Long ride home

Disclaimer: the characters and all recognisable situations belong to Stephenie Meyer - this is a work of fan fiction, except for the legends and histories of the Quileute that, of course, belong to them. I pay my respects to their gods.

Thanks to BanSidhe [ruadh sidhe] and Feebes86 for betaing and pre-reading.

[AN: JBNP does fic challenges. They are often very different things; some appeal to me some don't. This month the challenge was to write a 500 word drabble inspired by the poem from Hermann Hesse: Steps. I read the poem and thought about long life, memories and the issues with immortality and soulmates.

Tissue warning - yes, it may make you cry in less than 500 words…]


Long ride home

475 words

None of us really know how many days we have on this earth, but if you are a werewolf, then you can count on more days than most people. Assuming you can avoid a vampire bite or having your heart ripped from your chest. So when do you decide that you are on the downward slope? When is middle age for you? When do you stop phasing and let old age take its course?

No one knew how old Old Quil was, let alone guess how long he might continue. So his grandson was already doomed to long life. Add in super health and an extra young imprint, and Quil was going to outlive them all.

Claire refused to believe that he was her perfect partner. "He changed my nappies," she wailed. "He's fifteen years older than me."

Quil waited.

She dated. She went to college.

Quil waited.

She got married at twenty-five.

Quil waited.

After ten years and a fortune in treatments, the experts said she was sterile. Her husband wanted children. The marriage ended. Devastated, she came home.

Quil waited.

He was fifty. Half the pack were grandparents and had stopped phasing decades ago. Quil looked twenty-five.

Quil waited.

Drunk at a bonfire she cried on his shoulder and told him everything.

Quil said it didn't matter.

He carried her to his home. She was too drunk, so Quil waited. He lay with her.

She slept incredibly well.

The next night she was back, sober.

She stayed.

Off the rez people told her how lucky she was to have such a hunky young partner. She smiled.

Within a year, Quil told her she was pregnant.

She smiled.

She gave him a son. People said, "You can't call him Quil," but Claire smiled.

The next year, twin girls.

Another boy each year after that.

They stopped at five. Their children were adored but being an older mother Claire was sensible and well-organized. Quil was a big kid. They had the best of both worlds and a whole pack to help.

He walked them all down the aisle before he stopped phasing.

He was starting to look older when he held his grandson; another Quil.

Claire smiled.

The pack were fading and a new one wasn't needed.

Quil told the legends now and taught them to his grandchildren.

One night she said she was tired.

Quil lay with her as always. Claire smiled, closed her eyes and didn't open them again.

He held her and he thought over everything that they had together. She had taken her time and had been worth waiting for. They had less days together but they were more valuable as a result. His heart that had paused so long for her would not let her go alone.

He didn't wait, but he smiled.

They found them together.