Finding Your Way Home
A/N: Hello again everyone! Life is still chaotic here in my part of the world, so I'm going to once again apologize for being slow to update and go ahead and pre-apologize for inevitably being slow getting the next chapter up later on. I hope you'll continue to be patient with me. In other news, the second half of this chapter has some rather graphic pieces to it, though I tried to keep it to a minimum, so I'm debating bumping the rating up on this story. Feel free to let me know your thoughts on that, or anything else in the story for that matter. At any rate, thanks again to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favorited the story thus far, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter!
Chapter 5: The Plea
"This sucks," he said aloud, though once again there was no one around to hear him. Three days had gone by since Stiles was finally released from the hospital. Three days of sitting in his bedroom in absolute silence. Three miserable, annoying, practically never-ending days with only his thoughts for company and himself to talk to. The Sheriff had, thankfully, not gotten in trouble for being late to work, again, the day Stiles had been released from the hospital, but to make up for all the lost time and distractions he would be pulling double shifts at the precinct for the foreseeable future. Stiles made sure he was awake whenever his dad got home from work so that he got at least something to eat before collapsing on his bed or the couch and falling asleep almost instantly. And he made sure he was up to give his dad coffee and something to munch on when he inevitably went flying out the door a few hours later to go back to work. Part of it was Stiles' still wanting/needing to be certain his dad was as healthy as he could be; after everything that had happened, there was no way he could bare to lose him. His dad was literally all that he had left. But part of it was also his near absolute desperation for human contact, in any form.
Stiles Stilinski was not now, nor had he ever been, a quiet person. Sure, on those rare occasions where he was ultra-focused on researching down whatever rabbit hole struck his fancy, or those less rare occasions where grief and pain rendered him speechless, Stiles could be quiet, could handle the silence around him for a little bit. But that was not the norm for him. At least in the hospital he had been surrounded by people and noise. Most of the time they weren't friendly people; the other patients were annoyed by him and the nurses were too busy to give him much more than a passing glance, but there were people, and he could at least pretend to have conversations with them. But coming home, to an empty house, with no friends to talk to, no supernatural creatures unexpectedly jumping through the window, no deputies stopping by to interrogate or be interrogated by, and his own father only being there to catch a few hours sleep between shifts, Stiles finally understood the idea that silence can be deafening.
The worst part was that it wasn't as though he was bored with nothing to do. On the contrary, after missing several weeks of school while in a coma, and being way behind before that due to being possessed by an evil spirit (though obviously the school didn't know that part – the official story was that he had some rare, obscure disease that needed to be treated and that caused the coma), Stiles was overloaded with makeup work for his classes. Thankfully, most of his teachers were relatively understanding and were doing their best to go easy on him. The lone exception was the new chemistry teacher, who made Mr. Harris seem like a polite, considerate, decent human being and apparently took great offense to Stiles having the audacity to be too sick to come to his classes. Whatever, who cares, was Stiles' opinion on that. So no, Stiles wasn't bored; in fact, he was almost overwhelmed with the amount of schoolwork he was trying to get done in record time in order to be caught up before the Winter Break ended. The worst part was the oppressive silence, the not being able to share what he was doing with someone else, the isolation and the loneliness.
For Stiles' entire school career, Scott had always been by his side. They played together, they studied together, at times they practically lived together; they were inseparable. Stiles shared everything with Scott, including homework and research projects when needed. They understood one another. Scott was the only one who hadn't questioned him or given him a weird look when he wrote an essay on the history of circumcision for their Econ midterm, because he knew Stiles well enough to know there would be no stopping him once he got an idea in his head. And he had been a little curious as well, Stiles could tell even if they didn't say anything. They had been best friends since they met in kindergarten, and they had remained that way until the world of the supernatural drove them apart. At first, Stiles would have said until Allison drove them apart; but, looking back on it, what happened really wasn't her fault. She didn't force Scott to completely forget Stiles existed the moment he laid eyes on her that fateful day she arrived in Beacon Hills. She didn't make him forget about 12 years of friendship, brotherhood, and everything that came with it, even if she was indirectly the cause of that forgetfulness. No, Stiles had stopped blaming Allison quite awhile ago, and now that she was gone he knew that to do so would be an insult to her memory. She didn't deserve that, and the reality is that the blame rests solely on Scott's shoulders anyway.
