Holo, the Wise Wolf

The wind is still warm with a hint of fading summer as it blows across the fields.

The wheat stalks, heavy and ripe, bend and sway in the breeze. The wolf is running through the fields, as the people of the village said.

An old saying. Old enough that those who knew its origins are long dead, along with their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Those whose names are still remembered were few in number, and of more than their names, no one living knows a thing.

Except for one. She watches the wolf run through the fields and thinks back over the centuries. And smiles.

But as her memories grow closer to the present, that smile fades.

Long ago, she had friends. One of them asked a favor, and how could she not acquiesce? But, like all humans, he had been short-lived. As had his children, and theirs. And now there is no one left who remembers the name Holo as anything more than a tradition. No one who speaks to her in the summer evenings, murmuring words in the fields not really expecting to be heard. Not even that anymore.

They don’t need to call out to her when no one is there to hear, and they don’t even need her to watch over the crops. Humans may be short-lived, but they are also incredibly clever. They have learned much about wheat, and about growing. The harvest promised to be bountiful this year, and she had barely intervened at all.

Next year they will need her less. And the year after. And the one after that.

Perhaps... perhaps the time of promise has passed.

After all, Milliways has reminded her how much fun it can be to speak and drink and laugh. How endlessly fascinating humans can be. How much variety there is in the world.

So... perhaps it is time to travel again...

She will think on it. And she will run through the fields.