Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with simple curiosity.

A physical form, used for interacting on the physical plane. It's why whenever It is called upon, It is forced to channel Its power through the vessel provided in the ritual. Oftentimes, those vessels would break from the intensity alone, and the link to the physical realm would collapse.

It's not that It cannot make a form to house Its essence in. It's just more convenient for those on the other side to procure it. In Its transcendent view, why should It bother to make a permanent physical form to wait upon the lower beings? A desperate enough one will come groveling at Its metaphorical steps anyway, begging for a sliver of Its power to make their wish into reality.

After being summoned enough times, however, it's inevitable that remnants and echoes of the physical realm would start to stain Its incorporeal being. It is given names. To be feared, revered, or both and more. Humans flock to It like parched animals in the sun and It is the stream.

It only took centuries to make the millennium of indifference crumble into animosity, and Its self

Breaks.

Aggressive and arrogant, kind and caring, prideful, fearful, and many others. The personas fight among each other as the belief of the mortals bolsters their sense of self. It is more powerful than ever, but It is no longer one. The cracks grow; and as they encircle a piece of It fully, a new self is torn from the whole into its own being.

He is one of the more recent selves.

He passes His time watching Others as They squabble about how They are so much better than the rest. Pride is strong in Them all.

But not Him.

The first time He is called upon to the physical realm, the call it isn't even for Him.

He snips it right off the branch of ley lines, before it can grow to reach its desired destination. The recipient doesn't know of the thievery, and the mortal's desire is still granted. Nothing is amiss in the universe, except for the discovery of Him in the physical realm.

He builds up His name in the dark. There are so many of Them that none ever noticed the "cowardly" deeds He's done. Not every part of It that becomes Them survives. The shard of power in Them disintegrating and then absorbed by Others as They fail the race to realize Their will and be remembered in the mortal world.

He understands. He manages to figure out the loophole to this cosmic game before any Other, in spite of His young age.

It's not about making a big impact with a fantastical display of power. His own could never top—much less match—the Others that originally held His self before He broke off.

It's about consistency.

And He cannot achieve that, unless He's out there, active on the field.

So He does.

He practices, more and more with every second that passes by, to channel Himself into the physical realm and manifest. A new speck of dust suspended in still air. A granule of sand. A wisp of breath in a place where nothing exists. A shadow with no caster.

He has to make it. His self. This will change everything. No more will he be confined to the immaterial. He just has to. Break. Through!!

His first success comes in the form of a little girl, who notices Him on the side of the road, small and insignificant, surrounded by dying grass, with a head full with downy fluff.

She picks Him up, makes her wish ("I hope I get a baby brother."), then blows Him away.

It is so easy to twist such words.

The wish binds Him to it. He finally gets to open His eyes. Light and noise and texture and so much there's so muchthere'stoomuch—

The family weeps, as the wish made by the little girl is fulfilled, then stolen promptly by the cold night.

He put too much of Himself in it. He'll have to be more careful next time.

He observes the ones who summon Him more closely, as well as the feeling of how His power surges to fit into reality.

His next success is a man, a weakling with the will to become strong, and he longs to win in the upcoming competition, no matter the cost.

He feeds His self into the man in the form of water. With each drink, his strength mounts. With each gulp, a nerve twitches alight.

The man wins the competition. Those around him swear that it's done in the most splendid manner. If not for his name, none would have recognized who he is at all with how much he's changed! Such intensity! Such grit! Under the lights, it almost seemed like his eyes glowed with ferocity!

A shame that he accidentally hits his first opponent in the next competition a little too hard. The match is over in an instant, and so too is his career. Made worse by how he also "accidentally" assaults the people who try to restrain him. Those also met the same fate as his opponent.

He leaves the man be, after that. He has learned much from the excursion. Yes, and now He has a better grasp on what His form should feel like, as well as how to best pilot it.

He continues with His experiments, each time lasting longer and longer in the mortal body.

For a wish that a dear father lives for three more nights, He stays in a dying vessel, instead of letting the body burst and cutting His connection with it. He keeps but the most diluted essence of Himself inside. He directs the organs to do their work, squeeze the heart for it to pump, lungs to take in and blow out air.