No, the real problem there started exactly one year ago – January 9th, 2011, to be precise. The day that Stiles dragged his best friend into the woods to look for a dead body and unwittingly helped turn him into a werewolf. That was the day that Scott began to forget him, to not need him any longer. And it hurt to think about. Stiles didn't trust easily, he had never had a big family or lots of friends. But he hadn't needed that either, what he had had always been enough. Until now. The past year had been miserable. Between Peter's rampage and Matt's/Jackson's kanima meltdown and psychopathic Alphas and serial killer darachs and literal demon spirits, the last twelve months of Stiles' short life had been nothing but one devastating loss on top of another. There was so much death, so much destruction, so much pain, and even if he wasn't responsible for all of it, or even most of it, Stiles still blamed himself. Because it all traced back to that stupid decision one year ago, to a boy who shouldn't have eavesdropped on his father's phone calls and who shouldn't have recklessly decided to try to find the dead body in the woods first. None of this would have happened if he had just left things alone.
Stiles let out a long, exasperated sigh, eyes glazing over from staring at his computer screen too long. The oppressive, ever-present silence was beginning to close in on him once more, and his already tiny window of concentration was absolutely shot to pieces. And, more than anything else, he was lonely. "This sucks," he said again, eyes drifting from the screen to the view outside his window. What he wouldn't give to have a werewolf come barreling through it to warn him of some impending disaster or to beg him to research some obscure, mythical creature. Any werewolf would do; hell, he'd even take Peter the Creeper at this point, at least he could be interesting to talk to. But, sadly, this wish, like so many of the ones he'd had before, did not come true. The window remained closed. Stiles remained alone.
"I gotta get out of here, before I go insane," he announced, rolling his chair back suddenly and practically bolting out his bedroom door. On the plus side, Deaton's weird, Druid meds had done their job well. Stiles was nowhere close to full strength yet, but he was much better than he had been, much better than a person who had spent a month in a coma had any right to be. And, for the first time since the Nogitsune incident, he was able to make it down the stairs and out the door without feeling like he was going to collapse. At least I should be able to convince Dad to let me go back to school, he noted to himself as he climbed into his faithful Jeep and took off down the road. I won't survive if I have to stay all by myself much longer.
Stiles drove on autopilot, lost in thought and not really paying attention to where he was going. Without intending to, he found himself pulling to a stop right outside the entrance to the Beacon Hills Preserve. I wonder why I came here. For that matter, I wonder how I got here without running anyone over, he mused as he tentatively stepped out of the car, taking a quick glance at the hood to make sure he hadn't actually hit anyone without realizing it. I feel like… I feel like something is calling to me, pulling me in. Whatever it was began tugging at him, gently but insistently, and his feet instinctively moved forward, leading him into the woods. The air was cold and crisp, frost coating the fallen leaves on the ground and causing them to crunch underneath him with each step. This is a bad idea. Why can't I control where I'm going? Am I going to end up possessed again? Please, PLEASE, don't let this be another Nogitsune trap!
Stiles' body slowly pressed onward while his mind frantically tried to get it to stop. But, once again, his consciousness was seemingly held captive. He could see what was happening, he could see where he was going, but he was powerless to stop or change directions. A few tears began to trail down his face as the powerlessness turned to hopelessness. No, no, no, please, I can't do this again, I can't! Please, just let me die instead. I don't want this. I don't want to be used anymore. Just leave me alone! "Help. Help! Someone, anyone, please, help me!" he shouted futilely. No one was in these woods though. By now the whole of Beacon Hills had learned to avoid the Preserve whenever possible. The once well-worn hiking trails were all but deserted for fear of the things that go bump in the night and what might happen 'out there.' Stiles was alone. He had been alone for days, weeks, but now it pressed in on him like a vice. No one was coming. No one would save him this time. Even if he could get his arm to pull out his phone, no one would answer. If he died out here, no one but his dad would care. No one would even notice. Please. Not like this.
