happened, a pale hand combed through the dark curls on Star-sky’s chest. “I’ve never met an Elf with chest fur.”

<>Now you have.<>

“You have been lonely for a long time, even with your mother for company,” Hu-chen’s son whispered. It was a statement, not a question.

<>I did not know what I hungered for. Now I do. I needed my soulmate,<> Star-sky sent.

“What do I call you in the light of day?”

“Star-sky,” he murmured, even as he leaned forward to skim his lips along the sensitive tip of Ken’s ear.

“It is a beautiful name,” Ken said with a shudder.

Heat rushed to his cheeks, causing Star-sky to drop his eyes, suddenly bashful. <>Beautiful. I do not know this word.<>

His soulmate sent images of the sunrise, flowers in bloom, the thrill of climbing a tall tree, the splash of sun-warmed water flowing over your skin while swimming. “All these things are beautiful. But you are beauty itself.”

Star-sky bent his head and nipped his life-partner’s wrist.

“Ow,” Ken said. “What was that for?”

<>To remind you not to be foolish.<> His remark was met by a humph. But Star-sky could tell there was no heat behind it, only love.

“Your given name?” Star-sky asked aloud.

Star-sky watched as the same flush that had touched him moments ago crossed Ken’s cheeks like a dark cloud. “I am just Hu-chen’s son.”

<>That is a cub’s name. And you are not a cub.<> Star-sky emphasized his observation by possessively stroking Ken’s hip.

“In my tribe, someone who loves you – usually your mother or father – gives you a name you earn. I have no name: I was banished before I was old enough to earn one.”

<>You have a name,<> Star-sky insisted.

“W-what?” Hu-chen’s son stammered.

“Babe,” Star-sky said aloud. <>You are Babe.<>

Tears of joy stood in the eyes of the Healer, spilling over like spring rain.

Star-sky felt the healing power of the love name slotting into Ken’s soul, even as he lapped the salty tears from his soulmate’s cheeks, eager to drink in all of him.

Later, much later, there would be time for them to make plans, to find the Holt, to seek others of their kind. Time for them to fight about how unnatural it was not to eat raw meat, and for Dav to refuse the grains and honey that Ken tempted him with. Time for them to reunite with the Hunt, find wolf friends, and become Wolfriders for true.

There would be time for everything. But mostly, there would be time for love.