Title: Of Cats and Wolves
Author: Sol aka Zefyr
Muse & Beta: Katikat
Pairings: 1+2, 3+4, 5+TBA hehe.
Rated: PG or PG-13 at most
Warnings: Minor OOC due to AU situations; shonen-ai; fantastical animal/people mixes; gratuitous use of improper Gaelic; crazy adaptations of Siberian and Native American traditions.
Archiving: Please ask separately for this fic and one of us will get back to you, since it’s a collaboration. Also found at www-geocities-com/ mystera_k... Replace dashes with appropriate punctuation.
Disclaimer: We don't own, but we're having fun anyway. No harm meant.
Summary: In a world of Creatures, Heero is a young half-Wolf who wants only to help his adopted brother, Wufei, find a good mate. Really. Trowa, a half-Jackal, helps, and it goes downhill from there...

NOTE:
This is a joint effort. KatiKat wrote the teaser, then I saw Asuka's art for the werepervs, and then I watched Cat People right after re-watching GW epis 1-5, and... the rest is history. The prologue (chapter 1) was written by KatiKat, and edited by Sol. The rest of the chapters are written by Sol, with beta comments and additional muse-inspiration provided by Katikat.

Many thanks this chapter to all who have cheered, encouraged, and inspired me: Asuka (yes! That’s right, THE Asuka!), little duckie (you’ll get your answer this chapter), Kaori (awww shucks), Dyna (your wish is mah command), Moffit (just you wait...), Morgan (Zechs? Naw...), and always, my favorite quatre-lingual muse, KatiKat. Y’ll make it all worth it. ;-)

 

 

     The Desert Lynxes’ singing style was a chant, with the monotonous tones falling or rising on the last three syllables of each phrase. The atonal song seemed almost incidental, existing only as a solemn backdrop to the complex inter-melodies woven by the six drums. The drummers used their hands, not sticks, and each seemed to react to a different warrior’s dance, their rapid beats changing as specific warriors shifted position. The warriors, for their part, appeared to move slowly and deliberately.

     It was several minutes before Heero and Trowa both became aware that the Lynxes’ movements were far more subtle than simply a procession of hunched-over dancers in a large circle. Their clattering blue glass chest-plates created a cacophonous counter-melody to the drums, and all due to the intricate minute steps each warrior was performing. Each warrior held a fan of three feathers in one hand, and twitched it in quick movements matching the delicate footwork. So quick and fine were the ankle bends and footsteps that the warriors seemed to merely glide from place to place, as though slinking through tall grass.

     Wufei whispered comments a few times to Heero, mostly about things he’d read in books about the Desert Lynxes. They had a glass blowing tradition that was unrivaled among all the Creatures, thanks to both the generous amount of fine white sand in their home environment and the metals necessary for the additive that made the blue-green color. Each time Trowa would lean forward, demanding to hear what Wufei was saying, and each time Heero would shush both of them. The two bird-dancers nearest them would then whisper to each other, and Heero suspected they were laughing quietly at his two friends and him.

     By the time the warriors’ dance was coming to a close, Heero was beginning to worry. He’d noticed Wufei staring at Meiran on the other side of the circle. Between the obvious interest on his heart-brother’s face, and the guilt of losing Wufei’s gift, Heero was starting to feel like he should have stayed at the camp and slept through the rest of the afternoon. The day had started fine but seemed to have rapidly gone bad. Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed as the drums stopped. He was startled, then, when the Bobcats let out a sudden roar of approval, clapping their hands and shouting. The crowd joined in, signaling its approval for the Creatures who came such a far distance to join the Gathering.

     Heero flicked his ears back, uneasy at being surrounded by so much noise. Unsettled, he wrapped his tail a little closer around him and hunkered down between Trowa and Wufei. It was then he noticed a flash of red on the other side of the circle. The Wolf-boy squinted, then froze, stared some more, and nudged Trowa.

     “I think there’s a Fox over there,” he said, jerking his chin in a quick movement in the direction he’d seen the flash. To his surprise, Trowa merely nodded.

     “There’s a band of Foxes here.” Trowa followed Heero’s gaze, and narrowed his green eyes as the flash of red was seen again. “But that’s the half-Fox.”

     “Half?” Heero raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Those don’t exist.”

     “This one does,” the Jackal responded, shaking his auburn hair out of his eyes to give his best friend an amused look. “Yeah, that’s it. See those Coyotes standing around it? I heard they found the Fox in the woods as a baby, and raised it as one of them.”

