Wolf of War
A Patricia Briggs werewolf fanfiction
The Marrok
Sam guided him to the open parking space near what appeared to be a lodge, though further back into the woods he could see one or two structures he thought were cabins. He pulled the Suburban into one of the available parking spaces, and braced himself for the cold as he opened his door. Sam climbed out of the truck as well, though he didn't look nearly as chilled as he himself felt.
"Aren't you cold?" he asked the other male.
"Honestly?" Sam smirked at him, "I'm dressed for your sake; I could be just as comfortable in less than this."
Ares shook his head at the other man, and Sam lead him up the path from the parking lot and into the nearby lodge. He guided him through the great room—where a few others sat;
At Sam's introduction, his eyes slid over to alight on the…presence, of Bran Cornick.
The Marrok.
At first appearances, Bran—the Marrok, his mind provided; the man had an actual presence. He appeared as a strong, solidly build Native-American man, somewhere in his early forties if one didn't know him for who he was, tall but not quite the height of his son…but his eyes seemed to bore into him with a sharp, laser focus. They were the eyes of elders, the gaze of ages; until that moment, he'd never really give much thought to the term "old soul", but in the Marrok's eyes, was knowledge and experience that spoke loudly but told nothing.
"It is not wise to stare into the gaze of a dominant wolf," his voice, sounding both full of age and full of vigor, strong yet quiet, drilled into him with nearly the same intensity of his returning look.
"I offer you my apologies, Mister Cornick," he returned, giving a brief nod of his head and breaking eye contact with the older male. "It's been my habit to look others in the eyes, to…offer them respect and reassurance and make them feel safe enough to tell me things they tell no other; I offer no challenge to you, sir; just an understanding that I'm not a threat."
And that I'm not afraid of you, either, he left unsaid, and technically it was true; he wasn't afraid of Bran, of the Marrok; he respected him, respected him for being the de facto leader of all werewolves, respected the position he held, respected him for the knowledge and experience and all that he had to have learned in what Ares guessed had to be decades of life, and while he knew that within the man called the Marrok lay a predator who could kill him, he didn't fear him.
"What you say is not entirely truthful," Bran returned, the barest ghost of a smirk on his features. Or, maybe he was imagining that the Marrok found some amusement in what he'd said.
"How so?"
"What you say is true; you are of no threat to myself. And I recognize the meaning you use when you say such, that you, you, aren't interested in being seen as threatening to me." Bran paused for a moment, a heartbeat. "But there are words left unsaid, the 'pregnant quiet', so to speak, that says there're things you….perhaps choose, not to speak of."
He nodded, feeling an odd urge to give voice to his unspoken thought; he fought it, and compromised for something less direct. "It was a thought about fear," he returned, "and not something I thought needed to be given voice to, especially if it could be thought of as being disrespectful."
"Well, perhaps you'd call this old man nosy," Bran gave him a gentle but now obvious smirk, "but you've got my curiosity. Tell me, if you would."
He thought for a moment, and then gave a gentle nod of his head, a slight bow.
"My thought was that while I'm not a threat, I also don't fear you," he offered in a quiet tone.
Sam went still, and then slowly turned towards his father; Ares both noticed it and didn't notice, as he was paying more attention to the body language of the Marrok.
"And why should you fear me?" Bran asked quietly, his tone even and unthreatening; even still, there was a whispering undercurrent of careful tension.
"I shouldn't, and I don't," Ares commented with emphasis in return, "But I could. Maybe for many reasons, the least of which is that you're someone worth of respect, and if I acted disrespectfully, you could kill me, or at the least, deny me the opportunity to seek what I've dreamed of since I was a child."
Bran was quiet for a few moments, and then gave a low 'hmm". "And why do you not fear me?" he asked a heartbeat later.
