He wanted to stay asleep. His bones ached, his muscles cried out. His mind was jumbled. His dreams spoke of very little, just of memories that would be better off forgotten.
He didn't care about the desert and its terrain. He didn't care for the gentle hand without a face that guided him through it. He wanted to know the face. The name. What they were like. If they were still alive.
Nicanora had been the only name he recalled- well, that, and Zaltana. With Nicanora he could picture a face. Brown skin, curly hair that went to her shoulders, and eyes that never seemed to not glare. She never wore makeup, and her face was dotted with imperfections- a mole there, some acne.
Zaltana was a different story. He couldn't remember her face. But he could remember her actions. He could feel her hands on his arms as she taught him to aim a bow, her rough voice as she sang atop snowy mountains. The magic she helped him wield without caution or reserve. She made him understand his own power.
She also taught him empathy and love. Now, he wondered where she might be. Not even a hello? No checking up? She'd entered the room once, but she hadn't said a word.
Nicanora was trying to convince her to come down. She'd checked back in, carrying the smell of being around alcohol, saying that she'd be sobering Zaltana up to talk.
It was nice, he supposed. Nicanora seemed nice. He wondered if she really was- what did he actually know her as? For that matter, what did he know any of them as? His own sister... he had a vague image of her.
Long, white robe. Carried a scepter. Long white hair that trailed to the ground. A large, fluffy tail, and wolves ears. Blue eyes that could calm you down just by looking at you. He'd told Ivan this, and Ivan had asked him who he was talking about.
He knew that was Maikoh, though. He knew her. That was her.
His children... California he had an image of, a little snapshot of memory. She was in a basket, crying, staring up at him with big blue eyes. She was only a baby, Moses'ed by a scared mother. She was one of the few that hadn't just appeared to him. He had to search for her.
Illinois was a different story. He didn't have a face, he had a personality. A fiery little boy who asked too many personal questions already knowing the answers. He was snarky when he got older, drawing back and only seeming to care about his twin. Rarely showing himself to others. He was a good kid. Just liked acting like the big bad wolf.
The door opened. He wondered if he should just continue to look like he was asleep. He was tired.
"You okay?" Ivan asked, sitting down on the bed. Alfred looked to where he sat, but didn't see him. He smelt food. A hand brushed his cheek. He sat up.
"I'm fine," Alfred replied, "what is that?"
"Broth and noodles. Make sure to chew, please."
"Fine," he felt the bowl get handed to him. The bowl itself was hot, and he grabbed around for the fork for a moment. Ivan put a hand on his back, a silent way of telling him if he needed help he would be there, "Thank you."
"No problem," Ivan replied. It was an informal way of speaking, one he could have only picked up recently, from an American. He wondered how long he had been searching. It had to have been a while, but he knew it wasn't the entire time he was missing.
He ate quietly.
"Is Zaltana sober yet?" he asked. He could hear Ivan gulp.
"No," he replied, "I don't think she wants to talk. She feels guilty about what happened. She doesn't believe anything should have happened to you and she blamed herself."
"For what?" he giggled, shaking his head, "She couldn't have done anything to stop it. She wasn't even there."
"Exactly," he shrugged, "she felt powerless for a long time."
"Ah..." Alfred snickered, slurping up more noodles, "I think that's dumb. Being without power isn't bad. It's being used that's bad. But it's not your fault if you're used."
Ivan ran fingers through his hair, "I'm sorry that happened to you."
"You don't have to be," he smiled, "you're helping me rebuild. You don't have to be sorry for me too."
Ivan placed a hand on Alfred's thigh, and Alfred flinched. The broth sloshed in the bowl, but didn't spill. Ivan's hand immediately left, and he placed it on his lap.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Alfred replied, "it's okay."
Ivan touched his arm, dragging his hand over his shoulder before embracing him in a side-hug, "I'm sorry. Please don't cry."
"I'm not," Alfred leaned into him, continuing to eat, "I just... wasn't expecting it. It's fine. I promise."
Ivan pecked him on the temple, leaning his head on his own.
"If Zaltana doesn't show up here in twenty minutes drag her. I don't care if she's drunk off her rocker, I want to talk to her," he said. He felt Ivan nod.
"When Maikoh feels a little better she'll heal your neck."
"That's nice," his image of the long-haired werewolf appeared, the gold and sapphire scepter glistening in the setting sun. Where had that image come from. It was regal, in some sort of cave. Behind the matron of healing came the matron of pain, "can you ask Tala to come with her?"
"What?" Ivan asked, "Why?"
"Because," Alfred sighed, "I want her to eat."
"Of you?"
"Yes," Alfred replied, "unless you also look and feel like a pincushion with the stuffing coming out."
"I... is that a good idea?"
"Hm. I don't know," Alfred said, "but when Tala is fed she is more powerful, right? So, why not feed her. She'll be capable of freeing more of my family."
"Do... you remember what Tala is like when she is fed?"
Alfred thought for a moment. An image was summoned. The matron of pain was smiling, surrounded by bodies. Her long claws were sheathed, with pieces of clothes and flesh caught into the serration. Her black hair was short, flaring around her cheeks.
Her orange eyes bore holes into your very soul. Her skin flared wildly between dark and pale, like someone trying to decide whether they are sick or just irritated. A thin tail swished behind her, with perked black ears.
"Yes. That is what is needed."
"If... you wish," he replied.
Twenty minutes passed. Ivan got up and left the room, leaving Alfred to twiddle his thumbs. He wasn't nervous, just bored. Why would he be nervous when he was just talking to Zaltana?
There is no reason to be nervous.
Ivan cursed under his breath. Zaltana looked over to him and hissed. Ivan grabbed onto her arm and she slumped down. They were in the living room nearest to the back of the house. There was no alcohol, but instead Zaltana, who was napping it off.
