Part Four | Parts One, Two, Three

She doesn’t come back after slashing at him, not for weeks it seems. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care (he thinks if he says it enough, it will become true) (it never does). The hammer becomes fused with his arm, and he squeezes the sun for all she’s worth, hammering the steel until it’s not so much singing as screaming, as howling. (but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care).

The sun has set by the time he sets down the hammer, flexing his stiff fingers, the shadows deepening around him, when he hears the footsteps.

He whirls, and there she is, this winter wolf that’s been haunting him. She holds out a wineskin, and he notes that her sword is tucked against her hip.

***

They drink in silence, but it’s enough, somehow. He glances at her from time to time as they sit, biting back the words that threaten to push past his wine-stained lips as his gaze roams over the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, the unruly tangles of her hair, the way her eyes seem to dance when the moonlight hits them. Her sword’s still tucked up against her and she stretches out on the grass, the sparse light turning her into a mess of planes and angles. He looks at her, and tips his head back to finish off the wine, heart hammering away in his chest. It’s not just words he wants, he realizes suddenly, the wineskin empty and hard in his hand. It’s everything he wants, until it seems to swallow him up right there, leaving nothing but darkness.

But he doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care.