Gradually, the body's insides are all burned up and replaced by Him. An anatomical and magical marvel, really. Perfect replicas of organs, made entirely of Him, functioning exactly as if the man was back in his prime, if not better. No more does the man require to eat or drink, for He is supplying all that is needed. His eyes glow with vigor. The family is so very happy to see the father managing to sit up on his own and smile at them. The man's voice echoes as air rushes through vocal chords made of pure aether when he calls out his wife and children's names. He lets the man move freely, focusing His efforts to only keep the body alive as the wish dictates. The vessel is too frail to leave the bed, but this much is already enough to bring tears to the eyes of the family.

On the first day, the daughter brings in fresh flowers and opens the window to let the breeze in. They have a laugh as it nearly falls off its hinges with how rotten the wood is. She's a cheerful and loyal child. He wonders how she came upon the method to call Him, and if she's disgusted by herself for going through with the means to call Him. Curious girl.

In comes the son in the afternoon of the same day. Stick thin with squinting eyes. He recognizes that it isn't out of distrust or prejudice of higher power, but a simple physical deformity. The family is too poor to afford spectacles for him. He tells his father about the goings on in town. For someone with terrible eyesight, his ears sure are good. The gossip is entertaining at least.

The wife sits next to Him on the evening of the second day and peels an apple, cutting it into slices as thin as a coin so the man's old teeth can chew. It's tart, but juicy. The body may not need it anymore, but He finds satisfaction in being given an offering so directly.

As last night falls, the father's bed is surrounded.

"Thank you, milord. For giving us more time with him." The wife says, addressing Him instead of her husband. The rest of the family also say something similar. Warmth, gratitude and belief fill the small room. It fuels His power, and the man's eyes glow brighter with it.

He feels the man's mind recedes.

Huh.

So he's letting Him fully take over? Alright.

He nods in acknowledgement of their thanks. Unfortunately, as He opens His mouth to reply, the clock hits midnight. The body goes slack as the wish is fulfilled and His connection is severed. He watches from His realm as it shrivels then flakes into a humanoid shaped pile of dust on the bed, burned up by His power. The family cries, the emotions in the room now tinged with the chilling blue sadness of death.

He takes note of the venture. Of all of the vessels He had possessed, this one gives Him the highest amount of power in return, even though he didn't do anything grand. What was the factor that made this different?

Hm, He needs to find a way to replicate this. Time to go browse the calls coming through the ley lines once again.

He exclusively takes all the wishes for prolonged life in the coming times. Some only ask to survive just the one encounter they are stuck in (His power leaves them half dead afterwards, but otherwise alive), and some ask for the prolonged life of someone else (Not enough. Just one person isn't enough. But they just would not ask for more).

That is, until someone ask for eternal life.

It's an interesting prospect. Eternal life. Much like His own, perhaps?

It's a man—why is it always a man?—who made this wish, his family cowering behind him. They remind Him of the family He had helped in the past. From the looks of it, they have money, yet holds no love for each other unlike the peasants from before. The father is more sickly than the rest though. Could it be a wish of desperation to escape an illness?

And yet his wish isn't just prolonging a life for a determined amount of time. It is a selfish wish. Even with his family stands with him, the man only wants the blessing for himself.

Well.

Mortals do love their lifeblood, don't they?

It would be interesting to see how long a mortal mind would last in eternity before they start wishing for death.

He gives the wish to the father and him alone. His power shoots through the mortal body as its faculties shut down from overload, nerves twitching and limbs lashing out in freakish angles. The family screams in terror at the sight. The children all run away into the darkness, not daring to try their luck lest the "wish" He granted decides to affect them too. The wife rushes up to her husband, cradling him to her bosom. She cries obscenities at Him, but He doesn't respond. The various vessels He'd possessed never gave Him a way to emote. It's no different this time.

The wife's screech of pain echoes off the cold stone walls, announcing the man's revival. He latches onto her neck, eyes glowing with unholy power, as red as the blood gushing forth from the woman's neck as he drinks. His complexion, grayed from death, regains color. Their position swaps as he sits up, newly grown claws digging into the woman's porcelain skin where he holds her. His black, ragged hair falls over his face. Once he had his fill, the man returns to his senses. His expression shifts from satisfied daze to horror when he realizes what he had done. He smears red all over his wife's corpse as he hugs her and cries at Him to also revive her. The woman's fragile bones crack audibly and sends the man further into panic as he's horrified by his own strength.

But alas, the wish is already fulfilled. His contact with the realm ends.

Hmph. The power He got in return for such a miraculous wish is pitiful. Nothing but a nuisance after all.

