The Task

Dusk was falling.

Fian stepped through the door of his small hut and undid the straps of his basket. Holding it before him, he caught the scent of the fresh herbs once more. He loved that earthy aroma—hints of forest floor, wild chervil, sorrel, woodland mushrooms, and fresh herbs. Yes, he knew he was late—far later, in fact, than agreed upon. Yet he felt absolutely no guilt about it; instead, he felt that happy contentment that came from seeing the world just as only he could. And he had seen and experienced so much while gathering greens and herbs.

When he entered the kitchen, Fresco was still sitting at the table. His old muzzle lifted slowly. Amber eyes fixed on Fian with a calm that carried more weight than any growl.

Vela was leaning against the hearth, arms crossed, yet with an unusual air of composure.

“You’re late, lad,” Fresco rumbled in his deep voice. “Where have you been?”

Fian blinked innocently, tugged at the straps of his satchel, and explained candidly: “Someone needed help along the way. A handcart had sunk deep into the mire—the wheels were stuck fast. I simply helped because she was a truly kind-hearted badger lady. And honestly, she never could have freed the thing on her own. I couldn’t just look the other way; that wouldn’t be right. Well, afterwards we just caught our breath for a moment and ate a few biscuits. Then I moved on to carry out your assignment. I know the herbs down by the forest lake’s shore aren’t very good anymore, so I decided to go around the lake and head upstream… You know, the better herbs and mushrooms grow up there by the water.”

---

Worthy chronicler, I am missing the German links…

Oh my traveler, I thought … The are nearly all available, but you overlooked them. Follow this path to the German lore

---

He paused, studied the two wolves, and then turned to Fresco: “Was that wrong? I thought… you’d want me to help.”

Fresco tilted his head slightly. A hint of thoughtful approval passed over his scarred brow, and he gave a curt nod. It was a good deed—almost exemplary, once again. Yet in the same breath, his nostrils flared and he drew a deep breath, preparing to deliver an unmistakable reprimand, for worry had already begun to fray the old mentor’s nerves.

But before Fresco could speak, Vela answered, cutting him off. “Thank you for your help, Fian,” she said softly, stepping half a pace forward and lifting her chin. “Fresco, I hereby take back responsibility.”

Fian stood motionless in the middle of the room. His ears twitched attentively. His gaze shifted from Vela to Fresco’s darkening expression and back again. Then he turned directly to the Huntress of the North.

“What exactly did I do wrong?” he asked cautiously.

Vela studied him. “You know, Snuffel, it isn’t always about right or wrong. It’s about priorities, about the parameters, and about the fact that you simply have to follow orders.”

Fian looked at her curiously. “But I completed the tasks—and helped someone, too. I don’t understand…”

Fresco looked first at Fian, then at Vela. Then he turned back to Fian. “Can you do me a favor?”

Fian looked at the old wolf but hesitated. His paws briefly touched the leather collar around his throat. “I really ought to ask Vela for permission before I do you any favors.”

The air in the kitchen seemed to freeze instantly.

Fresco spun around. The fur on the old wolf’s neck bristled, and his paw slammed onto the tabletop, making the tea bowls rattle. “Just what is this supposed to mean?!” he snapped at Vela with unrestrained sharpness.

Vela’s ears instantly flattened against her head. She bit down hard on her lower lip. “It… it’s all right,” Vela rasped. “Do him his favors.”

Fresco turned back to Fian, his voice low—kind, in a way, yet urgent. “Can you take another walk to the springs? And if those boars show up… well, I think we both know you don’t have to let yourself get beaten up, right? Still, be careful out there. And please, tell me what you think about this before you go.”

Fian raised an eyebrow. A faint, almost mocking bard’s smile briefly touched the corners of his mouth. “What is there to think? The boars likely won’t do a thing, judging by what I gathered this morning. I’m well aware the Wolf Songs were sung, but after everything that’s happened, the Huntress of the North is standing in my kitchen—and I belong to her. And now… well, I assume her father or uncle or someone of that sort is sitting in my kitchen, too. I hardly think the situation is particularly dangerous right now. After all, I’m wearing her collar. And only she is allowed to tug on it.”