"Why should I?' Ares answered back, his tone quiet and respectful. "I've not knowingly done anything wrong, and I've tried to be respectful of you, both who you are, and what others think and feel and believe of you. And yes, while you could kill me, I don't fear you. I respect you, for what I know of you so far—very little, I'll admit—but I respect who you are, I respect what you could do. And knowing what you could do, I'm not interested in doing anything that could make those possibilities into realities." He paused for a moment or two, gathering his thoughts, before he continued. "One respects the power of a thunderstorm. You generally don't fear what it can do, but you don't go out of your way to be a victim of it. One respects the lethality of a gun; you don't fear a gun, but you don't go out of your way to get shot by one, either." He stopped and frowned. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
Bran gave him a long, intense look, before he gave another low, quiet, "hmm'.
"I think you might be an interesting one," Bran offered in comment, and then strode past him to head out of the office. Sam caught his attention and gestured for him to follow the Marrok.
He trotted out of the door just behind Bran, who continued—as if he knew that he was following him already, "I know you were told that you should plan to be here for at least a couple of weeks. And I'm telling you now, that that's to give you ample time to change your mind…or, make sure you're ready for this."
The Marrok turned to face him, bracketed by the doorframe that led out into the great room. "I don't believe I have to tell you, but I will anyway, so that I know that it has been said. Choosing to become a werewolf, it isn't something you can take back once it's been done. There's no reset button, no way to undo this. So, we make sure that everyone who wants to risk their lives and risk death, knows just what they're getting themselves into."
Bran turned around again, striding through the great room. "But as I said, I think you might be an interesting one."
He followed Bran—The Marrok—throughout and around the cabin, a tour of what there was to see and know in the immediate vicinity, including the pole barn where many of the more 'official' gatherings of wolves were held; they also approached a quietly unused-looking greenhouse, set at a bit of a distance from the other buildings, but Bran only took him to the path that lead to the greenhouse and no closer.
"For the time being, let's just say that the area around the greenhouse is off limits. I'll explain a bit more to you about it later, but for now, I ask that you respect that fact," Bran turned to him, and in the faint quiet and faint pregnancy of the unspoken words that seemed to wait in the elder man's breath, he got the idea that he was being warned to stay away, rather than being simply asked to be respectful.
He gave a bit of a nod of his head. "I can keep away, and I won't bother anyone who might be visiting the greenhouse. Sometimes we all need a bit of personal space to call our own," he offered, then added, "and besides, you've asked me not to; why shouldn't I respect your wishes?" with a lop-sided grin. The Marrok gave him a neutral glance, though his eyes seemed to be lightly dancing in amusement, before he turned away from him; he followed Bran back to the barrack house.
It wasn't that Bran had officially called it a barrack, but he felt like it was a suitable one; there was a large living room-type area, with a small bathroom downstairs, and upstairs were four rooms; each room was large enough to hold two full sized beds, and still have enough space so that the rooms' occupants wouldn't trip over one another.
Bran showed him to each of the rooms, and then paused once he'd seen them all. "You may choose to sleep where you wish. These two here," Bran then indicated, furthest away from the front stairs, "are unoccupied for now. We do plan to have at least another four or five guests arriving for this season's changing, so you will likely have a roommate, either now, or within the next day or so."
He smirked softly, and then chose the room furthest from the front stairs, and the bed closest to the door.
"Hmm," Bran watched him from the doorway, his gestures a mixture of yes-nodding, no-shaking, and general non-committance. "Interesting choices, perhaps. Dinner will be at seven in the main house." The elder man gave him a vague, soft smile, and then left him to his own devices.
It was a soft growling grunt of exasperation that pulled his attention away from the book he was reading; while he wasn't ashamed of it, he wasn't readily willing to admit to his fondness for fictional books on the supernatural. He tore his attentions away from The Killing Dance and looked up to spot a young woman—well, younger than himself, at any rate—standing in the doorway, looking both at him, and not at him, her expression one of irritated disappointment. She was tall and slim, a bit on the leggy side, and her long, almost auburn-colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the top and back of her head. She wore very little make-up, her complexion almost completely clear. She was an attractive young woman, even still. And she was so very much not his type.
