Author’s Note: Yes, another story. Another SLASH story… Inspired by Tarzan, no less. Well, I’ve always wanted to write a story about a boy raised by wolves, and the opportunity arose so I did. Don’t worry; Klutz won’t stop being updated as frequently as it is. In fact, I’m only allowed to work on this if Klutz has a chapter already finished and ready to submit.

This is different than Klutz. Not as comedic- more fantasy inclined actually. So the writing style is much different. This is actually what I normally write. I hope you like it anyway. The first chapter is short. I just needed to introduce the two main characters. I hope you like this story. It won’t be long; 7 or 8 chapters, 10 at most. Please R/R, I’ll love you forever.

*          *            *

~Dark Silhouettes and Turquoise Eyes~

A shadow passed through the woods of Acrathypt, neither human nor animal nor a mix of either. The treetops were his haven; there he reined king with stone dagger in hand and great agility for his lineage. He swept through the branches in pursuit of the water, tinkling like chimes, in a bed not far from his pack’s territory.

            What day is it? Crescent, half, full, new? Ah, Crescent… Hunting should be good then…

            The summer nights were warm and buzzing with insects. Cicadas voiced their midnight serenade, drowning out the crickets’ song and the bullfrog’s bellow. The night was clear and cloudless, leaving stars and fireflies the freedom to illuminate the woods with ethereal, silver rays.

            Finally, he reached the river and dropped from the trees like the angel of death- copper locks cropped short and choppy by some crude blade, turquoise eyes of an abnormal shade and skin all bronze and brown from the sun, glimmering with reflections of the moon and water.

            There were advantages to his malformed anatomy and dexterous digits- he could fish and his pack couldn’t. He could climb trees, craft weapons, among other things and they remained oblivious. Best of all- he could create fire.

            Spear in hand, he stood at the river’s edge and watched the salmon as they darted past. None were particularly large, and there were fewer than there had been in the spring but still enough to hunt. When the opportune moment arose, he would dart forward and thrust his spear into the water with a nearly imperceptible splash before withdrawing with a writhing fish on the pointed end of a jagged stone. He’d shaped and weathered it to be deadly. He would throw the fish onto the bank, near the roots of an elm where they’d flop, gills groping for air, before continuing the hunt.

            His pack thought him strange- his mother told him he was merely special and a gift. He did not believe her, for if he were a gift the other wolves would not sneer at him when he failed to outrun a hare or gopher. He was a mutant of his kind, neither a wolf nor any other creature of the woods. His mother always reassured him that she’d never seen another quite like him, though she seemed reluctant to speak as such. Perhaps she was ashamed of his appearance- all flesh and no fur, blunt, flat claws rather than sharp, curved ones.

             A streak of silver in the water and his spear dashed out again, scything another victim on its point. He smiled at his accomplishment, embarrassingly flat teeth exposed upon an equally flat guise. He could not understand his reflection, as the water stilled. Where was his fur, his claws, his teeth, his tail, his snout? It seemed absurd to be born so different, treated as such.

            The water stirred as a rock pummeled his reflection and his face snapped up to the trees to see what danger flung the pebble. He saw nothing in the Canopy, and was about to return his gaze to the throbbing waters, when a figure standing across the river was seen.

            The figure seemed to sense his eyes upon him, for it turned and fled like a hallucination or a dream and vanished into the woods on the opposite bank. Fearful of the two-legged creature, Lobo turned and threw the dead fish into a bag he’d fashioned of deer hide and took to the trees.

            Pink faintly saturated the horizon as he returned to a throng of appreciative howls. A few hares already remained, picked dry- but the fish were fresh and thick with meat.

            Yuki, a pup, ran up to him with scaly meat dangling in her jowls. “Fish! My favourite!” she yipped gratefully, tossing the meat into the air and playing with the previously butchered chunk before swallowing it.

            “Say thank you,” Seria, Yuki’s mother and beta femme of the pack, ordered passively as she began dragging off a fish for her mate and child.

            “Thank you, Lobo,” the cub obliged resignedly, tongue lolling as she regarded Lobo. The cub was oblivious to his differences, and for that Lobo was thankful.