     “Which Coyotes?”

     “Prairie Coyotes, looks like.”

     “Ridiculous. There’s no way the Bobcats would let Prairie Coyotes into a Gathering. They’re nothing but troublemakers.” Heero crossed his arms, scowling. Now he knew why Otto had been sitting at the encampment. If the Prairie Coyotes were around, no one would be safe. The traders would find their tents turned inside out and put back up so the seams were on the outside and let in water if it rained. The warriors would find sand in their blankets, and the hunters’ bows would be restrung with red hair ribbons. There would be pebbles in the nut bowls and lemon juice in the wine jugs. Nothing would be left alone.

     “It’s a Gathering,” Wufei reminded him sternly. “Everyone is under truce. Even Coyotes.”

     Heero grunted, and was about to say something else when the drums started up again. This time, no one was singing. The drums were softer,  until three started to beat together, a two-step passage of light and heavy syncopated on the second beat. The other three drums picked up a lighter running commentary against the heavy beats, mixing and merging and pulling apart again. At the same time, the bird-dancers had each begun to dance in place, gradually moving away from their perimeter positions onto the dancing ground.

     Trowa watched, transfixed. Heero even forgot to scowl, puzzled and entranced like the rest of the crowd.

     The black-and-white feathers bounced and moved, floating around the dancer’s heads, arms, legs and bodies as the dancers crouched low, their arms out as they in quick light-footed circles. Their hands fluttered and curled, twisting in small circles as their arms gyrated, a serpentine movement apparently designed to hypnotize the watchers.

     “Now a warrior steps out,” Wufei whispered. Heero nodded, not really listening, but beside him Trowa leaned over, trying to hear the explanation without taking his eyes off the dancers. Unfortunately, he leaned right in the way of Heero watching.

     “Get out of the way,” Heero complained, and shoved the Jackal.

     “I want to hear,” the half-Jackal replied, and shoved Heero back.

     “Boys,” Salli commanded, her voice pitched low. “Trade places, and be quiet about it, then.”

     Grumbling, Heero pulled back so Trowa could move next to Wufei. The half-Wolf sniffed as he moved to Trowa’s vacated spot. Heero sat back on his heels, wrapping his bushy silver tail around him as he watched the lone warrior perform the warrior dance’s gliding step in the midst of the twirling bird-dancers. Almost unwillingly he found his silver ears swiveling to hear Wufei’s whispered reports.

     “The eldest child of the Chief plays the Warrior’s role,” the black Jaguar was saying. “But anyone can be a bird-dancer, because it’s based on skill, not rank. The dance is done before a major hunt. The warrior represents the tribe, and is supposed to catch each bird.”

     “Catch?” Trowa’s eyes were still fixed on the bird-dancers, and the warrior moving in the middle of the group.

     “Just watch.” Wufei’s voice was smug.

     “That means he doesn’t know, because the book didn’t say that much,” Heero muttered. He got an elbow in his ribs for the trouble, and he barely bit back a yelp. Scowling, he settled for glowering at Trowa, who didn’t even bother to look his way.

      The three combined drums suddenly increased in pitch, a louder series of light and heavy beats, and the warrior seemed to spring in place. Trowa noticed belatedly it was a female, her long hair tied back in a low knot, flying out behind her as she hurtled towards one of the bird-dancers. She was diving into a roll, her fan-hand out for balance as the other reached for the bird-dancer. The bird-dancer, in turn, leapt straight into the air, easily four feet over the warrior’s rolling body. The watching Lynxes cheered and clapped, although Trowa wasn’t sure whether they cheered for the warrior or for the bird-dancer’s grace.

     “The warrior has to touch each of the bird-dancers,” Wufei murmured. “The dance is supposed to last a set time. If she catches all of them before it ends, the hunt will be successful.”

     Trowa nodded, his eyes trying to catch and memorize each of the young bird-dancers’ twirls and dips as they danced around the warrior, who was back on her feet and dancing again. The drums picked up again, the warrior leapt, and this time her hands caught the bird-dancer on the ankle. Barely catching himself as he twisted in the air, the bird-dancer came down in a forward roll, picking himself up and heading to the edge of the circle with an abashed laugh. The other bird-dancers laughed and tossed their heads in response, twirling around the warrior to close the circle again.

