DISCLAIMER: ElfQuest and all related characters belong to Wendy Pini; no copyright infringement intended, no profit is being made, this fic is being posted for entertainment purposes only, so it would be extremely rude to sue me.
Waiting to End
by Lady Kate
The wolves are what they are. Sharp white teeth, sharp dark eyes. Strong scents and growls; cold nights and coarse furs. The joy of hunting with the pack. Killing and mating and eating and running. Cautious, but never doubting. Savage, but never cruel. No one expects a wolf to be more than what it is.
Elves can be like wolves. But elves can also doubt. Elves can be cruel.
We are not wolves, no matter how swiftly we run alongside them.
And yet, we Wolfriders are not true elves, either.
Our blood may be laced with immortality, but the mix is weak. It dies, and we die. This is not a wrong thing. The years may stretch long and careless, and we love them with all the fervor we can give them while they yet belong to us, but it is not wrong that it comes to an end.
All things must end.
I say this with none of the fear of the pure-born immortal elf, and I believe this with all the conviction that a wolf lacks.
Wolves are fortunate creatures. There are layers of life they do not know, have no need to know of. We aspire to the 'now' of wolf-thought. For them, it simply is. For them, decisions are brief and sometimes brutal, and once made, are forgotten. The young wolf challenges the pack leader. The pack leader prevails, or he does not. Simple.
No regrets.
No recriminations.
The easy unthinking nature of their life, the instinctive order of it, is what makes it so appealing.
It is also makes one strong. For if there are no regrets to weigh one down…
I do not regret.
I do not.
Not even now.
I listen to the rasping, shallow breaths as they come and go in pained repetition. I can smell the sticky scents of blood and sweat and pain. Blood soaking through the leather hides, matting down the fur lining. The wound is deep, and what cannot be changed cannot be changed. The hand I hold in mine is weak. Sometimes it clutches mine with shattering strength, and the rest of the time, it is limp and quiescent and failing.
The elf in me knows things that the wolf does not understand.
The wolf knows death in an instinctive way that surpasses all other understandings. But it is the elf in me that remembers what death is, recalls the other times it has visited us. Fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, chiefs and friends. Dying in sickness, in accidents or in battle. In our long long lives, so many memories fail us, begin to fade away, but the moments of those deaths are firmly etched in my mind, and I have never been able to forget a single one. It goes against 'the way', this kind of remembering, and yet, that is the way it is. Some things, I do not forget.
For all that, it has been long since death has truly touched upon our tribe. Our healer's talents are strong indeed; she has chased death away on many occasions, perhaps taught us to disregard the danger a little more than we might otherwise have done. We have been healthy and whole for many and many a season thanks to her gifts. But now our healer is far away, and though my tribemates have gone to fetch her, though they ride as swift as the wind, I know she shall never return in time.
I know what death is. I have dealt it with my own hand. Most often to the beasts of the forest, sometimes to the five-fingered ones, and yes, once even upon my own kind.
I do not fear death. I am not one of the immortal-born, the undying pureblood elves who dream of endless forevers, who feel cheated if they do not touch eternity.
I can be a wolf in these moments. I can be here, silent and waiting and unafraid.
The hand in mine clenches tight, the throat gives quiet gasps of pain. It will not be long now. I lean forward, press my forehead to my lifemate's; the touch is not necessary, but it is comforting. I am here, beloved. I am here. The sending that returns to me is wordless: love, comfort, sorrow, love. And I stay there, lying silent and near, still holding that hand.
Lifemate and lifeblood. The bond is deep, forged at the soul. I do not think that death will break it; rather, a part of me will die too.
When she is dead, I shall howl for her. Long and loud, with a voice that has been too little used.
And when it is done, when it is all over, when they have laid my beloved Moonshade in the earth, I shall let that last elfin part of myself die along with her, and I shall become wolf, wholly and completely.
And I shall not look back.
No healer or chief or friend shall sway me from that.
I will go into the unthinking 'now' of wolf thought, where there are no yesterdays or tomorrows, no regrets and no hopes to be broken. Where there are no 'what if"s, no 'what-might-have-been's. Into blind instinct and the release that forgetfulness brings. And all the days that pass, all the endless days, all eternity will pass in the blink of an eye until it comes my time to be released.
But for now, for this moment, I wait with her. I touch my mind to hers – Eyrn, beloved, – for she is the last thought I want to have, the last sending I will make. Even in this moment, I am wolf enough to appreciate the now, this brief moment of 'now', when we are still together, even now, waiting for all things to end.
Author's Notes: This was just kind of a "what if" story, spurred on by a discussion some friends & I had way way way back in the original storyline when Strongbow was leaving Blue Mountain, and Moonshade had to decide whether to stay with the tribe or go with him. To us, Strongbow & Moonshade were the closest and most devoted of all lifemates, and we weren't sure how well one would function without the other. That led to discussion as to how they would cope if one of them died. :-(