A/N:
Been rereading Call of The Wild and White Fang. Needed some wolfy nature to write.
White wolf running alongside Balto is the one from the first movie; not his mother.
Now, I'm not saying his pack abandoned him; there were the wolves who howled to him in the first movie, so I think he could have been accepted into a pack. He's just not as social as a wolf, nor has as much of a kill-instinct; I doubt he hunts often. Although having the strength and instincts of a wolf, he had the docile nature of a husky.
Gosh, this was so freaking random; I'm sorry. I LOVE Balto, and number two wasn't bad (we don't speak of number three here…). There was so much potential, and they did well with it. Love "Heritage Of The Wolf" that was used in the movie.
Enjoy.
DISCLAIMER: It's too beautiful to own. My favourite movie (yes, a "kid's" movie. Got a problem with that?)
Feet thundered across the frozen land, as he left behind the boat and Boris, for a moment; so that freedom and all the wildness inside him could run. He was the wind and the fierce biting cold. He grit his teeth. Wolf. Ragged breaths filled him, then left in puffs of white. Chest expanding and contracting - he ran and didn't stop.
Wolf, Husky. Hybrid, Mutt. Too dangerous to be among humans, yet too tame and anti-social to be with the wolves. He gave himself to the sky as he pelted across the icy landscape, across shore frozen short and trees cruelly bare. He was both and neither; but in this moment he was only the winter and snow. The sinking sun and rising moon. Twilight and sunset were melding together, and he became a silhouette of something wild and small, yet large and untamed.
He remembered his mother, a large beast with a thick pelt of winter. Nothing fiercer or gentler, but also nothing stranger. A wolf who had taken a dog for a mate, only to birth one living pup, and only to die later. And then he was left behind; lost. The day he was forgotten was the day she began to fade. Too young to remember, his memories were Boris as he grew. A half-breed raised by a grounded goose. He bared his teeth in a grin as he thought of it; what a strange world.
Ice whipped his face, daggers through pelt and flesh. White snow like white pelt; his yellow eyes glowed in the fading light. A hunter could mistake him for a wolf, if he weren't so small.
He dreamt of her; vague flashes of fur and warmth alongside chill. She howled to him, calling to his inner wolf. He answered her back, in that moment, a wolf, as the sun left soft orange against indigo sky, and the stars were lit with the fire of the north. The sound rose with the Borealis, a song both ancient and new alongside the colors of old.
And he hared across the tundra as though a pack were on his heels; invisible wolves and dogs after him.
And the fire ran through him, the chill around him piercing deeper, until he was filled with it; bones and blood of fire and ice. Another ran alongside him, something large and white-pelted. Ragged breaths came from them, in time, and their stride was the same. Huge paws plowed through the snow, their mark left messily. He pulled his limbs closer, muscles straining, and the ground flew out from beneath him.
Tongue lolling and head low, he was a wolf flying across the Alaskan tundra.
He howled again; a sound wrenched from his throat, made of power and the savagery of a wild beast. This time, the echo sang with him. A single song interweaving, twining together.
Wolf and Husky. Determination of the sled breed mingled with his wolfishness.
He saw the malamute's smug hatred, the pack's shadows leaving him. He ran from his past and his present, leaving them behind in a spray of frost. The air sank its fangs into him, no less harsh from the feeling of being unwanted.
He ran from himself.
But he was a wolf. His mother long gone, faded in more ways than memory. And no matter how much he longed to belong, Steel's dogs would never accept him.
Nor would he join a pack - he was too docile, not social enough.
A lone wolf, who wanted to be a dog.
The harsh cry of a crow sounded above him, its shadow his new companion, as the echo-wolf faded away.
But it didn't matter; he realised, as he made the curve back towards home. He had Boris, along with Muk and Luk. A home where he could live, free from antagonistic bullies and uncomprehending kin. Maybe one day something would change. He thought of the sled-runners who changed their techniques and determination. The pull tugged at him, the longing, but not quite as strong as it once was.
The silhouette ran back through the snow, towards an old beached boat; a lone wolfish dog who could almost be seen leading a pack to the hunt.
Or a wild-looking Husky leading a sled team.