Before it changed (Prolouge)

Sometimes when I look up at the night sky into my past, I remember the times before I was left behind. The constellations, once of stories of the ancients, tell my stories, of what seems like ancient to me.

That was a long, long time ago. And I was a very young pup. But the memories, both of paradise and hell, are engraved into me, like the markings of a story bone.

In those days, I lived in a small pack. But my pack was no ordinary one. We were dire wolves, yes. But my homeland, my birthplace, was in the mountainous scrublands. It sounds like wastelands, but I've seen many places in my long life. None were as beautiful as the arid hills, red as the morning sky. Incredible, dangerous, mountains, cliffs and canyons. There were no place that sounded more like home to me.

It wasn't just our vast territory that set us apart from other wolves. Simple things. We varied more in color, we were slightly smaller, (although ten times more stealthy, if you ask me.) but most importantly, Lupus himself blessed some of us with wings. Wings, magnificent as an eagle's.

Wings came in handy for the lucky ones that were born with it. The mountainous terrain was dangerous without it practically being a desert. Many died from falls, drowning, being crushed or trapped, buried alive, and more falls. My family bloodline was fortunate to poses such a gift.

I spent a mere two months in those scrublands. Yet I remember every detail. My two rambunctious brothers, my loving mother, our noble leader Owen, the laughter, the terror, the agonizing heat, the steep hills and fatal falls, how the course red sand felt against my paws, the clear blue sky, bluer than the ocean itself. The lazy days, spent underneath the shade of the rare trees at the mountaintops. The irresistible unique taste of the scrub geese and clay hares, which my mother would specially catch for us. The way my brothers Erik and Dante and I would scuffle for a juicy mouthful. And the cool, dark starry nights. We would snuggle up, the four of us in our cozy den, gazing up at the night sky. Pointing and exclaiming at constellations, retelling stories of unknown past. And when my brothers were asleep, my mother would wash my tiny ears, pull me closer, and whisper to me,

"Listen, my little eagle. You are strong. You are capable. You will do great things. Like your kin, you will spread your wings, glide, and take flight into your destiny. Your destiny, your story, my son, I sense will be a powerful one. But remember this. Should great danger and sorrow aim, shoot, and cast you from the sky, look for the heavenly place you will find."

"But mother," I would say, "Here, with the pack, and Dante and Erik, isn't here a heavenly place?"

She would smile, pure love flowing from her blue eyes, "You will understand what your heavenly place is when your older. Far more older than a young pup like you. But always know, always remember, no matter where this place is, no matter how far it seems, I will be there, waiting for you. Always."