From Her Perch

Characters: Ronan, Moon
Origin: House of Cards (WIP)
Advent Day: Day 17 (December 13th)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,111


Moon liked her tree. She'd named it Frank. Frank was a nice name, and he was a nice tree. He cradled her body comfortably, her bare feet dangling beneath her wispy white skirt. She liked the skirt. Skill had given it to her. Woven from some fine fabric Skill had come across in some world or another. It didn't matter. Moon liked it. And she liked Frank.

Her attention was drawn, though, from the tree and her skirt to the clearing ahead. She wouldn't be seen. She didn't want to be seen. Not yet. There were three dozen men and women around the circle of the clearing, near the treeline. Inside stood two men, huffing and puffing in the icy weather. One was tall, broad, with dark hair and a cruel name. Moon had never liked him. He'd made something in her belly slither and roil.

The other... the other she kept coming back to over the years. Just to watch. Always to watch. Moon wasn't allowed to become involved. Outside. The Devil said they had to stay outside, but Moon hadn't always obeyed. A memory tickled at her colorful, twisty mind, but it slipped away before she could grasp it. Instead, she watched her wolf—the pretty blond who was shorter than the other men but had bluebell eyes—fight the bad wolf. The wolf who had driven the pack to the brink of starvation the last three winters.

"Your time as Alpha in this pack is through!" Her wolf growled, circling his opponent, who just laughed and puffed himself up like a balloon. It was supposed to make him look menacing, she supposed, but to Moon, a big balloon didn't seem any more dangerous than a little balloon. Any balloon could be popped.

"You're foolish as fuck if you think you can actually beat me! Two bouts, and you're already close to calling it quits!"

Fire flashed in her wolf's eyes. "Who's quitting?" A little smirk flashed across his face. "And who's the one who drew first blood?"

The dark, nasty wolf roared and charged, but her wolf was quick, agile, and he darted out of the way with his own clipped laugh. After a few seconds, the time for laughter was over, and the fight continued, slashes, dodges, bites, and grappling in the dirt of the clearing.

It was messy. Moon didn't understand why wolves—even in the skin of humans—had to be so messy. She bit her lip to keep from crying out when her wolf fell to the ground, but he jumped up as quickly as he fell. The dark wolf, though, didn't fare as well. Her wolf may have been smaller, but he was faster. Didn't the dark wolf know that the little creatures were the ones to fear? He mustn't, else he wouldn't have attacked her wolf as he had.

But it would be over soon. They were tiring. The night smelled of snow. Oh, how she loved snow. Dancing on ice was so much fun. Gliding and spinning and slipping. Her cheeks would get pink, her nose icy, and she'd laugh. She'd like to dance on ice with her wolf, except he didn't know he was her wolf. Could someone be hers if they didn't even know she existed? Well, she knew she existed, so of course someone could be hers. He was just a little deaf to her voice at the moment. In time, he'd hear her. When the time was right. When was time wrong? Maybe she could ask Frank. Frank had been around a long time in this world. Maybe he would know how time was right or wrong. Or she could ask one of her brothers or sisters. One of the ones who wouldn't roll their eyes at her. She needed to know when time was right. She wanted to touch him. It had been so long since she'd wanted to touch someone... have someone touch her.

A sudden silence made her eyes focus again, and she saw the dark wolf fall. The others around the clearing had stopped cheering for one side or the other. Everyone watched. Everyone waited.

"Do you yield?" The question was ragged, but with a depth, a power she doubted the other wolves could see, though they probably felt it nonetheless. She could see it, though. A glow, a spark that lit up her wolf in the moonlight.

The dark wolf thrashed. "No! I'll never yield!" He had weight to his advantage, and her wolf was bucked off. With the other wolves watching silently now, they grappled, and when her wolf brought the dark one down again, he didn't move.

Her wolf had won. Moon wanted to clap and cheer for him, rush into the clearing and dance with him. But the time still wasn't right. Her wolf—Ronan, Ronan was his name—Ronan was reaching for a woman. She was willowy, golden hair, and she didn't seem to care he was covered in blood. Messy. It was going to get messier if the look in her wolf's eyes indicated anything. The woman had been the bad wolf's woman. The woman would now be her wolf's woman for a little while.

Until the time was right and Moon would be his woman.

Moon's heart fluttered at that fuzzy, distant future she'd only barely glimpsed. A future she wanted, the woman inside her wanted. She bit her lower lip as her wolf bore the woman down. They were going to smoosh now. She understood the mechanics. Ruin had explained it to her a couple of times. Smooshing was supposed to be fun. Moon thought she'd smooshed once, with a girl in a madhouse long ago in France, but it was too filmy. She couldn't grasp the memory. Instead, she watched as her wolf ripped at the woman's clothing, as the woman tore at his jeans.

They were naked soon enough, or close enough to push together over and over. She didn't care for clothes either. They were bulky, unnecessary, and they made dancing more difficult more often than not. If she could go about naked, she would, but many beings on most worlds didn't like nakedness. Moon wrinkled her nose. Such a silly thing. The wolves didn't care. They seemed to enjoy their nakedness. They howled as her wolf took his winnings, and Moon wondered—not for the first time—what it would be like to be the focus of her wolf's rage, lust, and love.


Ideas didn't fall in love.

But... that could change, couldn't? Everything changed.

As Moon watched Ronan rut with the female wolf, taking his place as Alpha, she hoped. She hoped even the unchangeable could change.

All works contained here are copyrighted to S.L. Armstrong. No reproduction or usage is permitted without written, express consent by the author.