Hounds of Winter

~*~

The wood on the fire hissed and spit, too wet to burn clean. Devlin sighed and shifted the kettle on the hob closer to the fitful flame. He looked at the table, set for tea for one. The winter wind howled outside his shutters, and he could feel the gusts blowing in his heart as well. Nothing felt right, never felt warm, with FayLinn gone.

Devlin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands. The kettle began to sing, and the storm outside blew harder. He went through the motions of making tea, then sat and watched the steam curl and twist with empty eyes. The screaming reached a fever pitch outside while Devlin sat as if carved from stone.

When the shutter behind him blew inward, Devlin threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around his head, and coils of frigid air screamed in and dashed his tepid tea to the floor. For a moment, he sat frozen, the very breath stolen from his mouth, and he swore he could hear hounds baying and hunters calling for their prey. But who would be mad enough to hunt in the depths of an icy winter night? What prey would such a hunter chase? Devlin shook his head to rid it of useless thoughts and turned his mind to more practical matters.

Struggling to his feet, he fought his way through the freezing air that pressed and pushed him. The wind tried to run its arctic fingers under his clothes like an insistent lover. Devlin leaned out the window to grab the flapping outer shutter. It swayed just out of reach, just beyond the tips of his fingers. He grunted and stretched out a wee bit farther.

The crash of hooves against the frozen ground sounded again, and this time, he was certain he heard the hounds calling back to their masters and their masters returning the call with hunting horns. At last, his numb fingers found the shutter slats, and he drew it closed with a mighty heave, putting the slipped latch back into place. There was nothing to be done about the torn panes of oiled paper, so he shut and latched the inner shutter. The cold wasn't blowing through him like shards of ice, but instead it seeped in, slow and insidious. And he could still hear the hounds.

He stood before the window, holding his arms tight around him, stock still and quivering like a rabbit under the eyes of a wolf. The ground under his feet trembled as the unseen hooves passed by. He was sure he heard the hunters call to each other in fierce, blood-thirsty joy. And then, it was gone. The night was quiet, and the wind was just wind.

Devlin gathered a wool blanket from the bed and tacked it to the window frame with ten penny nails to block the draft. He rescued his broken cup from the floor and mopped up the remains of his tea. He banked the fire and took himself to bed and told himself it had been rare winter thunder and nothing more.