            Lobo stepped back, watching his mother and father as they ate. They had claimed the biggest fish first, because they were the most important. Lobo didn’t eat- he wasn’t hungry.

            “I haven’t seen you eat a full meal in a fortnight,” his mother worried. “You’re thin enough as it is.” Lobo wanted to argue that it was only his lack of fur that made him seem malnourished. His figure was naturally lank, but muscle stood out in his back and arms, which he used to climb most often.

            “I haven’t been feeling myself,” he replied in a growling undertone. She gave him a crooked look, as though he were lying outright and it was very rude.

            “You’re troubled.”

            “I saw something across the river, is all. I don’t think it will be a danger.”

            “A bear?”

            Lobo shook his head, casting turquoise orbs to the grass. He picked at evergreen blades with his fingers and flicked the broken pieces away. His mother watched him do this, as most wolves did, fascinated by the deft movements of his strange paws.

            “No, I don’t know what it was. It ran away when I saw it.”

            His mother nodded, as though this affirmed some sort of safety amongst the pack. “Well, eat something before you leave.”

            Lobo took a piece of fish and ate that, just to satisfy her, before he left for Gaia.

            Gaia was a tree, an oak he’d come to befriend. Her bole was tall and thick- too thick for him to reach around with his arms. The only way to climb her was to scale a neighboring tree and leap, in the fashion of a squirrel, to the overhanging limbs of the giant. Lobo did this with such grace as to be mistaken for a woodland rodent rather than a wolf or human- or whatever he was.

            Once in the branches, it was easy to make his way to the topmost branches. She was ancient but strong; her arms would hold him without complaint. Here the birds were plenty- cardinals, finches, robins, and chickadees. The occasional jay would flicker by, but turned tail at the sight of so many birds- especially the cardinal, with its black face and twitchy gesticulations. He looked like a crook. The jays were bigger, but there were too many of the other birds for them to risk stealing eggs or nesting materials.

            Lobo sat amongst the chorus of music. They used to shy away or flee at his presence, but now they’d come to ignore him, or even enjoy his company. One fat robin was particularly affectionate of him. She would give him saucy looks from her nest in the spring, as though daring him to attempt to steal the cyan prizes within. Then she would jump onto the rim and watch him some more. After much contemplation, she would soar down and land on his knee and watch him from there.

            He loved Gaia and her occupants. He vowed never to let anybody harm her or his winged friends.

            He fell asleep in the branches (he trusted Gaia not to let him fall) and dreamt of strange things. Trees with no branches: just thick, towering boles of gray hue, fashioned from stone. And animals that roared like machines down a path- like ants on a mission to find food for their Queen. And creatures- creatures like him. No fur, no sharp teeth or claws- no amber eyes with black lining. Flat noses and pink lips with upright bodies and long appendages like his. Creatures like him. Millions of them, dressed strangely, colourfully, in colours he hadn’t seen in anything but rainbows. And dark silhouettes on riverbanks…

            He was sad when he woke up from that dream. It was a good dream.

*          *            *

            Blanca stared at the passing greenery- a blur of browns and olives like smeared paint on an artist’s palette. It would have been beautiful to watch if they hadn’t been moving so fast down the narrow highway.

            The bus hit a pothole and the smaller children shrieked, while a chorus of ‘wooaaahs!’ rose from the older kids. Blanca himself was one of the oldest in the orphanage. No one wanted a boy named Blanca, whose only talent was photography. He couldn’t read, he couldn’t write. He just made scrapbooks with his photographs out of recycled paper and tape that he stole from the matron’s drawer.

The matron didn’t think anybody knew about her drinking problem, but Blanca knew, and he snuck in every time she passed out with a bottle in her hand. He didn’t resent her for it- she was the one who invested the time to develop his photos in the first place. She’d probably let him have the tape, too- but he was afraid to ask now that he’d been stealing it for five years.

The bus finally slowed and made a wide arc as it turned into a break in the woods. The path was narrow and gravel- pine needles and maple tree branches whipped and scratched the windowpanes beside him as they bumped along the road. The kids continued to giggle and squeal, enjoying the ride as though it were a roller coaster at a theme park.

