I have lost count of the number of days the skies have wept upon us. Last night, there was a storm more violent than any I can remember; perhaps it is because I am not sheltered within the thick walls of home. Out here… everything is more terrifying. The lightning flashed in sheets across the waves; the thunder deafened us for hours. The younger wolves, even the adults, whimpered and brushed up against their elders; many were snapped at, but found refuge in my hands. Never have my palms been licked so.
The sirines were unfazed; they are elemental beings, and fear neither water nor sky; untouched by the fear, they were as statues. I tried to forge the same resolve, but no matter how calm I seemed outwardly, I winced inside with each closing crash. My four were pitiless, but I did not want nor ask for pity; even so, they sang within my mind.
The storm brought back memories. Memories of when I was a child, when we were children. Being cooped up inside never bothered me, but she was always restless. Rain would pit against the glass panes; through diamond-shaped iron frames, she would watch. Clambering on the bed the way she did trees, she would crack jokes, tell stories, and then yell with each bolt, as if to deafen it.
Sat at my narrow desk, I could never decide which was more distracting; the thunder and the flashes, or her.
As long as she was there, there was no reason to fear. She never did.
The night passed us, and the dawn, for the first time in an age, was clear. The sunshine was bright, blindingly so, and all of us begun to dry out. Only the sirines did not care for this development.