Wolves cannot mourn as men do.
I was there.
I was there when it happened, I mean. I saw him fall, saw his body, so lithe, supple, arching back as he seemed to almost fly.
I was there.
It stabbed through me like a knife. It felt like a wound that would rot and fester, forever, until there was nothing left of me but a deadened shell, a mere fragment of a past that he and I shared. We were the only two left.
Because one of us had died, the other, a traitor.
He was my last hope, my last memory, my last slice of youth. His voice when he was angry was almost a fond reminder of a simpler time. His temper, his tendency to hum, his passion, his fiery strength, his love of a good joke, his cleverness, all parts of me that have been cauterized away.
I could not cry while I was there. I could not cry when I got back to his home. I could not cry when his house-elf had laughed hysterically as he confessed. I could not cry as I wished his godson luck over the summer.
Wolves do not mourn that way. The death of a pack is more precious than that.
I run, instead. Over hills, over rocks, over the stones that marked my path, both in youth and old age, over rivers that carry my loss to the sea. Far, into the forest, as a wolf, alone, no more packs for me. I howl to a full moon that cares not why I howl, to a comrade fallen, to a pack member gone. I howl to proclaim my loneliness. I howl so that all know:
My comrades are gone, and I am alone.
Wolves cannot mourn as men do.
I was there.
I was there when it happened, I mean. I saw him fall, saw his body, so lithe, supple, arching back as he seemed to almost fly.
I was there.
It stabbed through me like a knife. It felt like a wound that would rot and fester, forever, until there was nothing left of me but a deadened shell, a mere fragment of a past that he and I shared. We were the only two left.
Because one of us had died, the other, a traitor.
He was my last hope, my last memory, my last slice of youth. His voice when he was angry was almost a fond reminder of a simpler time. His temper, his tendency to hum, his passion, his fiery strength, his love of a good joke, his cleverness, all parts of me that have been cauterized away.
I could not cry while I was there. I could not cry when I got back to his home. I could not cry when his house-elf had laughed hysterically as he confessed. I could not cry as I wished his godson luck over the summer.
Wolves do not mourn that way. The death of a pack is more precious than that.
I run, instead. Over hills, over rocks, over the stones that marked my path, both in youth and old age, over rivers that carry my loss to the sea. Far, into the forest, as a wolf, alone, no more packs for me. I howl to a full moon that cares not why I howl, to a comrade fallen, to a pack member gone. I howl to proclaim my loneliness. I howl so that all know:
My comrades are gone, and I am alone.
Wolves cannot mourn as men do.