Discouraged by the latest endeavor, He decides to refocus His efforts back on practicing manifesting a physical form. He still occasionally answers to direct calls for Him, but no longer steals them from others.

He manages to make an animal vessel for Himself. He takes His time flying around as a finch, enjoying the wind under His new wings. An attempt at morphing the vessel, however, brings disastrous result and answers to questions He forgot to consider beforehand.

One: The physical body, even one made from pure, condensed aether, cannot be dramatically changed instantaneously.

And two: He will be expelled from the vessel if it is destroyed.

He tries again with a new vessel, another finch. This time changing the color of His feathers from dreary brown to the bright red, then the shape of His beak, His legs, the length of His wings, His voice.

Until a cardinal is perched on the very spot the finch had been before.

He looks Himself over, craning His neck to adjust a feather that doesn't quite lay flat with the rest. He flies over to a near by lake and inspects His work on the water's surface.

Everything is correct, except for the blue eyes. So blue it almost seems like they're glowing.

A cloud passes overhead.

Never mind. They're actually glowing. Tiny pinpricks of light standing out on the silhouette of a small bird in the shade.

He wills it to change, but to no avail, the most He can do is tone down the glowing. Done by withdrawing the amount of power conducted into the vessel. But when the bird body collapses into itself like a deflated rubber ball, He frantically pumps more power back into it until it's full once again. The glow remains.

He lets out a dejected croon. He supposes this is the case for all shape shifters. Got to have the one trait to show their true nature.

He'll have to choose His faces carefully then.

He gets busy with expanding His arsenal, working up to more and more complex bodies. He can't quite pinpoint the location He connects to in the physical realm when He manifests a vessel. Half of the time it's some unknown spot in nature where He could explore to His newly made heart's content. A quarter of the time it's somewhere His vessel couldn't survive (being a rat in the frozen arctic plains was not fun.)

And the rest of the time?

That's when He finds humans.

He takes the form of a dog. It's not the most flattering thing with its patchy black, brown, and white fur, but mutation is a convenient excuse for why His eyes are blue.

He trots along in the human settlement. Some of them are in uniforms, varying in stages of wear and tear, but all are rugged and tired. He scents the air, smelling old blood, the cold iron of guns, and the tingling of infection. If they're lucky, the wounded may survive the week. A cursory look at the resources scattered about tells Him that it is highly unlikely to happen.

A melodic sound catches His ears.

What is that?

It's similar to birdsong, but clearly not. No birds hold their voices like this.

He follows it to find a man sitting by himself on a crate, an axe and a pile of cut up logs next to him. He's large, but sits hunched over, curling into himself. He's shirtless, his chest only covered by old bandages that reeks of dried blood, but his pants are clearly a part of a uniform. In his hands are a bayonet and a piece of wood. The man is looking down at it, strands of his dark hair falling into his face and obscuring his eyes, but from His point of view, He can see that it's the shade of melted caramel brown. Though the human's hands are working smoothly, pushing the blade into the wood and flicking away the chips, his eyes are unfocused. His lips are pursed to gently blow. The sound is coming from him.

He moves in closer to inspect the human, looking up at him. It wasn't until He bumps His wet snout into the man's leg that He got his attention.

The man speaks in one of the human languages. He may not be able to verbalize every tongue the species have come up with, but with His power, He understands the words perfectly either way.

"Where did you come from, little one?" The man's voice is low and scratchy, as if he's screamed himself hoarse. It would be more pleasant if he has something to drink first.

He wouldn't call His canine form "little". As mangy as it is, He's still tall enough to reach the knees of most humans. The man is just big. That's all.

He chuffs, and continues to stare at the man. He wants to hear the sound more now that the human is giving Him his full attention. He puts his knife down and reaches out to pet Him, but He ducks away.

"I don't have food for you. You're better off begging the cook for scraps." The man scratches at his own head. His matted hair is a terrible contrast to His soft fur. The man seems frustrated by it too, tugging at the oily strands.

He approaches once again, pawing at the man's foot. He whines, trying to replicate the sound the man was making earlier, but only managing a couple of airy, broken notes that sound nothing like the song. In His frustration, He stands up on His hind legs and rears upwards, His nose bumping on the man's chin. On His way down, He accidentally knocks the piece of wood out of the his hand.

Sing! He barks. Sing, damn it! He wants to hear it again!