     The dance continued, the drums rising and falling as the other three drums played their counter-melody. One by one the warrior dove for each bird-dancer. A few evaded her grasp once or twice, while one blond seemed nearly impossible to catch. Each time he landed, he tossed a smile over his shoulder that beamed like sunlight. Eventually the circle was down to the warrior and two bird-dancers, one of which was the blond.

     “This is where it gets hard,” Wufei said. “The scroll I read says the last bird-dancer is also accorded honors, but the dancer can’t be too good at keeping away from the warrior. But he can’t give in too easily, either.”

      At that instant, the warrior sprang towards the nearest bird-dancer, only this time her summersault wasn’t at ground-level. It was more as if she’d done a low flip, covering a wide space of ground, and landed on her feet again. The bird-dancer barely managed to evade, but somehow she missed him. His prowess was answered with a series of shouts and cheers from the watching Lynxes. The crowd had picked up on this, and echoed the shouts, cheering on both the bird-dancer and the warrior.

     The bird-dancer landed, flashing a triumphant grin to the other dancer, who laughed merrily as he spun around. The first dancer had gold-blond hair, while the second’s was a darker golden shade, almost a honey-brown. It was hard to tell from the feathers how long their hair was, but the blond seemed to have short hair, while his companion dancer’s was perhaps almost chin-length. Both were spinning and twirling faster now, their hands and wrists flashing and twisting as their arms continued the sinuous dance. The warrior turned, an intent look on her face.

     As the drums picked up again, Trowa fought back the urge to warn the lighter blond, whose back was to the dancer. The half-Jackal’s fists were clenched, and his green eyes flicked nervously between the warrior and the two dancers. The warrior sprung, missing the lighter blond, and Trowa’s red-brown tail thumped twice against the blanket.

     The warrior turned, barely giving herself a chance to recover, and threw herself forward again in a different direction. At the last minute the darker blond bird-dancer realized, jumped, and was a half-second too late. Her hand cuffed his ankle and he went spinning through the air, barely managing to recover into a mid-air flip as he hit the ground. Jumping to his feet with the force of his fall, he grinned widely at the other dancer and left the dancing ground. Now it was down to one bird-dancer and the warrior.

     The white-blond dancer tossed his head as he danced, and it was now clear he was dancing solely for the warrior. It was a teasing, graceful action, his arms beckoning her closer even as he moved out of her reach. She threw herself in his direction, and he seemed to propel himself straight into the air. Unlike the first bird-dancers to be taken down, he didn’t simply tuck his legs under him, but brought them almost up to his chest, with one leg extended. As he landed lightly, safe out of her reach, a resounding shout echoed from the Lynxes and the watching crowd. The bird-dancer’s sweet laugh carried easily over the crowd’s cries. The warrior turned, continuing to dance as she watched the bird-dancer.

     Two more times she threw herself into a forward leaping summersault. Two more times the bird-dancer thrust himself into the air, bringing his legs up in a graceful crouched split, seeming to hover for a second before landing with a laugh. Each leap seemed to go higher, until the last one was easily five or six feet in the air. The bird-dancer’s fingers twisted and summoned as he landed, spinning in place but never taking his eyes off the warrior. She danced intently, tracking his movements. Slowly but surely the bird-dancer made his way around the circle, his eyes drifting at times to flash unexpected grins at the audience.

     The young man was obviously enjoying the chance to show off, and Trowa furrowed his brow as he watched. Then the half-Jackal caught a better look at the warrior, and realized she was also enjoying the challenge. Trowa laughed, suddenly, delighted by the entire spectacle, and the bird-dancer turned his head to look. In that split second, the warrior saw her chance and leapt for him. She flipped her summersault, her fan-hand tucked close as her other hand reached out. The bird-dancer saw her coming, and leapt, but wasn’t fast enough. The warrior’s hand smacked against his ankle, and his jump was clipped. His arms shot out, balancing himself in mid-air as he twisted his body, pitching himself forward to tuck into an aerial roll as he came to the ground. He landed in a crouch and immediately sprung to his feet. As he stood, the entire Lynx Clan came to their feet as well, their voices combining in a single shout.

     The dance was over, and the crowd exploded in cheers. The Bobcats were clapping their hands in the air over their heads, and the drummers exploded into a series of percussive shouts, completing the dance. The warrior, meanwhile, was clapping her hand on the back of the slightly shorter bird-dancer, who dipped his head in a show of what seemed to be mock-humility. He was laughing, however, and his bright smile was infectious.