"I thought this might have been an empty room," she offered in an explanation that was at least as much to herself as it was to him.
"Sorry," he offered with a fairly diffident shrug; he wasn't particularly apologetic, but the moment did seem to need a comment or two. "It isn't."
"Why not?" she asked, almost blurted, "Why wouldn't you have wanted to room with one of the other men?"
"I wanted a room by myself," he returned in a simple, quiet tone of voice. "Why wouldn't you have wanted to room with one of the other men?"
She stared at him, her gaze hardening, her expression almost scandalized, as if she couldn't believe he'd asked her that question. "Why would I want to share a room with a guy?" she responded, the words seeming to almost choke her for saying them.
He shrugged his shoulders in return. "You asked me; why can't I ask you the same question?"
"Females don't usually share a room with other males, especially other, strange males," she snarled. Or, at least he got the idea that she wanted to snarl, but was doing her best to try and stay civil.
He gave her back a quiet snort in response. "I don't usually share a room with other, strange males either, so I suppose you and I are alike in that way," he tossed at her, then continued before she could remark to that with, "I've heard that there's supposed to be at least one other female here, then; why don't you go ask her if you can share a room with her?"
The young woman's brow furrowed angrily, and she made a quiet but rude sound, and all but stomped back out of the room. He gave a quiet snort of his own, and went back to reading his book.
Unfortunately for him, it was only a few minutes before she returned, looking even more irritated than she had before. "The only other female here right now, she's sharing her room with her boyfriend," she shot at him, an answer to his earlier question.
He frowned at that, and a part of him wanted to get up and go find the couple in question and try to make sure that they were fully aware of just what they were doing, what they were planning to get themselves into, but he made himself stay put. If the pair hadn't already given plenty of thought as to what they were going to do, he was sure that the other wolves present would set them straight before they couldn't back out of things. And if they persisted even then, then it was definitely sure that nothing he could think of to say would help them or change their minds, so acting all parental wouldn't help him or them.
She continued to glare at him as she stood in the doorway still, as if she might have expected him to still give up the room for her because she didn't want to room with a male. He shrugged—again diffidently; he was a bit compassionate for her inability to get what she wanted- a room to herself, or at least a room she didn't have to share with someone she didn't want to share it with- but he wasn't about to put himself out just to make her feel better.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked anyway; he wasn't giving up the room, but that didn't mean he had to be a complete jerk about it.
"No," she shot back at him in a snobbish tone. He rolled his eyes at her tone, at her churlish and childish look.
"Well then, my apologies," he offered with as much sincerity as he could manage, which wasn't especially much, considering her attitude towards him. And again, he turned his attentions back to his book. It was likely that she'd either stomp off in a huff—again—or that she'd simply leave; either way, he figured, the book held more entertainment value for him.
"Would you mind if I set my things down on the other bed?" her voice startled him just a bit; he'd practically forgotten about her just that quickly, written her off as an annoyance best ignored. She continued, "At least until I can find someplace else to sleep for the night?"
"I don't mind," he offered, giving a soft shake of his head. "Help yourself; be my guest."
She strode into the room and set her things down on the other bed; she stood still for a few moments, not facing him. He gave her standing form a few moments more of attention, and then decided that she wasn't likely going to say anything more to him, and turned his attentions once more back to his book.
"I'm a lesbian," she offered abruptly into the silence of the room. "I just thought you should know."
"Okay," he offered with a smidgen of incredulity in his tone, "good for you. Why do I need to know that?"
She turned to look at him, her own look of disbelieving surprise rapidly taking over her face. "Is that all you're going to say?" she asked him, incredulously. She looked as though someone had just told her that Christmas had been cancelled; it was a look of someone who was expecting to hear something completely different from what had been said.
