The Wolf

Earth and wind and water and heat. Summer and sky and stink and scent. Blood and breeze. Smell upon smell upon smell that assaults his nostrils, dividing his attention, driving him mad with the inability to pick just one out, choose the one to chase and conquer. Throughout the forest, smaller animals and the two-legged ones. There, beside him, the four-legged ones: the large one with the horns, the small one hiding in its fur, twitching with nervousness and the third, like he is, and yet...not.

He howls at the moon, a sound of anguish as her rays pierce and probe. He runs, chasing her through the sky, through the fields, catching rabbits and squirrels between his jaws as an offering and sacrifice, blood streaming over his teeth and muzzle, begging for forgiveness that she might let him free from her ever-present glow.

The four-legged ones try to rein him in, try to block him, one on each side, jaws snapping and horns shoving. But he outruns them, blood coursing and pulsing through his veins, the lust for it urging him on, forcing him on as he threads through the forest of trees, their oppressive roof of branches and leaves hiding the moon from him for a brief moment of relief and respite. He crouches, torso heaving, panting, his tongue lolling out as the others draw nearer, cautious as they know they should be.

He snarls, and the stag shies to the side, snorting, the rodent chittering loudly in fear. But the dog, a distant cousin, family, steps even closer, whining plaintively. He snarls again, snapping teeth, willing the smaller animal away, but it only continues to inch closer, body low to the ground in submission, still whining. He lunges, and the dog yelps, but does not move any more than to lay himself in a position more submissive than he already was. The wolf covers the dog, teeth around neck, feeling and smelling the hot pulse of blood. The scent of it rushes to his head as the dog goes completely still beneath him and the wolf knows that it would only take a moment’s more pressure for that blood to be rushing out and over the ground, for him to rip his teeth through the fragile flesh.

Something restrains him.

It could be that the blood-lust in him has been satisfied him already. It could be that the moon, hidden from him now but for the silver rays shining through the trees and casting their shine upn the cloud, has lost her hold on him. It could be that he simply can’t be bothered. Or it could be the voice within him, whispering, yelling, screaming and desperate to say that it would be a very, very bad thing to do.

He listens to the voice, stepping off the dog and releasing its throat with a growl of warning that rumbles in his own throat.

The dog rolls over onto its side and looks at him, head cocked to the side, ears pricking up in attention as the wolf settles itself on the ground, resting its head over crossed forelegs. The dog steps closer, than quickly away and then closer once more, unsure. The wolf huffs out a heavy breath and suddenly, without warning, the dog flies at him with a high pitched yip, and they are tumbling through the wood, rolling one over the other in a mock fight, jaws snapping, voices howling and whining, power barely hidden in the paws that are punching playfully now but could kill with one fatal swipe.

Off to the side, the stag huffs out a hot breath into the early winter chill, stamping its hooves and the wolf pauses, head snapping up, teeth bared to discover if his desire to do as he pleases is being contested. The stag does not meet his eye and he returns to his play-fight with the dog, no question that he is the leader of this pack.

And, as the leader, he draws them deeper into the forest when he is tired of this playing, when the bloodlust rears up in him, angry and insistent to be fed. The dog follows close at his side, batting out a playful paw often enough to annoy but not too often that the wolf can be bothered to remind him of his place. The stag trails behind them, majestic head held high as it trots, slow and purposeful, the rat riding in his horns.

The wolf does not understand how the stag allows this indignity.

The unlikely pack continues their hunt, well into the early hours of the morning, and as the sun rises slowly in the sky, the wolf turns slow and sluggish, weak and wasted with no energy left. He cannot seem to lift his paws from the dew-covered ground and clouds seem to cover his mind. He stops, finally, chest heaving with the effort to stay awake, stay in motion, maintain his position in front of the pack but a moment later his legs give out beneath him and he falls to the earth, a dead and heavy weight.

The dog is beside him in an instant, wet snout nuzzling as he whines. The wolf weakly pushes him away as the stag draws nearer, rat squeaking anxious and nervous as both dog and stag lower their heads to urge him up once more and into motion. He growls his disapproval, but they only push at him again, slowly easing him to his feet once more.

Together, they move slowly through the forest, heavy hooves and paws crushing the morning-wet grass. The sun greets them as they step out from under the roof of branches and the wolf shudders, collapsing once more as the rays reach out and cover him.

The wolf whines, hiding his snout between his paws, the dog and stag shying away as the golden sun takes him. But this is a gentle taking, so unlike that of the moon. Where the moonlight stabs, sunlight embraces; where the silver chills, the gold warms as it envelops. The wolf goes willingly into that hold, giving himself up.

And when the sun releases him, he is wolf no longer.