"You want to play? You want this, boy?" The man picks up the trinket. It's been whittled down into the beginnings of a spoon. One side slim and thin, the other wider with a flat, flared head. Though the whittling of the handle is still incomplete, so there are crooked bits jutting out the side of the slim end, almost like the teeth of a key. The surface is still rough, but not as bad as a branch straight from a tree anymore.

No! He barks once more, stepping agitatedly in place.

The man smiles and stands up. He walks toward the outer edge of the settlement, which isn't very far. He follows at his heel, jumping up to try and get the human to stop.

Before He knows it, they're standing on flat, open grass field.

The man makes the sound again. This time short, sharp note. He immediately looks up. Is he going to sing now? After all this walking? But the man simply holds up the piece of wood, moving it side to side slightly. Ugh! Stop it! What's all this waving around for?!

Then the man throws it.

Instinct takes over His body for a moment, and He shoots after it like a dart, snapping it right out of the air like when He steals from the aether.

He stands there in the grass. Flabbergasted by what He's done.

What...

Huh?

He hears the sound again and turns to see the human clapping and waving at Him.

The man kneels down when He returns to him with the stick and pets Him rigorously once He drops it at his feet. The human runs his hands down along His back and bum then back up again. He wags His tail and shuffles in place to try and avoid the hand, barking to tell him that He's had enough. The man stands back up with the stick.

He barks.

Stop it already! And don't you dare th-

His body moves on its own to follow the stick.

Run-jump-catch-return.

Run-jump-catch-return.

Eventually He starts to find it kind of...fun. The burn in the muscles and wind in His fur is nice.

He plays a little tug-of-war with the human, not letting him take the stick from His mouth.

The man's face looks much better now that he's smiling.

After a while, the man coughs.

"Wish I got some water with me." He says, wiping droplets of sweat from his temples. From the position of the sun directly overhead, it must be noon by now.

His eye flares up a brighter blue for a semi-second at the proclamation made by the mortal. Water, he said?

On the next throw, He catches.

Then runs off with the stick.

"What-hey! Come back!"

The human runs after Him as He bounds into the woods, hopping over roots and weaving between the trees. He glances back occasionally to see if the human is keeping up, adjusting His pace so He's always in sight.

He leads the human for quite some time, but eventually, there's sound of moving water.

He jumps right in, earning a satisfying splash. The currents aren't that strong, so He won't get washed away. The man catches up with Him a couple seconds later and stumbles to his knees, settling down on the riverbank to lean down and scoop up fresh, clean water. As the human does so, He walks towards him and returns the stick, letting it clatter on the pebbles below.

"You knew this was here all along, boy?" The human looks at Him now with gratefulness in his eyes. He barks in confirmation. With the ears and nose of this vessel, there's little He couldn't hear or smell. The human brightens at His answer and pulls Him in for a hug, petting Him and giving Him praises all the while.

The human is warm, as if a piece of the sun is contained within him.

He probably won't be alive for long unless he gets his wounds clean.

He wriggles out of the human's grasp and goes back into the water, hopping to and fro, barking to beckon him over. The human laughs and undoes his shoes before stepping in after Him. He doesn't know for how long, but the afternoon sun is much more bearable by the time the human sits down to rest, feet still in the water. They're both utterly soaked. He shakes His body from head to tail, splattering the man with the heavy droplets, then trots over to lie down, resting His snout on the man's lap.

The human gently pets Him, playing with the damp fur.

And he sings.

He wonders how someone with a gruff voice could make such a pure and light sound. The pursed lips could perhaps be compared to the shape of a bird's beak, but other than that, He doesn't remember the anatomy inside being similar enough to achieve something like this. The sound is much more clear now that they're away from the settlement's hustle and bustle. The melody isn't particularly special, mostly repeating notes with slight variation which He identifies as a pattern. Could the notes be filled with words instead?

He closes his eyes, enjoying the song, backed up by the gentle waters.

It's pleasant.

He quite like it.

Chapter Text

He rests by the river with the man. The bandages around his torso has been removed due to how wet they've gotten, and laid out on a rock to dry. The songs that were in the air have long since been blown away by the serene calmness of the forest.

The human gets up first, wincing when he leans down to retie his shoes. He cringes and decides against putting the bandages back on when he sees ants have crawled all over them. Thankfully, his injuries have stopped bleeding, so as long as they don't reopen, he should be fine.