He decided that it was time to put his book away, and quickly he took note of the page number before he closed it and set it down on the bed beside him. "Am I suppose to say something else?" he asked, lifting his head to look at her, an eyebrow raised in cautious curiosity.
"You're not going to tell me that 'all I need is a good man to cure me'?"
"Is that something you expect me to say?"
"Well…uh…" she seemed to be at a loss for words.
He gave a quick, derisive chuckle at her speechlessness. "Sorry to shatter your expectations, ma'am," he smirked, "but as far as I'm concerned, lesbians are people, too. If you want someone to behave as you expect them too, you'll have to look elsewhere. You'll have to forgive me, but, I try my best not to live up to other people's expectations."
He paused for a moment, an amused grin slowly easing away into an easy, faint smile. "So what made you choose to come back here, rather than choose to room with some other strange male?" he asked; he tempered his tone and his cadence to make the question sound more curious than confrontational.
She was quiet, and he was patient; she turned around again, her hands gently worrying over her belongings on the bed, but eventually, she responded.
"I didn't feel like you were trying to undress me with your eyes," she explained quietly, her tone of voice slightly strained.
"Ahh," he intoned with a bit of mirth. "Well, I don't know you well enough to undress you with my eyes; I reserve that for women I'm a lot more familiar with than you, no offense."
"None taken," she answered back, her response almost automatic, and again, she fell quiet.
"So what brings you all the way out here?" he offered for further conversation.
"Huh?" she turned and blink-blinked at him, her expression one of faint confusion.
"I asked, what brings you all the way out here?"
"I want to be a werewolf; isn't that why we're all here?" she returned.
"True," he smirks, "but I mean, what brings you—Okay, let me try this another way, if I can; we all have our reasons for why we want to take the risk to become a werewolf. What's your reason, if I'm not being too nosy, and if you're willing to tell me?"
"You know, you sure ask a lot of questions," she returned with a bit of heat in her tone.
"I'm just trying to make conversation with my roommate," he responded calmly.
"Yeah, well….what's your reason?" she shot back. Her hands shifted and came to light on her hips.
He smirked with a bit of smug amusement. "You didn't answer my question," he retorted, "but that's okay. I'll tell you anyway.
"I've wanted to be a werewolf since I was a teen," he began. "I've always felt like I identified with the magic and mysticism and the nature aspects of being a wolf, and when I was lucky enough to stumble upon the fact that there really are werewolves to be found, and that I could maybe become one, I decided that it was worth the risk.
"So that's my reason; what's yours?" he tried again.
She frowned gently, and she was quiet for a few moments before she answered. She sighed softly, but a clear sound, and one of resignation if he were a good judge; her gaze turned away from him as she offered her response. "If you don't mind, I'll just say that my reason is a private one."
He nodded. "Fair enough," he returned once again, then continued, "And since I've given you the third degree already, may I request to know your name?"
She turned her gaze back to him, and a ghost of a smirk drifted across her features. "Tamara Hedgeworth," she offered gently.
"Thank you," he returned, "and I am Ares Xavier. I'm pleased to meet you."
Tamara gave him a brief nod in acknowledgment.
"So what do you think will happen?" she asked quietly. He frowned slightly in a moment of confusion. "How strong do you think you'll be? I mean, like as an Alpha? Or…? She shrugged, then added, "What do you think?"
He gave a slight, impolite snort. "I think you're nervous," he returned.
"And you're not?" she shot back at him.
"No," he answered, and realized that it was true. He was a touch apprehensive, his thoughts focused towards the unknown, but he wasn't nervous. "It's just a step at a time, and the first part is just to try to get through the Change. You do know that there's no guarantee that we'll live through trying, though, don't you?"
"I know," she offered with a slight frown and a brief nod. "But I still wanna go through with it."
The dinner hour arrived in the midst of their continued stunted, hesitant conversation, and they both agreed to head to the main house at the same time. Another pair of persons—almost obviously the couple that Tamara had mentioned before—trailed behind them as they strode to the house, and there were a few other unfamiliar faces gathering in the dining room of the house as he and she arrived.