He turned the page of his scrapbook, fingers traipsing down a photo from the orphanage. It was of Dolly, sleeping under the bed just to convince herself that there were no monsters. Her blonde, pig-tailed head was bent so that you could not see her face, but it was clear that she was sucking her thumb. Her faded, pink overalls were loose around her and the moonlight crept from an open window under the bed to turn her skin pale blue. Beside the photo was a dried daisy blossom; she’d given it to him for his birthday a few months ago when he’d turned seventeen.

When they stopped, they all had to wait for the van carrying their camping things. The orphanage had never gone on a camping trip before- but it was summer and it was sweltering in their unconditioned ‘shelter.’ Blanca pressed the cover of his latest scrapbook closed, preaching a finger down its spine lovingly. Then he stuffed it into his bag, the one that had been lent to him for the trip, and left the bus. He was last in line.

The van arrived and about twenty kids swarmed the doors to reach their things first. Blanca waited for the throng of children to disperse before he grabbed his own bag- a solitary lump in the center of the van’s trunk.

He was the oldest, so he had to help Anne set up the tents. A few boys, around twelve years old, asked if they could help. Blanca taught them how to nail pegs into the ground without hurting their fingers and how to insert poles through their designated loops in order to prop up the tent.

After an hour or so there were at least seven tents, dimpling the ground like gray, nylon acne. Blanca swept his white-blonde hair from his face: it had been years since it had been properly cut and it now hung in uneven locks to his chin, silky and perfectly straight. He hated his hair- it got dirty too easily and stuck to his forehead and nape in the summers. He liked his eyes, though: almond-shaped and bright green like firefly lamps.

By the time they had arrived and all the tents were raised, it was time for supper and eventually bed. The sun was growing bleaker as they roasted sausages on an open fire. One child let his hand wander too far down the metal pole of his sausage skewer and burnt himself. Blanca couldn’t find the water barrels (they were probably still in the van) so he decided to take the boy, Stephen, to the river. He’d heard it when they’d first arrived, babbling louder than the children had been. With Stephen’s unhurt hand in his, he made his way through the trees, following the chatter of running water.

It didn’t take long to reach. He knelt and pressed the boys hand into the cool, allowing the soothing river to calm the angry, blistering palm.

“Only touch the wooden part on the skewer, remember that,” he said calmly. The boy finally said he was ok and ran back to camp, following the dim light of the fire through the trees. Blanca remained, mesmerized by the sounds and sights of the forest.

He wanted to photograph the water, the crescent moon reflected in its surface. He wanted to photograph the foliage. He wanted to photograph the spider web, sprinkled with dew, suspended between two low-hanging branches above the water. Inches from danger and so delicate as to be swept away by a wayward wind.

His eyes traveled across the river, finally, at the sound of splashing. He caught his breath at the sight- there stood a tanned boy of his own age on the bank, catching fish with the end of a crude spear. All he could see of his face was a russet-hued head of hair- he was looking at his reflection. Blanca had the unbeaten urge to get the boy’s attention. He carefully selected a smooth pebble from the lower banks and skipped it: once, twice, thrice, four times and it sunk into the boy’s reflection, causing his head to snap up. The moon shone brightly on turquoise eyes that, even from this distance, he could make out. He would have dove in and swam to the other side just to meet those eyes with his if he could (he knew the moon was standing behind him, turning him to nothing but a black silhouette). The boy looked hesitant, fearful, and suddenly something in that gaze frightened Blanca too.

He turned, sprinting back to camp, and was silent through out story telling. He was silent, too, when Anne said goodnight and went to her tent with a few of the girls, while he went with the smallest boys. It took a long time to fall asleep- the turquoise eyes were burnt into the backs of his eyelids and children kept rolling onto him, kicking him with their sharp toenails.

Late into the night, he heard a symphony of howling wolves rising above the whir of insects. The children were asleep and none woke to cry out in fear. He enjoyed the sweet, sad melody and fell asleep to it with ease: dreaming of the boy across the river with the turquoise eyes.

*            *            *

If anybody knows the origins of Lobo and Blanca’s names, feel free to speak up. I’ll give you a cookie! ^.^ And if I’ve already told you, you don’t count lol