HOWLING HOUND
how i love you.
The wind does not sing here. It screams—low and guttural, like the breath of something ancient exhaling through the hollowed ribs of dead trees. Howling Hound presses forward into it anyway, its frame hunched against the cold, a dull ache running through its shoulders from days of traveling with too little rest. Briar's scent is long gone from its pelt. Just dirt and pine now, the clinging rot of fallen leaves, and the faintest trace of milk. The child's weight is a warmth along its flank, tucked close as she stumbles to keep pace on clumsy legs. Her breath whistles soft and damp against its side. It had said they would only stop when they found real shelter.
It lied.
The hollow tree is no den, no sanctuary—just a fallen husk split open like a cracked tooth, jagged and dark inside. But it's enough to curl around a shivering kit in. Enough to survive one more night. The second the child is inside, it follows, shoving its shoulder against the bark until the wind is shut out behind them. The quiet rushes in after, heavier somehow. The kind of silence that makes a cat feel like prey. The child mewls softly. Not crying. She never does—not really. Howling Hound lowers its head and nuzzles her closer, lips brushing her thin fur. "Stay close," it mutters, voice like gravel turned in a streambed. "No wandering." It watches her curl, paws twitching before they fully settle. So small. So soft. The kind of thing Howling Hound has never been, not really. Never had the chance to be. And now it has to keep that softness alive.
Bay. That had been her name. It is something too heavy for something so gentle, so little. She is not meant to bear that weight. It can't call her that. Its chest tightens, a growl curling in its throat, sharp and helpless. It can't let her keep that name, can't let her inheritance be bared teeth, raspy growls, an abandoned burrow heavy with the scent of fox fur and prey blood.
"Pup," it rasps instead. "You'll be Baying Pup."
The name sticks in its mouth like bone. Bitter. Familiar. Haunting. Its mother's voice echoes somewhere beneath it, warped by memory and loss. It tries not to flinch. Howling Hound lowers itself beside her. Its body is scarred and half-starved, ribs pressing sharp beneath its pelt, but it shields her all the same. It is beast, it is burden, it is whatever the thing is that keeps her warm when the wind screams.
Its throat aches.
It lets out a slow breath, nose pressed to the scruff of her neck. "I won't leave you," it murmurs, too quiet. "I won't." The guilt hangs heavy behind its teeth. Yip's name burns like fire, but it does not say it. It never does. Not with her. Instead, it watches the shadows shift along the curve of her back. It listens to the wind trying to claw its way in. And it thinks—not for the first time—that maybe this is the closest thing to forgiveness it will ever be given. Not from the stars. Not from the cats it left behind. Not even from itself. But her tiny frame pressed against its side.... it comes close. It shifts, bulky frame folding in around her. Its tail curls over her back. Protective. Possessive. Afraid. She is too small for this world.
She is too small for it.
It's no father. It's no mother. It's not even a cat, most days. It's only teeth and scar and shadow. It's hunger gnawing on its own name. It doesn't know how to raise anything that doesn't need to be torn apart or kept away. The way it holds her is the way it once held a rabbit—careful, precise, jaw trembling with restraint. It is not like Briar.
Briar had been soft. Braver than it. She'd smiled through her teeth and nursed her kit with no complaint even when her ribs began to show. Even when she coughed up blood in the last days. Howling Hound had watched her die in silence with Pup curled at her belly and no time left for goodbye. She'd made it promise—you'll keep Bay safe—and it hadn't answered. Couldn't. It only watched her slip into stillness, then stared at the kit who blinked up at it like it was someone worth trusting. It wasn't.
Still isn't.
But Pup doesn't know better. She mews when she's hungry, cries when it leaves her to hunt, crawls into the crook of its foreleg like it's her home. She doesn't flinch from its teeth. Doesn't mind its scars. Once, she even tried to chew at the tuft of fur where its missing eye sinks, giggling like she'd found a secret. Sometimes it wants to scream. Sometimes it wants to run. Instead, it stays. It learns to make a nest. Finds milkweed, moss, bird feathers. Lines her nest with rabbit fur. But some nights—like tonight—she rolls over in her sleep and whispers, "Ma."
