The Man Behind the Wolf
1260 Words
He’s not just any man. The bleeding, sweating, hulking beast of a man in front of me is, hands-down, the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. His long, tangled, oily mess of dark curls give off a vibe somewhere between Aragorn and Robb Stark; his bright, misty blue-gray eyes could give Cillian Murphy a run for his money; and his sheer size…
Well, he’s not quite Dwayne Johnson, but I think he could give Jason Momoa a run for his money.
“You…” I start to stammer, but then my hand flies to my lips for a different reason. The word came out… different, somehow. Like I’m speaking another language.
I’m in another dimension, I decide. Or at least another world. It’s the only explanation for… all this.
The man doesn’t look quite as shocked and horrified as me, but he does look nearly as fascinated. He takes a cautious step toward me, eyes trailing over my body not so much sexually as… perplexedly.
If I didn’t mention this already, he’s not exactly wearing twenty-first-century attire. His pants almost look like the riding breeches I myself am wearing, and he’s even wearing leather boots like me, but the similarities end there. His tattered, black tunic is unlike anything I’ve seen in my lifetime, and the boiled leather over-vest (jerkin, I think it’s called?) almost looks like… armor.
I take a step back when I see the sheathed sword in his belt. His hand is hovering a little too close to the hilt for my liking.
“You saved me,” he says to me. It isn’t a question. It comes out the same way my one word did—in another language entirely—one I have no idea how I can understand.
I take another step back, shaking my head. “No.”
But he doesn’t seem to believe me.
He’s still eyeing my clothes. My riding breeches and knee-high leather boots might not be so different from his own, but my fleece-lined Under Armour shirt, zip-up hoodie, and puffy North Face vest don’t exactly scream… well, whatever era or universe this guy is from.
“Who are you?” he finally asks me as his ridiculously gorgeous eyes settle back onto mine.
What do I tell him? Do I make up a lie? Pretend I’m from this era—this world—whatever it is I seem to have stumbled into?
Would it matter? Surely I’m asleep, right? Dreaming?
“I’m… Echo,” I stammer. It's technically just a nickname, but I haven't gone by anything else since I was a child, and I'm not about to start now. “I’m from Buffalo. I got lost in the woods, is all.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine, though he seems to be analyzing my words for all they’re worth, trying to make sense of them. “Buffalo,” he repeats. “Like… the animal?”
It’s clearly not a place he’s familiar with.
“I’m lost,” I repeat impatiently. “Why don’t you just tell me who you are, and where I am?”
He waves a hand disinterestedly. “I’m no one. You’re in Beatton territory. Where are your traveling companions?”
Apparently this is a realm where women couldn’t possibly travel alone. On principle, if nothing else, I stick my nose in the air and say, “I’m traveling alone.”
He looks baffled. “But… you’re just a girl.”
I cross my arms, temper getting the better of me. “And how old are you, exactly? You can’t be more than twenty.”
Now, he just looks amused. “Nineteen. And you?”
I don’t answer that. I watch him for a second, scanning the blood-stained leather near his torso. It’s hard to make out the scarlet color through the dark material, but I can tell there’s a lot of blood. I bite my lip, trying to convince myself not to ask the question but knowing all too well that I will: “How badly are you hurt?”
He glances down at his torso as if only just remembering he’s injured at all. He touches the blood thoughtfully, scans his bloodied fingers, then shrugs. “I’ll survive. Where did you come from?”
“I told you. Buffalo.” Not my fault if he doesn’t know where that is.
“But…” He looks frustrated. “You materialized out of nothingness. You and your courser. Right before my eyes.”
I struggle to process this new information as I glance behind me at Apollo. Is he the “courser” this man is referring to? I vaguely remember reading somewhere that it's an older term for strong, fast warhorses, which I guess could apply to Apollo.
And me materializing right in front of him? Sure, it seems to be the only logical (okay, minus the logic part) explanation for what happened when we made that jump over the bridge, but somehow it makes me feel more insane, instead of less, that someone witnessed it.
And if this man isn't the same wolf from Earth that was chasing us… well, I guess that part is a good thing.
“Look,” I finally say. “I’m going to be honest with you because I would have no idea what lie to concoct. I’m not from this world. Where I’m from, we don’t have a green sun or a sea-green sky. There was a river back there—” I point to the area I materialized from “—and a bridge. And where I’m from, it’s perfectly normal for a woman to travel alone.”
He raises an eyebrow. It’s annoyingly hot. “And to dress the way you are dressed?”
I try not to scowl at that.
“Your language,” he says, though the flicker of amusement lingers in his eyes. “You speak Shiftran fluently. They speak the same language in your world?”
“No. I’m… not sure how I’m doing that. In my head, I process what you’re saying in English—that’s my language. That’s what I’m speaking in my head, too. I can hear myself speaking another language, I just… don’t know how.”
He watches me intently for several seconds. He looks every bit as intrigued as when he first approached me, and while it partially makes me feel like some sort of sideshow attraction on display, another part of it actually sort of… flatters me.
Suddenly, he turns away from me and approaches Apollo. I expect the spooky, nervous-energy horse to bolt away from him, but, to my surprise, he doesn’t. The man reaches a slow, gentle hand out toward Apollo’s face, and the horse responds by pressing his nose against the man’s palm.
The man closes his eyes, then starts to move his lips. I strain to hear the noise coming out of them, but I can’t. It seems to be reserved only for the horse.
Finally, the man pulls away from Apollo and turns to face me.
“Incredible,” he murmurs.
My eyes bulge as I realize what the word implies. “Did you just… talk to my horse?”
A flash of amusement sparks in his eyes—almost playfulness. “He is a very big fan of yours. You should be flattered.”
I have no idea how to respond to that.
Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell—or, rather, the whistle. It’s far out, but it’s unmistakably human.
We’re about to have company.
- Writer