"Think you can lead us back too, boy?" The man looks to Him. In his haste, he completely failed to note the route they took to reach the stream earlier.

Of course He can take the man back! He's not actually a dumb dog, just wearing the form of one.

And He supposes guiding him to the settlement is a good enough trade for the songs.

And the company.

He takes the lead, trotting off with steps crunching on the foliage underfoot. The sun has moved from its zenith, but how far, that He cannot tell. The shade of the trees is much darker now though. He better get the human home before it's completely dark.

They keep a good pace, eventually coming upon the familiar field where they had played together. Just a little further ahead is the settlement. There are already some lit campfires, smoke spiraling up from in between the tents.

He stops at the edge of the trees, letting the man walk ahead onto the grass.

The human pauses and turns to Him once he realizes that He isn't following.

He stares, reminding Himself to blink.

"Not gonna join me?"

For someone who is the literal human of this new-sprung relationship and owns a bigger body to boot, the man seems to possess the amazing ability to come off looking like a kicked puppy, or kitten, or generally any kind of hurt baby animal. This is making Him wonder if He'd be able to pull off this kind of thing Himself too.

Fortunately for Him, His current vessel should be more than suitable for such experiments.

He goes running to the man, pouncing on him. The man catches Him with open arms and carries Him the rest of the way back to the settlement.

As he should. It's about time someone treats Him like the higher entity He is.

He endears Himself to the other humans. Just as He suspected, they are weak to His eyes, no matter how unnatural a color they may be. Even those who first rejected the idea surrenders to Him when He drops bodies of pests at their feet. He's now a welcome sight around the settlement, receiving pets and treats wherever he goes. He always accompanies the-man-who-sings ("Henri". That's what the other humans say to get his attention.) to the river to fetch water. The trees along the way are now marked to prevent people from getting lost, and sometimes others will join them on their trek.

He learns that these humans are foreign. They've sailed across the ocean to this new land with hopes of making a new home for themselves. It wasn't without casualty, of course. The pale tent that radiates death is testament to that.

He sees Henri going to the grass field one afternoon, a shovel in hand. He watches the man dig shallow holes, just deep enough to bury people in them (still too shallow, but it seems he doesn't have the time to make them deeper). Other men come by in the evening to deposit the bodies into them and set up rickety wooden crosses on top of the dirt, packed back tight on top of the ones laid to rest. In the morning, all the humans gathered to pay their respects.

He resigns Himself to His fate when one of the children pulls Him in for a hug, only chuffing lightly when tears soak into his fur. He licks the droplets off their face and eventually, they stop.

Henri doesn't sing for a really long time after that day, not even when He walks up to him with the half-whittled stick. The human would only pet him with a somber smile, mumbling about how he's done all he could, and thank Him for still being by his side.

The settlement grows into a village as more people arrive. The trees lining the edge of the forest is replaced by stumps as they are cut down and turned into houses. As one of the biggest men in the entire group, Henri is recruited for this job, cutting then breaking down the trunks into logs, then carrying them back for others to collect. He makes his home there at the point in between the forest and the community.

As for Him, He comes and goes as He pleases, disappearing when He feels someone Calling for Him, but always returning before the sun sets. Another meaningless desire to fulfill. What is it that these mortals want for so much that they cannot achieve on their own? Frivolous greed is just so utterly boring.

Time passes. Grass grows to cover the graves and trees fade from green to red. The route that leads to the river has been trodden upon so much that it has become an actual path. Cold wind slips between the cracks of wooden houses and families huddle together for warmth around the fire, fed by fallen leaves and logs. The humans doesn't have much time to plant and harvest whatever they managed to grow, so they delve into the forest to forage.

And hunt.

He didn't expect the boom of a gun to be this loud. Even the sound the flock of birds make when they fly away in panic isn't as loud as this, nor the bawls of a deer, choking as its lungs try to heave in air, but only finds blood and death waiting for it.

Henri doesn't often join the hunting group, and they also don't invite him, but when someone doesn't return, everyone begs for Henri to go into the forest and rescue their missing friend (as if he isn't also their friend. Are they not worried that Henri could also get lost?). No matter how late into the night it is, the man would always go, a torch in one hand, an axe in the other.