And Howling Hound freezes.
It doesn't correct her.
It just leans down, presses its muzzle to her scruff, breathes in the scent of pup and moss and memory. It murmurs, too soft for the stars to hear, "I'm here." It doesn't know that it could ever measure up to what she deserves. But it stays anyways.
It lied.
The hollow tree is no den, no sanctuary—just a fallen husk split open like a cracked tooth, jagged and dark inside. But it's enough to curl around a shivering kit in. Enough to survive one more night. The second the child is inside, it follows, shoving its shoulder against the bark until the wind is shut out behind them. The quiet rushes in after, heavier somehow. The kind of silence that makes a cat feel like prey. The child mewls softly. Not crying. She never does—not really. Howling Hound lowers its head and nuzzles her closer, lips brushing her thin fur. "Stay close," it mutters, voice like gravel turned in a streambed. "No wandering." It watches her curl, paws twitching before they fully settle. So small. So soft. The kind of thing Howling Hound has never been, not really. Never had the chance to be. And now it has to keep that softness alive.
Bay. That had been her name. It is something too heavy for something so gentle, so little. She is not meant to bear that weight. It can't call her that. Its chest tightens, a growl curling in its throat, sharp and helpless. It can't let her keep that name, can't let her inheritance be bared teeth, raspy growls, an abandoned burrow heavy with the scent of fox fur and prey blood.
"Pup," it rasps instead. "You'll be Baying Pup."
The name sticks in its mouth like bone. Bitter. Familiar. Haunting. Its mother's voice echoes somewhere beneath it, warped by memory and loss. It tries not to flinch. Howling Hound lowers itself beside her. Its body is scarred and half-starved, ribs pressing sharp beneath its pelt, but it shields her all the same. It is beast, it is burden, it is whatever the thing is that keeps her warm when the wind screams.
Its throat aches.
It lets out a slow breath, nose pressed to the scruff of her neck. "I won't leave you," it murmurs, too quiet. "I won't." The guilt hangs heavy behind its teeth. Yip's name burns like fire, but it does not say it. It never does. Not with her. Instead, it watches the shadows shift along the curve of her back. It listens to the wind trying to claw its way in. And it thinks—not for the first time—that maybe this is the closest thing to forgiveness it will ever be given. Not from the stars. Not from the cats it left behind. Not even from itself. But her tiny frame pressed against its side.... it comes close. It shifts, bulky frame folding in around her. Its tail curls over her back. Protective. Possessive. Afraid. She is too small for this world.
She is too small for it.
It's no father. It's no mother. It's not even a cat, most days. It's only teeth and scar and shadow. It's hunger gnawing on its own name. It doesn't know how to raise anything that doesn't need to be torn apart or kept away. The way it holds her is the way it once held a rabbit—careful, precise, jaw trembling with restraint. It is not like Briar.
Briar had been soft. Braver than it. She'd smiled through her teeth and nursed her kit with no complaint even when her ribs began to show. Even when she coughed up blood in the last days. Howling Hound had watched her die in silence with Pup curled at her belly and no time left for goodbye. She'd made it promise—you'll keep Bay safe—and it hadn't answered. Couldn't. It only watched her slip into stillness, then stared at the kit who blinked up at it like it was someone worth trusting. It wasn't.
Still isn't.
But Pup doesn't know better. She mews when she's hungry, cries when it leaves her to hunt, crawls into the crook of its foreleg like it's her home. She doesn't flinch from its teeth. Doesn't mind its scars. Once, she even tried to chew at the tuft of fur where its missing eye sinks, giggling like she'd found a secret. Sometimes it wants to scream. Sometimes it wants to run. Instead, it stays. It learns to make a nest. Finds milkweed, moss, bird feathers. Lines her nest with rabbit fur. But some nights—like tonight—she rolls over in her sleep and whispers, "Ma."
And Howling Hound freezes.
It doesn't correct her.
It just leans down, presses its muzzle to her scruff, breathes in the scent of pup and moss and memory. It murmurs, too soft for the stars to hear, "I'm here." It doesn't know that it could ever measure up to what she deserves. But it stays anyways.