When Fenn’s eyes peeled back open, he found himself just where he had left off in his sticky, silky, slimy enclosure. More or less. The cocoon’s insides were starting to dry now that they were exposed to air. With a shudder, he pushed himself to a sitting position, pushing the roof of his enclosure up and peeling a thin layer of rubbery ooze off of himself. Frost danced into life across his fingertips and across the goop shrivelings. He felt rested enough now to really register his disgust. On one hand, excellent! He liked not feeling like something dropped on death’s door. On the other hand… ew?

Overwhelmingly, the urge of disgust swallowed the other, more complex worries that nipped at his mind. Out! It was time to pry himself out of this guck!

Small sounds of effort smothered in the back of his throat as he rolled over to face the hole in the cocoon; without thinking, he pulled at its edges. Drying silk cracked under his frosty touch. Fueled by the faint annoyance at all the ick, and his resolve to extract himself from it, the fae grabbed the carpet outside and pulled himself out. Flaking silks clung to him. His first thought upon being out in the open was to begin wiping it and dried goo off his arms. His next thought was perhaps to stand, but his legs buzzed with sparks of numbness. Instead, he merely propped himself into a sitting position and stretched, working the kinks out of his back. It was also a little numb. He hoped this all was normal for this whole weird metamorphosis proces-

Wait. The boy’s gaze jerked up. Again, he realized he was not alone. He froze.

In the corner of the room, on a pile of clothes faded by time, lay a dark, furry creature; a roughly wolf-shaped animal. And yet, too large to be an ordinary breed. Direwolf, his brain helpfully supplied. One red eye started up at him. Only one. Its other soccket was sunken in and scarred over, as if the organ had been gouged out at some point in time.

It half-stood up on sight of him — then balked. The creature did not approach him this time. It didn’t run from him either, though. “Au-ooo?” it mourned from its corner, tail lashing out anxiously.

“The wolf is yours,” a matronly voice echoed in his mind. “She is Daugi.”

Fenn stiffened as it clicked together. That was why it was snuffling up to his cocoon earlier. That was why it wouldn’t leave him alone. And he’d responded by icing it. Her. Fuck. One side of her muzzle was still wet from where he’d done it. His ears pulled back anxiously. There was a limited not-language in the back of his mind. His hands moved instinctively. Pointing to himself, and then, a plea.

“Am sorry.”

The wolf snapped her maw shut and cocked her head. Indecision rippled her. One could see it in the continued whap of her tail against the floor, the wavering of her ears.

“Very sorry for hurt. Friend?”

The last word stripped away the defensive nature of her stance. She straightened up, single eye wide with hopeful consideration. Over crumbling stone, on disbelieving paws, Daugi padded up to him. An instinctual fear rose up in him at the approach of the hefty predator — rose, and then fell. It was smothered by some stronger feeling. Safety, familiarity.

Fenn grabbed ahold of that feeling.

He didn’t recall another time meeting her, he didn’t know how she had lost an eye, and he wasn’t sure what about him warranted the excited flick of her ears. But he knew he could trust her. This was a nice predator, somehow.

It took a little effort not to draw back from the yellowed teeth and meaty breath. He grinned weakly as the direwolf snuffled his neck, wet nose sneezing at the slick layer of greyish goo, her one eye furrowed in puzzlement. It was as if she didn’t quite recognize him by sight alone, and needed to confirm her suspicions. An uncomfortable sinking feeling dug into his gut as he gave her a cautious (and only slightly frosty) pat, as if he’d swallowed a bunch of rocks. He didn’t recognize her either. Not really. There was a lot he wasn’t going to recognize now that he was out and about, in a world he didn’t quite remember his wanderings of. The fae winced at the thought, and his wings fluttered anxiously.

Wings?

Fenn glanced over his shoulder.

Draped across him were brown wings, as soft as velvet.

They were prickling with numbness, limp and soggy with cocoon sludge, but they were there. They were a thing. For a moment, the fae forgot to breathe. His an- oh fuck, he had antennae. Twitching, wriggling antennae. They felt unfamiliar to him. His hands slowly rose to touch them. Though they were soaked and droopy, they were soft too, and just starting to get some feeling into them. It was as if… hell if he knew. They seemed to almost taste the air, like a pair of extra tongues growing out his head, or an excess, unwanted noses. The air tasted of dry stone and molding fabric.

Fenn did not properly breathe for a few minutes. Hesitantly, he began to gently work gobs of cocoon guck out of their frills. It felt like the right thing to do. A concerned whine building in the back of her throat, Daugi leaned in to contribute to the clean-up with a careful (though slobbery) tongue. Afterward, he glanced back at the cocoon. It had collapsed inward in his absence. Now, it was but an ashen husk, cracked with cold and oozing tarry grey.

The fae scooted his way across the floor, the curious black wolf shadowing him. His wolf.

There was a murky puddle on the ground, a bit of water which dribbled from a sunken hole in the roof. He crawled toward it, intending to give himself a good splash in the face. That was… that was what people did to wake themselves up, right? But the second he touched the cool liquid, white crystals of frost laced across its surface, and before he could think “what in Mab’s mad mess?” it was solid ice.

Hastily, he yanked his hand away, a sigh seeping out of him. Oh, right. Duh. His magic. He wasn’t… sure how to control it.

Oh well.

Though it wasn’t any good for splashing around in anymore, the glossy ice still worked as a competent mirror. Fenn froze and stared at his reflection. Brown wings, brown antennae, all in greater detail that he was used to seeing in. The green that was once just his pupils and iris had broken out taken over his sclera too. His his skin was papery, and his blonde locks were now an off-white. They still dripped with the odd, unfreezing goo. The hair on his chest dripped too. It clung like a collar around Fenn’s neck, the sort of ruff of fluff found on a moth.

He had the faintest sense that this was not all how he used to look. Yes — he had looked differently while speaking with Banrion, he was sure of it. A manifestation of his past self. Without the insect bits. Puffs of nervous snow poofed into the air around him.

“Wuff?” his wolf inquired over his shoulder, sticking her snout into the crook of his neck, as if checking to see that he was all there. The boy startled at the wet touch of her nose. Yeek! A huffy-cheeked look of annoyance was given back to her — some bit of muscle-memory he might have thought twice about doing around a large wolf if it hadn’t been such an automatic action — and he realized that her own ears were pulled back in concern. Perhaps she didn’t know what was up with him either. Or maybe she was just sad that he was sad. He wasn’t sure how smart she was.

With a deep breath, he scooted back from the reflection. Everything was a bit confusing right now. But he’d figure it out. Or he’d try to, anyway.