Discovering the Pack

When I woke, the sun had yet to do so. A hefty sigh escaped me; usually, we rose together. ’Seems the sun is procrastinating today.′ A heavy yawn escaped my still tired body as I stretched stiff limbs. Regardless of time that phantasmal hunt was over. I rose with a rumbling stomach, and carried out my morning routine: shower, breakfast, hair, and teeth.

Afterward, I stepped outside to another brisk and sun-filled day; fresh snow dancing over me as a gale swept in. This icy cavern nestled in the Roc Mountain Range’s tallest peak is my sanctuary, my territory. The terrain this high up is testy and requires quick, precise movements to navigate, but the view and the acoustics were well worth the treacherous climb. I inhaled deeply, the cold pricking my lungs; before the breath was wisped away just as quickly as it appeared. From here, I could observe everything within a ten-mile radius. A herd of Prod-Elk grazed in the eastern meadow, River Rats played near Hagrott Lake to the west, the patrols as they returned from the night watch, everything was as it should be.

‘A great start to another beautiful day.’

Once I had my fill of the peaceful morning, I breathed deeply and let a howl tear through the icy crevasses. Its sound ricocheted down the mountain and well beyond the hunting valley below. From here, it felt as if the entire world could hear my call; it was exhilarating. There was a brief pause before a chorus of alert howls reflected back from all directions.

I listened to each member of the night watch, picking up one cry in particular that cracked. ′One of the older wolves, perhaps?′ They seldom participated in morning reports, so it was difficult to tell. Everything appeared fine, so I made my way back into my den. It was rare to not hear the Alpha’s call this late in the morning. ‘He must be procrastinating too,’ I scoffed to myself as I poured a cup of coffee. I secured my mug and the only known copy of ‘History of Rerecross’ and went to my hammock for a lively a.m. read.

I had just made it to the war that supposedly wiped out the Kingdom of Rerecross over one hundred years ago when I heard it. The clear, fierce, and demanding summons of the Alpha aimed right at me. I grew up listening to tales of how Merrick Brier is not an individual anyone would dare trifle with- as ruthless and cold as the frozen mountaintops that surrounded our home. I received that cruelty first hand, so the talks wanted, in a way, that didn’t do him justice—a real ‘chip off the ole block,’ as my grandfather put it. Briers of the White Lilly Pack are known to be bloodthirsty tyrants, after all.

With one swift movement, the leather-bound pages I had been reading snapped shut, and I placed the ‘History of Reracross’ on my redwood nightstand; the hammock swaying behind me as I made haste.

Another gust blasted my naked husk sending a welcome shiver through my burning body. Shifting from two to four legs was considerably more natural for me than vise versa. Most werewolves have a hard time turning because they spend most of their time on two legs. That is not the case for me. I spend about three-fourths of my time on four legs, and that suits me. My trek to the packhouse demanded an hour; the route- steep and dangerous any given day, was again blanketed with virgin snow. Still, after six years of navigating the path, I could sleepwalk it. This was the easy part.

The tricky part is ‘the jump,’ it’s a sure way to the afterlife if you botch it. The towering pillar was twenty feet from either structure and a three-hundred-foot drop to the valley bed below, give or take. Merrick constructed the dangerous column between the mountainside and the residence; not only as a deterrent for invaders, but also as a rite of passage-- if you couldn’t make the jump, or were too scared to attempt it, you had no business being in the Alpha’s house, A.k.a the packhouse. Most make it but not all.

I glared with animosity, from a few feet above, at the weathered rock that stood between me and the house. It was such a primitive way of thinking. Nonetheless, I executed a vault from my elevated mountain ledge directly to the deck with expertise; my landing reeled the wooden structure. When the subordinate on duty made eye contact with me, I swayed the water from my pelt with a hushed rumble. As they all do, he trembled and slid the generous duel glass doors that lead to the kitchen open. Droplets fell from my fur as I entered, leaving a wet trail in my wake.