He gave Sam—and got back from him in return—an easy smirk, just a quiet bit of warm amusement at the building familiarity between them, before the other male focused his attentions on the other people gathered in the room.
"Good; everyone is here," Sam opened up as everyone funneled into the large dining room. He made introductions of himself and his father- the Marrok- as well as a few of the other wolves staying with them, and finished with the new arrivals. "…and our potential new wolves—Christopher Davidson, Allen Turner, Penelope Jack, Ares Xavier, Sean Dobbins, Tamara Hedgeworth, Darius Ryan and Diana Prince; we all here will hope that the time they spend here will be positive for them."
Sam gestured for each person to reintroduce him or herself, and so he got to mentally attach faces to the names he'd already heard.
The first person to introduce himself was Christopher; tall and not quite lanky, he looked like a former geek who was in the midst of blossoming into a quintessential hunk. Blond haired and blue-eyed, he had a soft but easy smile. The couple was next—he, Allen, had an average build, and came from an Asian background with his brown eyes and dark hair cut just short enough to be a tad bit spiky with styling gel, and she, Penelope, was the taller of the pair, with hazel eyes and brown hair with blonde highlights. Her build was nice and generously curvy without being overweight; personally, he thought that her curves weren't entirely genuine.
He gave his own name and a slight wave next, and then passed the introduction baton onto the next male; Sean was pale with a stocky build and short-trimmed reddish hair—the stereotypical 'ginger'—with green, piercing eyes. Tamara was next, followed by Darius; he was the youngest—or, at least, the youngest looking—in the room, and nearly Ares' own height, though his skin was much lighter, his eyes were also hazel-colored, and he wore his hair in a fairly heavy Afro. The final young woman, Diana, was also light of skin, but a closer look spoke of a more Mediterranean heritage to her, with nearly black, long, flowing hair, stormy blue eyes and a rather serious expression, standing just as tall as Darius.
He gave an inward chuckle, thinking about her name and ethnic background; he didn't think he'd be able to restrain himself from laughing if she announced that she hailed from the island of Themyscira.
"We're all aware of the risks at hand," the Marrok spoke next; his voice was quiet, but with a muted edge to his tone that rang clear through to everyone. "These next few days will be for contemplation, for those about to undertake those risks, to decide if the risk is too great, or if what they seek is worth those risks. Two weeks from today will be when we take aside our guests and see which of you will return to us as wolves." He turned to more directly address them.
"You're free to roam the woods nearby; no wolf will bother you as long as you don't seek to be a bother to them. But, I would caution you to stay away from the areas around the greenhouse. The one I mentioned to you all earlier, he is staying out there, and I think it would be a wise idea to let him be."
"Is he okay? Is there something wrong with him?" Penelope interjected, her eyes wide and slightly vacuous.
"He is an old wolf," the Marrok offered after a few moments of pondering, "and he feels that he is a danger to the younger generations."
Something about the way the Marrok spoke caught his ear, but before he could comment, someone else was already asking another question.
"Is he really dangerous, then?" Darius offered then.
"Oh, very much so," the Marrok responded, his eyes bright but his voice grave. "More than any other wolf here. I would consider him to be very nearly my equal, and I think he'd likely speak similarly of me." Bran offered the barest ghost of a smile to those words, a brief gesture that didn't last beyond a single view by all at the table.
"But is he truly as dangerous as he feels he is?" Ares whispered to himself, wondering if perhaps that was a part of what the Marrok's words were meant to convey.
He was startled—but only slightly—to see the Marrok's head shift in his direction, and the older wolf's eyes brighten in just concealed surprise. The older man then gave him a brief, but definitely clear smirk for a moment, before his expression shifted back to a more serious demeanor.
"Perhaps," the Marrok responded, and he wondered if anyone else had picked up on that very brief exchange.