The Wolf King's Second Chance Mate

The Wolf King paced in his throne room, anxious and afraid. It was unbecoming of a king to admit his fear, he knew, but nevertheless it was true. He couldn’t speak it aloud, but he couldn’t make the fact go away.  Even in his human form, the Wolf King was an intimidating and impressive figure. Taller than any normal man, he had broad shoulders and black hair with eyes of the lightest blue. Like palest sapphire, they shone and sparkled when he spoke and captivated all who came before him. But today those eyes restlessly darted around the throne room and he was, unusually, alone. His crown, the ceremonial crown worn for the most important occasions, was sliding further and further from the center of his head.  He was awaiting word of his wife, his Luna Queen. She was in labor with their firstborn, but she had been in labor for far too long. With each passing moment his heart sank further and further in his chest. He knew that his attendants would only leave him alone for so long because the news was not good and they feared his reaction. He continued to pace, resisting the urge to destroy everything in the room, the urge to pull out his sword and fight a dozen, a hundred, enemies. Any number of them, anything to take his mind off his fear. Just as he thought he would break under the tension, the doors to the throne room opened. “Your Highness,” a timid, young page stepped forward, trembling, and kneeling before the King. “What news?” he growled, causing the young boy to shake even more. “I--” the boy hesitated, seeming to choke on his words. “I’m sorry to report, Her Highness the Queen has passed.” “What?” the King’s voice was soft. There was no hint of a growl. Instead, it was quiet, disbelieving, almost broken. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’m sorry. She passed away only minutes ago. It was quite sudden,” the boy added. The King sank down into the throne behind him, still looking disbelieving. He stared at the young boy, still prostrated before the throne, for a long time. “The child?” He finally asked, in a shaking voice. “A healthy Prince,” the page whispered in a low voice. “Leave me,” the King said. The boy rose. “Leave me!” shouted the King more stridently, causing the young child to jump up and run for the door. The throne room was long, and it took the child several seconds to reach the large doors. It took him a few extra seconds to pull the heavy doors open. As the child slipped through it, the King shouted, “and send Lord Greyfur to me.” “My Lord,” whispered the boy, so quietly that even with his acute hearing, the King could barely catch the words. The king stared into the flame of the candles that lined the grand carpet leading up to the throne. The carpet was a lush, deep purple color, the color of the Goddess, creator of the wolves. The throne was a large, golden chair etched with the Goddess symbols, a full moon flanked by three stars on each side, and underneath it the phrase “Guided By Moonlight”. It was padded with velvet of the same lush purple. The King stared into the flame for a long time, his brain racing as he tried to deny what he had just heard. He did not look up when the door opened again and a richly dressed young man in a red tunic strode in, looking sad and horrified. “My Lord,” the man bowed deeply before the throne when he reached it, but did kneel as the young page had done. “You called for me?” “You have heard?” The King asked, not raising his eyes to the man, his voice entirely monotone. “My Lord,” the man’s voice dropped to a low whisper, “I have heard whispers. I am so sorry, are they true?” “Yes, old friend,” the King whispered, “or so I’ve been told.” His voice cracked. “I haven’t seen her.” “My King, may I approach?” The man had taken a half step forward, but looked unsure. “Lord Greyfur, please. You know you don’t need to ask. Not when we aren’t holding court.” Lord Greyfur stepped forward, laying a hand on the King’s arm. The gentle gesture finally snapped the King from his stuporous gaze into the flame. He raised his eyes to Lord Greyfur. “Will you accompany me?” the King asked, trying to keep a steady voice.  “Of course, sir,” replied Lord Greyfur. The King rose from his throne, and for a moment his demeanor was neither intimidating nor impressive, but rather like a man headed to his own execution. As he walked toward the door, he stopped just a few paces short. Shaking his head like a wolf shaking water from his fur, he suddenly stood straight and tall. He fixed his crown, and with a hardness in his eyes, he swung the door open forcefully. If the King had been intimidating before, it was nothing to his demeanor now, as he strode through the halls to his beloved wife’s chambers. His very shadow caused the attendants, servants, and nobles bustling through the corridors to shrink back in fear, the King’s face darkening with each step. The doors to the Queen’s rooms were already open, and her attendants were bustling about, many in tears. The Luna Queen was much beloved of the castle staff, and of the people. All around him, people were mourning.  The king recognized the orphan his wife had recently taken in as a chamber maid when he saw the young woman sobbing in the arms of the queen's best friend  , Lady Redblood of Red Stone Pack.  He proceeded from the entry chamber into the bedroom where a lone servant cleaned blood off the floors. Angelic, as if she could be asleep, his beautiful Queen Madelyn had been cleaned up and tucked into bed for his arrival.  A half-choked sob escaped his lips at the sight of her, his Queen, his wife, his mate. They had been together for only three short years.  Before he could stop them, the tears began to flow from his eyes, and Lord Greyfur wheeled around to the remaining servant. “Out, out,” he said, eager to hide the King’s sorrow from prying eyes. “No,” the King choked out between sobs, “no. Let them stay. Let them all stay. Let them look upon the grief of their sovereign lord.” “Your Majesty, it is highly unusual to openly display any signs of--” but the king cut his friend off before the sentence was finished, turning and grabbing him by the neck. “If you say weakness, Theodore, I will end your life right here. There is no weakness in mourning my Queen. The whole country should mourn. The whole kingdom will mourn.” And the King released the neck of his oldest friend, pushing him backward into a wall as he turned and collapsed on his knees at his wife’s bedside. “My love, my moonlight,” he whispered to her corpse, “rest now with the Goddess, in the eternal light of the moon and the stars. I love you, and I will care for our son.” A steady stream of tears flowed into her hair as he stroked it, begging himself to wake up from this nightmare. Just as he spoke, a cry sounded from another room of the chambers. A high, wailing sound of an infant, healthy with strong lungs. “My son,” the King cried out, “my son! Bring him to me,” he demanded, and in an instant, a young attendant came bustling in holding the squalling child. “My son,” the King whispered as the hours-old babe was laid in his arms. “My son, Wyatt. You were named by your mother, child. She named you for her grandfather, the bravest man she ever knew. That’s what she always told me. I will be brave for you,” he said, and he dropped his voice to a whisper, “though if it were not for you I would not carry on.” Still clutching the infant, the King rose to his feet. An attendant rushed forward, arms outstretched, and said, “let me find him a wetnurse to care for him, Your Highness.” With a light kiss on his son’s head, which baptised him in his father’s tears, the King handed his child to the attendant and turned back to Lord Greyfur. “Prepare the castle for the mourning.” he commanded. “Of course.” Lord Greyfur bowed and moved toward the door. He stopped just shy of it and said, “Wallace,” and the King turned, surprised to hear his first name used before so many, “I’ll need to know how long you want the mourning period to last, sir. So that I can call a Guardian of the Goddess to bless the altar for your Mourning Prayer at the end of it.” The King sighed, a heavy, joyless sound. “The mourning shall last one year. But Theodore,” he looks darkly at his friend, “there shall be no Mourning Prayer.” “Sir, without a Mourning Prayer the Goddess will never relieve you of the burden of your pain. You’ll feel it anew each day. You won’t ever find another mate, if the Goddess chooses to give you one.” “She won’t,” the King replied, reaching one hand down to stroke the hair of his beloved wife. “I have but one mate. I have no desire to feel eased of the burden of this heartache. I’ll carry it with me every day, because it’s all I have left of her.” “Sir, I--” but the King cut Lord Greyfur off. “It isn’t up for discussion. Prepare the castle for a year of mourning, but do not call for a Guardian. I won’t see them.” Theodore bowed low, his face inscrutable. “Sir,” he said, and then he turned and left the room.