     Even Heero, still musing the loss of the hair-band, found himself smiling a little.

    

 

 

 

 

     “Someone smack that damn Fox!”

     The infuriated shout was greeted with a cheerful laugh, and the sound of a metallic crash. Quinta paused, a rag in one raised hand, and glanced over at his cousin Quatre with a confused look on his face. Quatre’s head was cocked to the side, and he had four fingers raised, then three, then two...

     “Quatre!”

     The tent flap was thrown open just as a cup of wine hit the figure. It was a yelping Fox that threw himself in, laughing hysterically as he landed on his stomach between the two Desert Lynxes. Quinta rolled his eyes and dipped the rag in the clay pot, shaking his head a little as he went back to wiping the black paint off his arms. Quatre swatted at the bushy red tail that was wagging against his folded legs.

     “Duo,” Quatre scolded. “You shouldn’t steal necklaces while my sisters are still wearing them.”

     “But it’s a great challenge,” the Fox-boy replied, rolling over on his back to grin up at his friend. “I wasn’t really trying, anyway. I just like teasing them.”

     “You’ve lived with Coyotes too long,” Quinta retorted, then giggled as the Fox-boy poked him in the side with a toe.

     The two cousins grinned at each other, then at the Fox laying between them. His deep blue eyes were merry, and his chestnut hair was coming unraveled from its long braid. His skinned was lightly tanned, and his legs were covered in soft red fur that ran from his hipbones to his toes. There were copper rings along the top edge of each of his auburn-furred ears, reflecting the tufts of white fur on the interior. Both of his arms sported woven copper armbands, and woven copper bracelets strung with blue Desert stones. When he sat up, still giggling softly, the two Lynxes could see flashes of more copper from the delicate anklets. All of it was knot work, and none of it matched. His thick red tail thumped happily behind him as he sat up, the white tip showing faint red stains from the wine thrown at him.

     There were two leather straps crossing his chest, one for each pouch at his hips, and his dirty brown loincloth was slightly askew. Unselfconsciously he twisted around, yanking the cloth back into place, until Quatre could tell it was only mid-thigh length. The white-blond Lynx noticed the length and frowned.

     “Duo, what happened to your cloth? Why is it so short?”

     “Oh, that,” the half-Fox replied airily. “Got it caught in a trap last week, and had to cut the back off to get free. So I had to improvise. Planned on buying something new while I was here, anyway.”

     “I’ll loan you something in the meantime,” Quatre replied. “If you’ll do my back.”

     “Do mine while he does yours,” Quinta said.

     A half-hour later most of the black paint was cleaned from the two Lynxes, and Duo had regaled them both with reports about the crowd, the traders, and the warriors down by the riverbank. He’d even been chased out of the trader’s area, twice already. He was about to start on news about what he’d been doing since Winter-end, when Quatre sighed.

     “Duo, just stay away from the north side of the Gathering,” he warned. “The Lake Foxes are here.”

     “Aww, Quat,” Duo said, pretending to pout. “They won’t bother me none. Solo an’ the gang will keep me safe.”

     “And where are Solo and the gang now?”

     The half-Fox paused in his careful ministrations undoing Quatre’s short braids, and thought about it. “I think they’re down at the riverbank, exchanging wine for vinegar in the Wolves’ stores.” Quinta giggled, and Quatre shook his head. Duo poked his friend in the shoulder blade, chiding him good-naturedly. “Hold still. Your sisters always weave these feathers in too tight.” The half-Fox came to a kneeling position to see better, and there was a soft clatter from his motion.

     Quatre narrowed his eyes. “Duo... what do you have in your pouches?”

     “Nothing.” The reply came too quickly, and sounded too nonchalant.

     “Duo!” The Desert Lynx twisted in place to stare at his friend. “It’s a Gathering. If the traders ran you off, there’s no way you had a chance to buy anything. Open your pouches.” The young Lynx warrior knew full well Duo’s incessant curiosity. This was the first time either of them had been allowed to come to a northern Gathering, and he didn’t want the week ruined.

     The Fox settled back on his haunches, his lips twisting for a second before he sullenly tipped both of his pouches over, letting the contents spill out. One pouch held berries, nuts, and dried apple slices. From the other pouch four weasel columns fell out, followed by two necklaces, and three little linen bundles. One necklace was a choker of seeds, while the other was blue glass with a familiar crest painted on the small center hole-rock. Quatre frowned, picking up the second necklace. His light blue eyes flashed.