He learns that Henri doesn't like using guns. The others tease him about how his hands are much too large to pull the trigger properly, and that he's much better off cutting and lugging wood. Clearly, none of them has seen the collection of whittled wooden figures that lines the shelf inside his home, or given out to the children. They never bothered to come inside to talk, just beg fervently at the door until Henri steps back to grab his equipment, then they all leave.

He goes with him, if only to help guide the way back and point him in the right direction of the pathetic sod who just had to split up with the group because he saw a rabbit, or he heard something.

Pah. There's always something. What? Did they think they're the only living beings on this land?

The times when they come back with the missing person slung over Henri's back, the villagers would scramble to take their friend from him and bring them home, but if the body is lifeless…

They blame Henri for being so slow. Why couldn't he find them earlier? Why couldn't he keep them alive until they're home. The family would cry and cry—

And Henri helps them dig the idiot's grave.

He curls up with Henri on those nights when he has to bury a body, keeping him warm with His vessel's heat that burns with aether fire on the inside, weaseling His way closer until He can tuck His snout under Henri's chin and keep his neck covered. The man can't seem to grow a proper beard, only rough shadows of facial hair along his jawline and around his mouth.

He watches Henri sleep, blue eyes glowing in the darkness. The hold the human has on him loosens as his consciousness fades away for however many hours of peace he has left before either someone pounds on his door, or the sun gets in his eyes. Henri's body rises and falls with each breath, so He wills His vessel to match the rhythm. His ears are always perked for any noise from outside Henri's home that might disturb his rest.

He wants Henri to make a wish.

Anything. Anything at all. He'll make it come true. Surely the man must want for something. Doesn't he want the villagers to treat him better? How about a magic axe so he doesn't have to cut down the trees himself anymore? Or someone to help him with the logs! Would a beast of burden be better for him? Better than this mutt of a vessel?

But Henri scratches Him behind the ears and sings (whistle! He knows what this kind of singing is called now!) to Him so sweetly when they walk to the little table he sits at to have breakfast, and smiles warmly at Him when He weaves between his steps before bounding ahead to the baker's place where they have to deliver firewood and get a little morning treat for Himself. If His vessel were to be a steed, He wouldn't be able to have all this.

Winter rolls over the village with a gentle blanket of snow.

If things were hard for the humans in the previous seasons, it is much worse now. There are some food stored, further preserved by drying and now kept in the cold, but with no idea of how long the season will be, they have to ration out each meal. Henri's hands, hard working and calloused as they are, have become cracked from use. Blood drips from the extra hours he put in to meet the demands of the villagers who need more firewood to get through the cold. One of the kinder villagers gives him bandages to wrap his hands with, but they always end up drenched in red by the end of the day. With how much work he does, it's unbearably pathetic to see Henri go to bed hungry and in pain every night.

But he still won't make a wish! All Henri ever says to Him are words of reassurance or praise, accompanied by a firm pat on the head or a bit of dried meat he broke off from the meager piece he calls a "meal". He once refused to eat it, but the distress He sensed from Henri worrying if something is wrong with Him made Him snap up the morsel. He doesn't need to eat, but the humans doesn't know that.

He lets out a whine from where He lies by the door, waiting for the man to come back. It's frustrating! All the nebulous power of the universal aether in His body, yet unable to do anything to affect the world unless a mortal wishes for Him to do so. Even a wooden door is enough to stop Him since He doesn't have opposable thumbs right now! He can modify His vessel of course. He's been slowly making the body bigger, as if He's actually growing, but every time He needs to leave to answer a Call and comes back, He has to remake the vessel anew and make sure the colored patches of His fur stays in the same place (The first time that Henri commented on a white spot on the back of His neck missing sent Him running and fixing His coat). Why did He even choose such a complicated pattern in the first place?!

He gets more and more restless as afternoon moves into evening. He paces around the house, claws clicking on the wooden floorboards. What is taking him so long? He said he's just going to get more bandages!

He tries to sense for Henri. His scent and the sound of his gait all come up empty. In desperation, He sends out a pulse of magic instead. He doesn't deal in souls much, but if it's—

A certain, familiar soul echoes back at Him.

It is much too close to where He sensed Henri's.

HenriHenriHENRIHENRIHENRIHENRIHENRI—

The dog's form bulges as agitated aether stirs, pushing outwards as the body becomes too cramped to contain it. Blue light flashes from inside the house as if a star has come into being.

And a wolf, large enough to pounce on a bear and win comes bursting out through the wooden walls, running at full speed into the village.