Names have power. That is why you choose your own name. That is why no one knows your true name. Instead, you mother gave you a scarlet cloak, and called you Red.

—

Your grandmother lives alone in the forest. She has since your grandfather died before you were born. From her, your father learned how to bake everything from simple bread to complex cakes. The house is always filled with warmth and the many scents of the baked goods your family is known for.

—

Before you learned how to count, you learned how to knead dough and mix batter. Baking is in your blood; you inherited your father’s hands and your mother’s sweet tooth and spent days upon days creating small treats filled with fruits. Your fondest memories come from baking: laughter from your mother as she threw flour at your father, your father trying your first raspberry strudel then eating half the batch, your grandmother lifting you up onto the counter so you can watch how she cuts the dough into different shapes.

—

Your grandmother is sick. She can’t get out of bed. The news strikes fear into your heart, and when you look to their parents, their concern is clear in their expressions. So you hang up your apron and don your red cloak to cross the forest and look after her.

—

The basket your father hands you is full of breads and sweets. Your grandmother always insisted that good food full of sugar helped the body heal. The mixed aroma of the food makes your mouth water, but you keep the basket hanging from the crook of your elbow, carefully covered with cloth, and step into the forest.

—

There are stories of wolves and beasts and wailing ghosts that haunt the forest. As a child, your parents used these tales to scare you away from the forest. Now, they echo around your head as you carefully step over roots and keep to the small path that leads to your grandmother.

It is still light out; the sun hangs high above the horizon. In the day, you have nothing to fear. Still, you hurry.

—

At the halfway point between your house and your grandmother’s is a small clearing besides a small stream. You rest there, sitting on the ground with your legs stretched in front of your. From the basket, you pull out a small loaf of sourdough bread. The outside is flaky and hard, but the inside is soft and white. It’s one you made, and you can’t help but feel proud of how good it turned out.

You relax as you rest in the clearing. You relax too much and don’t notice another visitor in the clearing until you hear a twig snap.

—

The wolf is large, so large you wonder how its steps can be so silent. It doesn’t snarl or lunge at you, but takes small steps and regards you curiously. You heart beats rapidly in your chest, and all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears. If you hadn’t already been sitting, you’re sure you would have fallen down. The wolf steps closer, then sits down just a few feet away from you. It turns its gaze to the basket. Somehow, you’re able to move your body past the shock, the fear, and pull off the cloth covering. You pick out another simple piece of bread and hold it out hesitantly.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, voice shaking. The wolf simply stares at you, then gets up, towering over you, and walks closer. Your hand doesn’t shake, but you still flinch when a cold nose brushes against your knuckles. But all the wolf does is bite into the bread.

—

You sit there another hour with the wolf, panic and fear fading as the wolf does nothing but lick crumbs off your hand. It noses at your dress, paws at your cloak, but doesn’t hurt you. When you reach out a hand, it lets you pet its grey fur. It’s not scary at all.

—

The wolf follows you as you continue the trek to your grandmother. You feel safer with it walking with you, alert for any danger that might cross your path. You almost don’t want it to leave, but still, it disappears between the trees when you reach your grandmother’s house.

—

You try to put the wolf out of your mind, convince yourself that you don’t miss it, but still it lingers in your thoughts.

—

Your grandmother is as kind and caring as ever, but her violent coughs leave her exhausted and bedridden. You clean the house and carefully grind up dried herbs to put into her tea. The basket is full enough to keep the both of you comfortably fed for a week, but the time comes that you must go back to your parents for more.

—

When you leave with an empty basket, you only have to walk until the trees swallow up the sight of your grandmother’s house before the wolf it back. It sits, waiting for you to reach it. You can’t help but smile, and walk with a hand in its fur.

—

You spend a day with your parents, helping them bake and clean and bake again. When you go out to hang up your dress to dry, you catch sight of the wolf, watching from the shadow of the forest. You want to be closer, but a glance back at your parents stops you. When you look back, the wolf is gone.

—

The third time you leave in your red cloak and basket, you look for the wolf, hoping to see it again. The company it provides is quiet but kind, safe and calm. It’s different from the loud voices of the other children in town, or the disapproving voices of mothers who don’t believe you should be baking instead of looking for a husband.

When you see the wolf, you smile and say, “Hello.” You can’t be sure, but you think you see the wolf smile back.

—

Your grandmother sleeps most of the day. You take this time to be outside. It takes some coaxing, but the wolf soon emerges from the shadows to sit besides you as you wash the blankets at hang up them to dry. You tell it stories of your life, your family, of the town, and when the wolf knocks you down, you feel no fear. Instead, you wraps your arms around its neck and let it nuzzle into you.

—

This companionship is strange, you know, and no one else would understand it. So you stay silent, and you keep the secret of your wolf close to your heart.