     “That’s Iria’s,” he said, shooting his friend an annoyed look. “You’re going to go give it back to her, and apologize.”

     “Quat...” the thief began to protest, then smiled, not even abashed. “Okay!” Duo started shoving the rest of the stuff back into his bags, but Quatre’s quick hand shot out, grabbing the three bundles.

     “What are these?” Before Duo could say anything, the Lynx had unwrapped them. One was a green rock, the color of deep forest leaves. The second was a hair-band, interwoven strands of gold with a ginkgo leaf pattern. The third was a brown and white striated rock, shot through with gold threads. Duo yelped, grabbing the three items back, and wrapping them defensively.

     “They’re gifts,” the Fox said, his lower lip jutting. Noting his friend’s surprised expression, the Fox sighed. “These were surprises,” he explained. Almost reluctantly, he placed the green rock in Quatre’s hand, and the brown rock in Quinta’s. “I wanted to surprise you,” he added softly.

     “Duo,” Quatre said, then smiled and leaned forward, rubbing noses with his friend. “I love it.”

     “Me, too,” Quinta said, waiting his turn to rub noses with his cousin’s trouble-making friend. “But who’s the hair-clasp for?”

     “I don’t know yet,” the Fox said, turning it over in his hands. “I thought I’d give it to Solo, maybe. Except Coyotes don’t really like gold too much, but I thought it’d look good on him.”

     The blond Lynx shook his head as he pulled the last of the braids free. “How did you manage to get a gold hair-clasp? That must have cost a fortune!”

     “Oh, I found it,” Duo replied.

     “Found it.” Quatre’s voice was neutral.

     The half-Fox nodded. “Some guy was laying around in the forest. He wasn’t using it, so...” Duo looked up to see the two young men staring at him with wide eyes: one set of aquamarine, one set of light brown. The half-Fox flinched a little, then attempted an innocent smile. “Well, he wasn’t! He was just laying there, with a shirt over his head. Flat out. Silliest looking thing I’ve ever seen.”

     “You stole from a dead guy?” Quinta’s eyes were nearly round. His delicate gold ears flattened on his eye, the brown tuft-points quivering at the thought of such sacrilege.

     “He wasn’t dead,” the thief protested, flipping the hair-band in the air a few times. “I think he was sleeping.”

     Quatre sighed. “What did he look like?” When the Fox threw him a sulky look with those deep blue eyes, the Desert Lynx scowled.

     If someone were looking for a thief, a Fox was the usual suspect. The other Foxes would only be too happy to help point fingers at the half-Fox. The blond had figured privately this was the reason the Coyote leader, Solo, had never let the half-Fox come to the Gatherings. And it had taken everything the two friends had to change Solo’s mind when the Prairie Coyotes had wintered with the Desert Lynxes at their mountain stronghold. Foxes were reputed to be good thieves, although truth was that most of them were better metalworkers. Combined with the Coyote’s belief in having fun, Duo had grown into a young man who happily practiced his natural talent for stealth as a way to make ends meet.

     “You promised me you wouldn’t steal at the Gathering,” Quatre said. His tone was less reprimanding than it was simply exasperated, and worried. “What if the Creature saw you? What would we do? Where would we hide you? You stand out like a broken tail! And the Fox Clans ---”

     “I don’t stand out,” Duo said, still petulant. “That Wolf stood out. Silver tail! How many silver tails are there?”

     The bird-dancers raised their eyebrows at each other, and jumped together, grabbing the Fox. Before Duo could protest, he was being squashed by the two Lynxes, one of whom was tickling him while the other pried the hair-clasp from his hand. Ignoring the laughing protests, Quatre sat back on his heels and studied the clasp while Quinta continued to tickle the helpless Fox.

     “Tell me the Wolf’s Clan,” Quatre demanded, when the two others had quieted down.

     “No idea,” Duo replied with a shrug. “No, really! His cloth was completely bare. No decorations at all.”

     “Then let’s get cleaned up the rest of the way and get you something decent to wear.” Quatre grabbed the linen square abandoned on the tent rug, wrapped it, and tucked it away into his own leather bag before Duo could snatch it back. “And then we’re going out to find a silver Wolf who doesn’t belong with anyone.”

     “Quatre, you always ruin my fun.”

     “You love me anyway. Now, would you rather have an ankle-length white cloth, or a knee-length blue one?”