"C'mon."
"No," she grumbled.
"Dyami wants to talk to you," he said, "and it's rude to keep him waiting because you're too busy wallowing in your own goddamn grief."
"Uh..." she groaned, "fuck off."
"No. Hurry up."
"Fine," she pulled herself up, staggering on her feet. He held onto her, leading her out of the room. Her frown deepened as soon as she arrived at the staircase, and he held on carefully to both her tail and her back so she couldn't stab him or fall down the stairs.
"You shouldn't be drinking so close to when you just grew a brain back," Ivan said, and she cursed him out under her breath, "now, Alfred's-"
"For the love of the gods-"
"Okay, okay, Dyami's going to have some questions. Could you please try to answer them without breaking down crying?"
"You calling me a wimp?"
"If the shoe fits-" they got to the correct level, he pushed her forward, "wear it."
"You are such a jackass," she said, as they started walking to the door. A few twists and turns was all it took. Ivan knocked, before pushing the door open. He released Zatlana's tail, and she walked in. Her ears were pressed back.
"Zala?" Alfred asked. She narrowed her eyes, stepping forward. Her eyes fell onto his own and she frowned.
"Yes, Dyami?" he looked towards her at his name.
He opened his arms, and she stepped forward to hug him. She was practically in tears, holding them back best she could at the moment.
"I'm so sorry," she replied, petting his hair. The strands that fell out were tossed to the side, a hurt look on her face. Alfred didn't even seem to feel it, continuing to dig his fingers into the back of her leotard.
"It's okay," he repeated, over and over again, as if he was comforting her. At this point, the mantra sounded like it was to comfort him. She continued to run her hands along his back, a constant telling that she was here. Right here.
"What took you so long to see me?"
"Guilt," she whispered, "none of that should have happened to you, little brother. None of it."
"Scared you were going to lose another?"
"Yes," she whispered. Ivan tilted his head, wondering what they were talking about. His eyebrows furrowed as they began whispering to each other in a language he hadn't heard in a long time. It was some slang-filled off branch of Old Church Slavonic.
They said the word 'famine' four times, and the words 'pain', 'misery', and 'loneliness' almost twenty. He didn't understand much else- wait, no. The word for sleep.
Something weird happened. It was only weird because he didn't expect it. Alfred started to cry, resting his head on her collarbone, and she kissed the back of his head before hugging him once again. Ivan walked over, wondering if he should be protective over Alfred or just allow them to have their moment.
Zaltana sat down on the bed, holding him close. The two whispered to each other in the same language. Ivan only caught the word 'comfort.'
He sat down, watching as Alfred pulled away from his sister. He looked over to him, reaching out to touch him, before finding his hand and holding it. He scooted towards him, resting his head on his arm.
"Thank you," Zaltana said, looking at Alfred before patting Ivan on the head. Her hands were coated with a thin layer of blood, but she didn't mind. Ivan looked at his back, wondering if he was bleeding, but it was nothing major enough to worry about.
"Thanks," Alfred whispered, nuzzling closer to him.
"Doesn't that hurt?"
"Well, the pain means there's someone there... so... no?" Alfred replied, looking up at him. Ivan shook his head, staring down into his white eyes. He leaned down and pecked him on the lips. Alfred smiled, pushing himself up higher, earning him another peck.
"Go to sleep," Ivan said, "you want to get your sleeping schedule back on track, don't you?"
"Huh? What time is it?"
"The sun just set," Ivan replied, "it's six."
"It's not very late." Alfred whined.
"Yes, but you need to rest so that you can get better. You wanting to run around in fields means you have to be healthy enough to do it."
Alfred whined, leaning into him. Ivan started messing with his hair. It was long and cut weirdly, as if it had been completely shaved multiple times but badly, and hadn't been cut in months. He pressed a kiss to his scalp.
There was a knock. It seemed the entire day was plagued by knocking.
"Come in," Ivan said, knowing it was Maikoh. Like he had asked her, Tala stepped in behind her. Alfred looked to where the other werewolf stood as Maikoh walked forward. Ivan scooted away from him as his sister touched his chest, where she had healed it before.
"What do you want first, Tala to eat or me to heal?" she asked. Her voice was gentle, and worried.
"Tala," he called, "I have one request."
"Speak, quickly," Tala said. She stared directly at his wounds before licking her lips.
"Free as much of our family as possible," he said, "I don't care how you do it, just free them. And try not to get hurt in the process."
Tala nodded, "That was my plan as well."
"Then do what you need too," Tala smiled, pressing her hands harshly into his shoulders. The others face clenched, before it faded and his eyes opened. He stared at nothing, feeling Tala ignite his overworked nerves as her meal. She absorbed the signals they sent- the ones of warning.
Alfred bent down, his back exposing itself. A few of the bones popped as he leaned over his knees. The skin stretched, wounds starting to break. A trickle of blood went down his side, and he felt someone press a wet cloth against it.
He didn't know how long it lasted. It was mind numbing and disorienting. Tala took her hands off him, before she began to laugh. She was out of the room very quickly, ushered out by a nervous Maikoh.
Alfred pushed himself back up, wincing. From what he understood, Ivan had the wet cloth, and was now running his hand up and down his back. Maikoh shut the door behind her twin.
She pressed her hands to his chest, and he looked up at her as she moved her hands to his neck. He didn't know why, but he could see the face that Maikoh was making, even though he didn't exactly know what her face looked like.
There was mumbling, and the stress of his nerves began to go away. The hole in his throat completely closed up, the red of his skin going back to white. A cyst in his lower neck dissolved.
"Any better," she was panting. He imagined healing was tiring.
"Yes, thank you," he replied, "really."
Maikoh smiled, loosely hugging him, "I'm just glad you're okay."