—

“Be careful out there,” you mother says and she hands you the basket. “The Huntsman says the wolves are coming closer to town.”

“I’ll be careful,” you promise as your blood runs cold. If the Huntsman is out, then the wolf is in danger. You will not let it be killed because you weren’t careful. You try not to run when you leave the house, but it’s a close thing.

—

The wolf doesn’t greet you the moment you step into the forest. It doesn’t appear at all as you walk the familiar path. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you wonder, terrified, if the Huntsman has already taken your wolf away from you.

—

There’s a girl in the clearing. All your fears and worries come crashing into silence at the sight of her. She looks at you and smiles. Something about it is wild, feral, and familiar. She’s also very naked. You feel heat rise in your cheeks and quickly look away, but she’s suddenly in front of you, gripping your shoulders. Before you can say anything, she ducks her head and brushes her nose against your neck, inhaling deeply.

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask, voice oddly high pitched.

“I can smell you better when I’m not human, but you still smell good,” she replies, slowly walking you back until you back hits a tree. The basket drops from your arm and you raise your hands to try to push her back when you feel her tongue sweep out over your skin. You squeak, and all you can do is hold onto her wrists. It feels like you stomach as flipped and your legs shake as she licks and nibbles the skin of your neck.

—

You don’t know when you closed your eyes. But you open them when she pulls away. The girls frowns at you and steps closer, crowding you against the tree.

“You don’t recognize me,” she says.

“Should I?” you ask, keeping your eyes on her face. She steps back and you close your eyes again to avoid looking at her uncovered body. Then something cold presses against your hand, and when you look, the wolf is there looking up at you. And then the girl is back, all dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. But she is your wolf.

“Hello Red,” she says, “I’ve been waiting to meet you in my human body.”

“You’re a werewolf.”

She doesn’t say anything, just hums and presses her nose against your neck again.

—

When you leave the clearing to reach your grandmother’s house, you walk with a wolf. When you say goodnight, it’s to the girl, who breathes in your scent before disappearing. You sway slightly, as you stare at the space she left behind, and when you go in, your grandmother takes one look at your flushed cheeks and asks if you have a fever.

—

Somehow, you get used to offering up your neck the moment you see the girl. She never hesitates to invade your space, you find you don’t mind at all. Instead, you take off your cloak and toss it over her to give her some covering. You spend your days with a wolf and a girl, disappearing into the forest as your grandmother sleeps. But she recovers, finally, after weeks of worry. And so you pick up your empty basket and tie your cloak before you leave her house one last time.

—

You don’t make it to the clearing. You hear the howls just moments before you hear the wolves running towards you. You barely throw yourself out of the way as the pack runs by. Behind them, you hear the Huntsman yell and realize what’s happening. You tear off your red cloak and hide in the bushes, just out of sight as the Huntsman emerges from the trees, dragging a dead wolf, covered in blood.

You heart freezes in your chest; the wolf’s pelt, underneath the blood, is grey.

—

You don’t go home. You don’t go to your grandmothers. No, you drop the basket and run off the path, chasing after the Huntsman. He knows the forest better than you and you lose him in no time. Still, you run, ignoring all the branches that tear at your clothes, cut through your skin, and tangle in your hair. You don’t want it to be real; she’s out there, somewhere, and you won’t stop looking until you know she’s really dead.

—

The night is cold and your arms are covered in goosebumps. You collapse to the ground with your back pressed against as tree and shiver. Disbelief and fear still course through your veins, but you can’t go on. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion and the forest is too dark to safely navigate. You duck your head and wait for morning.

—

You don’t sleep. This is why you hear the wolf before you see it. Your head snaps up, heart racing, as your wolf runs through the trees. You stand, and the wolf turns into the girl who crashes into you.

“Red!” she says, holding you close. Immediately, you tilt your head and offer her your neck. “I was so worried! I couldn’t find you!”

“You’re okay,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “The Huntsman– I saw him carrying a dead wolf. It looked like you.”

“Never,” she promises, “I’ll never leave you. The Huntsman won’t keep me away from you.”

The fear and desperation of the day leave you suddenly, and you nearly weep from relief. Instead, you pull back and when she looks at you, you cup her jaw in your hands and pull her in. The kiss is born from desperation, love, relief; it is fire and it consumes. She devours you whole, kissing with small growls and hands around your waist, holding hard enough to bruise. Feeling her heartbeat beneath your hands grounds you. She bites your lip, runs her tongue over the ache, and holds you close, taking and taking and taking–

—

“My name,” she begins as you lie curled together with the rest of the pack, “My true name is Caene. If you will have me, I will be your wolf.”

You hold her and your true name in your heart, your most precious secrets. You know what it means to give your true name; it gives them power, but it is also a sign of trust and loyalty. To share your true name is an act of love.

“My true name is Eula. And I am your Red riding hood.”