I quietly observed the room since no one seemed to notice me yet. Everyone present was a Hawthorne through and through. Raspberry red hair and emerald green eyes blessed them. To my left, Royce-my eldest uncle, sat with a cup of coffee in the first of ten black oak barstools that faced the countertop made of red berre stone, trying to break the chill from the horrid weather today, no doubt. His short-medium length hair cast a shadow over his crow-like eyes, causing his features to look more worried than his broad and sloppy posture indicated.

Several feet away, in the dining room, nestled closely at the corner of an elaborate twelve-foot Witcher’s black oak table sat his twin daughters. Rizaria, the older of the two, kept her long-bearing hair in a neat ponytail and accessorized it with new ornaments daily. Her twin and complete opposite, Rachel, was a tomboy. She preferred her hair short and natural, something I could relate to. However, Royce insisted that she keep it at least shoulder length- because all girls should have long luscious locks, or some stupid reason like that. The two fair-skinned, petite girls were immersed in silent conversation about a boy Rachel liked. Smiles and giggles filling their space as their hands raced to communicate.

Callum and Arkadium are Royce’s younger, twin brothers though they couldn’t be more different. They, too, shared the hair, but Ark kept his much lengthier than Cal and Royce did, and wore glasses. However, in their wolf forms the only difference is their size, Cal being much heavier than Ark. Those two were leaning against the far right wall discussing music. Jonah, my last and youngest uncle, was nowhere to be seen, nor was my father. The idle chatter died when I continued further into the house, and the five pairs of indistinguishable jade eyes landed on me.

“Harou Brier-Hawthorne, you had better not be scratching up my Black oak floors with your nails!” The new ‘queen’ bitch’s voice encompassed the room. I rolled my eyes and continued my journey up to my room. Once outside my door, I shifted back, stretching out the ache of sore muscles and broken bones as they healed instantaneously.

My room hadn’t changed in years; two black and white pieces of art decorated the four grey walls. A king-sized bed with white sheets, and a grey comforter lay unused in the middle of the room. Not a speck of dust on the chest of drawers or dresser that lined the left wall and the black drapes sealed out all sunlight. I advanced into the blackened room, traveling the space by memory. I seized a white and blue button-up and a pair of jeans from their hangers in my walk-in closet and dressed.

I made a visit to the attached bathroom. The room reeled me, forcing me back a step, shaking my head before willing myself to enter the vacated space. The mirror remained spider-webbed from when I broke it. I remembered that day like the events that transpired happened only minutes ago. Shaking the melancholy memory from my head, I stared at my scattered reflection. The white strands on my head fell a few centimeters over my eyes.

′Your hair has gotten too long.′

The thought drew me towards my mother. When I was just a boy, I hated keeping my hair short. She would run her fingers through the long strands and tell me those very words. She loved my hair short and spiky because it reminded her of my father in their earlier days.

I closed my eyes and let the memories take me back to a simpler time. I could feel the comforting pressure from my mother’s loving touch as she smoothed my hair back, smell her rosy scent mixed with the Mestle Wood pine as we walked our favorite path. I could see her warm smile that wiped away all the anger or sadness I was feeling at the time. Her light honeysuckle laugh sounded through my ears, and I felt the warm presence of tears fall. It was peaceful, whole, timeless, and it hurt all the same. The phantom wound in my chest ached, still deep and fresh.

Voices from below were growing louder.

I took a deep breath and staggered from the haunted room. Somehow I made it to the edge of the bed and slid down to the floor. Slowly, I reached under the piece of furniture and pulled a worn shoebox out. I flicked off the top and plucked the lonely picture from the bottom. Unlike the box it was stored in, the three-by-four-inch picture was flawless. A weak chuckle escaped me as I brushed my thumb over the image. Frozen in time forever were my mother and I, cuddled up under the old Tortoise Tree sleeping in the rain.

“I miss you so much mom,” With no way to stop them, I let the tears fall. After what I presumed was just a few minutes, I pinched the bridge of my nose and sniffled, sighed, and laughed at myself. My head hit the foot of the mattress when I threw it back.

“Okay, feelings, you’ve had your five minutes, now back to business.”