Though she was the younger sibling (how their mother remembered was a constant source of wonder for the two sisters), Foxtail has always been her sister’s protector. She had been the one to kill the snake that had come crawling into their hole (no matter that it was just a little grass snake seeking warmth), she had been the first to pounce at the rabbit their father had brought back for their first meal and present it to Bramble, who had been too frightened to leave the mouth of the den. Even when they were half-grown and set out on their own, it was Foxtail that looked over the ridges for danger, Foxtail that kept watch at night while Bramble slept peacefully.

Foxtail was the rough one, more likely to snarl than to talk about feelings; Bramble was the sweetheart that everyone instinctively loved. She was, of course, the pretty one too, as slender as Foxtail without being so gawky, with big eyes, soft fur, and a soothing voice. Foxtail is none of that, but she hadn’t needed to be, not when Bramble was there to smooth the way for her. They had been a package deal since birth – and now she is alone.

If she closes her eyes she can almost imagine that Tybalt is Bramble, but he is too big, and his chest rumbles when he speaks. She sighs, her face hidden from the rain and from his gaze, and listens. The rusty wolf wants to lash out again, to say that he could live just fine without her, that she is nothing – but she lacks the energy that it would take and she does nothing more than flatten her ears back against her head, still whining softly.

She was Bramble’s sister, and he was Bramble’s mate, but they weren’t anything to each other, not anymore. Two wolves that had once loved the same creature – nothing more.

Foxtail can still remember the day that they had met Tybalt, the rainy autumn day that Bramble had slipped and twisted her front paw. Foxtail had left her in the woods to hunt alone, not an uncommon habit – Bramble seemed to be hurt all the time. Tybalt had been out hunting as well – they stalked the same limping rabbit – and one thing had led to another. They’d returned to Bramble in the woods with a juicy hare, Foxtail bumping companionably (more?) against the orange wolf as they walked. Foxtail dropped the rabbit at Bramble’s feet, turning to introduce Tybalt, but he was staring at Foxtail’s sister as though she were the moon fallen to earth.

Fate, they had been fond of saying, Fate had brought them together. Foxtail, being argumentative, would often sullenly think that it wasn’t Fate – it was Foxtail – but they were wrapped up in each other to care about a moody sister. She wonders, as a large raindrop lands squarely on her black nose, if Tybalt still believes in Fate. “Bramble doesn’t want anything anymore.” she says drearily.