Chapter Eight

1730 Words
My heart pounds to the rhythm of my paws, the forest flies in green streaks beside me, the wind ripples through my fur. My bones bid me to run faster, ever faster; my blood drums in my ears. I leap and bound over logs, thickets, and weeds – nothing can entangle me, nothing can stop me. Donnacha leads our pack of new Shifters, his snowy mane flowing like wild grass in the wind. He leads us on our first Full Moon Hunt, and he’s hot on the trail of something, although my delicate nose can’t yet pick up on it. His Wolf’s name pulses in my mind, steady with my heartbeat: Lóchrann. His Wolf Spirit is a Beacon to others. As I watch him run ahead, full of confidence and peace, I can’t help but feel like I’m following a beacon of light through the dark forest. Excited yips escape my maw, and the other young werewolves who run alongside me join in the cries of cheer. My whole life up to this point pales in comparison to the untamed freedom beneath my claws that trample the earth underfoot. Boundless, endless energy keeps me running for miles on end under the silver light of the full moon. I had no idea what I was missing out on. Donnacha – rather, Lóchrann – slows to a halt. I reluctantly follow suit, and my powerful lungs take in deep gulps of sweet air while my tongue hangs happily out my mouth. My spine wiggles as my tail wags uncontrollably – it’s a strange feeling. An apricot-hued werewolf next to me whimpers gently and backs away. What’s wrong? I sniff the air, and my heart pounds ice-cold blood through my body. Humans. Lóchrann is unperturbed; in fact, his tail is stiff with confidence, his ears pricked forward, his smoldering eyes sparkling with mischief. His jowls pull back to reveal a toothy grin. The trust I had in him moments ago has vanished. Lóchrann signals for us to peer over the hill, and we obey. I mustn’t have noticed in my overwhelming glee – we’re off the Pack territory. We’ve lingered into the Rogue Lands, where a lowly human farmer has dared to set up camp. Judging by his shamble of a shelter, he can’t have been here for more than two months. A humble plot of land boasts a few hard-earned crops. A lone campfire flickers against the creeping darkness as he crouches in front of it, a book in his hands. He looks so peaceful. Lóchrann’s grin widens. At best, he wants to terrify this human back into the overcrowded human lands. At worst? Goosebumps skitter between my shoulder blades, and my hackles stand on end. My tongue settles against my sharp, curved fangs. I don’t want to… BANG! The trees quake, my heart jumps, my ears ring – a yelp rips through the air. The apricot-hued werewolf staggers, blood seeping from his neck. His fangs pull back in a snarl, I move to pull him away— BANG! His jaw is blown open in a bloody pulp. He falls lifeless at my paws, terror forever frozen on his face. Lóchrann’s unearthly growl shatters the night, and he lunges toward the sound – the young werewolves next to me scatter – I’m not trained to fight yet! I have no choice but to abandon the Prince and run! I beg the forest to protect me – I plead with the moon to give me strength. Saoradh’s instincts burn through me – survive, jump, dodge, weave, survive. A glint flashes next to me— “Duck!” Saoradh cries. A bullet clips my ear and splinters the tree just behind me. Hot blood trickles down my jaw. Anger explodes through my fear, and I leap at my assailant. The stench of Human grips my nose and weighs heavily on my tongue. The human curses at me, aiming his rifle, squeezing the trigger— Saoradh’s instincts overwhelm me. I bite his wrist, the bullet misses, I dig my teeth deeper into his soft flesh, I ragdoll him until his bones break. He screams, begging me for mercy – I pin him to the ground. His blood, hot, salty, and fatty coats my lips. He’s sobbing. Begging me for mercy. “Please, let me live! I have a wife and kids!” I hesitate as my open jaws drool over him. I should kill him. His friend killed one of us. But we started this. And…I don’t want to. What’s wrong with me? First The Girl, now him? I close my mouth, the tang of his blood slipping down my throat as I swallow. I step away, and he scrambles to his feet, clutching his mauled wrist. He whimpers and runs, leaving behind his rifle. I try to feel guilty about letting him go. Thundering footsteps echo nearby. I run toward the sound— Lóchrann is running for his life. A human skids to a halt and aims his rifle. My heart stops. I lunge, a snarl ripping from my throat, my fangs bearing down on him as I soar through the air. I snap my jaws shut around his neck, blood spattering across my face as we tumble to the ground. He gasps for air, clawing desperately at my fur. Horror settles in me, and out of desperation, I bite down harder to end his misery – just stop struggling, damn it! He convulses and twitches as tears stream down his bloodshot eyes. He croaks out a rasped cry of despair. His final breath trickles out from blooded lips. He goes limp. I release him, his blood trailing from my fangs and tongue as I pant. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s the lowly farmer from below the hill. The one who had worked so hard on those crops, who had finally gotten some free time to read a good book. I just killed him. Lóchrann lopes toward me, breathing heavily. His fiery eyes are full of gratefulness…and jealousy. He wanted this kill. I recoil in disgust. This was supposed to be a sacred night, where I would have my first true communion with the earth. And now it’s tarnished because Lóchrann wanted to come home with a human trophy. He knew where to find this human – there’s no way we stumbled upon this camp by chance. He wanted glory, and now there’s an innocent person dead at my paws. I feel violated. Lóchrann snorts and howls, calling the other werewolves back. We quickly leave the scene of the crime, leaving the apricot-wolf’s body behind, as well as the farmer’s. We return to the Broken Fang Pack, the stench of blood wafting from my mouth. Other werewolves come to sniff me, fascinated by the mouth-watering scent. A few yip in excitement, already eager to hear how I heroically slayed a Son of Cormac. I can’t look at any of them. Saoradh, too, mourns, and her whimpers escape me. We both wanted a night of freedom, not…this. I don’t remember how, but I managed to slip away. I run back to the hill that reeks of death. The stars are fading; the horizon is slowly turning lighter shades of blue. I find the apricot werewolf, his expression still frozen. “His Wolf’s name was Amhrán,” Saoradh tells me, his name swirling in my mind as I wonder what to do with the body. ‘Bodies are buried so that the Wolf Spirit inside can be returned to the Earth. We write their humans’ names on gravestones so that the Spirit can remember who its host was and find peace,’ comes the verse from one of my textbooks. So. Bury the body and write the name. “Amhrán” is the Wolf Spirit’s name, not its human’s. But hopefully, it’ll be close enough. I get to work, digging a hole with my claws. With my mouth, I collect twigs, leaves, trampled flowers, rocks – anything to cover the body with. I drag Amhrán into the meager, sloppy hole and begin covering him up. I just hope it’s enough. I’ll write his name in the dirt once I have my thumbs back. The sun’s almost broken over the horizon. I hesitate before trudging to my human victim’s body. He’s lying in a pool of his own blood, his neck shattered into pieces of flesh and sinew, his skin ghost-white. I can still taste his blood, and I feel ashamed that my mouth waters at it. How do the Sons of Cormac bury their dead? No name comes to me; I know nothing about him. Do I even write his name? Do I return his body to the ground? I turn away – I shouldn’t even be doing this in the first place. Am I insane? And why am I thinking of The Girl? Why do I want to cry? I steel myself and get to work, digging a second hole for the slain farmer. It’s worthless and ironic; he’d probably be furious if his murderer was burying him with such cluelessness. But hell, it makes me feel better. Perhaps I’m not insane, but selfish. The sun breaks over the horizon as my claws dig the final scars in the soft earth. Warmth overwhelms me, shedding away my thick fur in layers of sweat. I cringe as I shrink down to my meager size, as my claws retract into nails, as my spine absorbs my luscious tail. It’s over in a moment, but I’m left panting and soaked in sweat. Dried, crusted blood from my clipped ear cakes my bare cheek. I now realize just how freezing the early morning mist is. I shiver and crawl toward the human before remembering that I can stand on two legs again. I can’t stop shuddering as goosebumps break out across my soaked skin; my fingers and toes are already pale as I stand naked. I can’t help but trace my thumb over the bite marks in the farmer’s neck – I really did that? I grab his wrists and try to drag him into the hole; I’m reminded how much weaker my human body is as my heels dig into the dirt. Once I’ve unceremoniously dumped him in the hole, I begin collecting more rocks with my hands. A twig snaps. I smell someone. I’ve been found!
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