Fresco shot Vela a scathing look, then turned back to Fian. “All right, I trust your judgment. Will you fetch some more spring water for the salad?” he said quietly to Fian.

Fian glanced around the room, inclined his head slightly, turned, and left the hut. The door clicked shut.

A heavy silence filled the room.

Fresco did not move. His old eyes, marked by countless moons, bored into Vela accusingly. He said not a single word; he simply stared at her.

Vela held his gaze for perhaps two agonizingly long heartbeats. Then her white muzzle sank, and her shoulders slumped. “I suppose I lost control a little,” she admitted softly, her voice lacking the tone of a proud huntress for the first time. “Somehow… I’m just working through problems, and every problem brings me three more.”

Fresco stepped up to her. His voice was deep and calm—devoid of the anger from moments ago, yet heavy with gravity. “Why am I really here, Vel?”

Vela raised her head hesitantly. A helpless, almost pleading look filled her eyes.

Fresco let out a long, dry “Oh…” A familiar, heavy sound. “Of course… And you know what? I’ll help that little pup learn to walk again.”

Relief flitted across her face. “Thank you, Fresco. Thank you for taking him on and…”

“That’s not what I meant,” he interrupted icily. “The problem stays right with you.”

Vela stared at him in stunned disbelief.

“I will bear the ritual responsibility before the shamans, just so your head stays on your shoulders for the time being,” Fresco continued relentlessly. “But from this moment on, you are subject to my decision. You will follow my instructions.”

Vela swallowed hard. Her jaws ground together, but then she decided she had no choice. “Understood,” she muttered, visibly irked. Then, more clearly, she said: “Before the face of the moon: I will heed your guidance. Please, instruct me.”

Fresco placed his claw on her shoulder and spoke solemnly: “Let the moon be my witness; I accept. I will stand by you with my knowledge and skills during this difficult time.”

Fresco offered her a chair, and both sat down at the kitchen table. After a brief pause for thought, Fresco opened the conversation: “Good. First: that damned collar goes away tomorrow morning.” He looked at her expectantly. “Your pup won’t learn anything if you just yank on the leather strap. Obedience and understanding must spring from his own will, not from a loop around his neck.”

At the words “your pup,” Vela’s ears twitched backward in shock and disbelief. Her eyes widened.

“And I’m not finished yet,” Fresco added, giving her no time to breathe. “Tomorrow, you will let him explore the world as a pup should. Free. Without a collar or leash. And above all: you will—damn it—answer the question of whether you like him!”

Vela gasped for air, but Fresco wouldn’t let her get a word in. “You owe him that, Vela…! After all the mess you’ve made here! And the day after tomorrow, early in the morning—shortly after sunrise—you are to send him up to the lower southern mountain plateau. I’ll have everything ready there by then. Trust your pup to find the way on his own, but make it clear to him that he doesn’t have all the time in the world. You yourself will appear up there late in the day, just before sunset, to take charge of your new pack of pups. And you will instruct them, Vela. If you don’t know what to do, ask me for advice.”

Vela’s eyes flew wide. A wave of horror and indignation rose within her. She drew a deep breath, baring her teeth: “Fresco, I’m a huntress; I can’t—!”

Mid-sentence, Fresco’s heavy, rough claw pressed rudely against her lips. He forced her head down—gently, yet with an iron grip.

His gaze was unyielding, boring into her very soul. “Not a word,” he whispered. “I speak, and you will learn. That is what the songs say, and that is what we swore before the Eternals. You will instruct this pack. And tomorrow, for a start, you will give your pup a breather and let him do what pups need to do.”

He slowly removed his paw from her mouth and looked at Vela.

She met his gaze defiantly—then humbly lowered her head.

And sighed.