Stiles lost all track of time. He had no idea how long he had been in the woods, whether it was minutes or whether it was hours. He did know that day had given way to night, the sounds of nocturnal creatures echoed around him through the barren trees. Above him, illuminating the clearing he stepped into with a translucent, ethereal glow, was the moon. The round, full, wolf moon. How ironic, he thought bitterly as his gaze shifted from the moon above to the stump below. Of course, he sighed, a tremor of fear racing down his spine. Why not? It all comes back to this stupid thing, doesn't it? The Nemeton stood before him, a shadow of the great and majestic tree that must have once dominated the clearing. Stiles sighed again, memories racing through his mind. Over there was what little remained of the root cellar, his baseball bat probably still propping up the beam that almost crushed Isaac and the Darach's guardian sacrifices to death. On the other side of the clearing was where he had stood when he himself had been transported here in a vision during his surrogate sacrifice. And in the dead center he could easily superimpose an image of himself and the Nogitsune, sat upon the stump and locked in battle playing the game of Go. All memories he wished he could erase from his mind. All memories that haunted his nightmares.
"What do you want from me?" he shouted at the infernal stump as his body was slowly drawn ever closer to it. "Why did you bring me here? I won't play your games anymore. I won't! I'm done helping you, so you can just let me go… right… now!" He tried to struggle, to regain control of his body, to do something besides whatever the magic tree wanted. But he couldn't. It's grip was too strong, it's reach too long. He couldn't escape. His breath started coming in short, quick gasps. His vision blurred. His chest ached. He could feel the full force of the panic attack hitting him all at once, but he couldn't stop it, couldn't control it. Not like this, was the last thing to go through his mind before the panic overwhelmed him and he passed out.
Stiles awoke with a pounding headache, his ears ringing and his muscles sore. What happened? Where am I? He stretched his limbs, slowly getting his bearings and taking in his surroundings. It all rushed back in at once – the tree, the moon, the powerlessness to stop himself from moving closer. And, with a twinge of horror, he looked down to see that he had collapsed right at the edge of it, his legs bunched up underneath him and his arms, head, and torso stretched on top of the Nemeton. He jumped up, taking several steps backward to put as much distance as he could between himself and that thing. "What did you do? What did you do to me!" he cried out, but there was no answer. "Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?" he continued, quieter this time. But the result was the same. The stump was still silent and immovable. The full moon above him gave its cold and dreary light to the night.
"This is all your fault!" he finally exclaimed, rushing forward to kick what was left of the tree, cursing under his breath as pain radiated through his foot. "All of it! You drew the Hales here. You gave power to the Darach. You unleased the Nogitsune. It's… all… your… fault!" he screamed into the night, collapsing back to the ground and burying his head in his hands. "I never wanted… all of this," he choked out, sobbing uncontrollably. "It was supposed… to be me and Scott… us against the world… you know? It was… supposed to be… I guess it doesn't matter… I'm just tired… so tired… tired of being alone… tired of being helpless… tired of being afraid… Whatever you want from me, I can't give you. I have nothing left to give."
His sobs eventually faded away. He shifted to sit properly against the stump instead of in a heap next to it. His eyelids grew heavy, the weight of the world pulling them closed. "No one ever asks what I want… I guess that doesn't really matter, it's not like I ever get what I want… And its not like I want a lot, you know? Look at me, talking to a tree. I really am losing it… But it's true, I don't want a lot. All I really want is a friend… just one, that's all I need… just one person so I don't have to be alone all the time… So I can talk to an actual person, not just myself or… nature… I just want to feel… wanted. Needed… I'm just tired of being alone… I'm… just… tired…" As Stiles drifted off to sleep, he felt something. Something unexplainable, something that seemed to radiate from the very earth itself and outward across the interwoven currents below. Something that would be completely forgotten come morning, but whose effects would be lifechanging.
-o-
"Please! No! I didn't mean it! I swear, it wasn't my fault!"
"Do I look like I care? I said get in the damn freezer! Now, do what you're told before I decide to lock you in and throw away the key!"
"No, no, no! Please, dad, please! I promise… I won't do anything bad ever again… I'll do whatever you want… just please, please, not the freezer. Dad!"
"You will do what you are told, or I will make you! Do you understand me, boy?!"
Isaac was knocked to the ground, something giving way in his arm. He couldn't register the pain though, not with the fear coursing through his veins. He chanced a quick look up at his father, at the man who he had once adored, who was once his hero in life, just in time to see the heel of the boot slamming down into his face.
"Ahhh!" Isaac screamed, suddenly coming back to consciousness. His whole body was trembling, almost convulsing, and he ached all over. His insides were on fire, and before he could do more than turn to the side, he vomited up what little was left of the food he had eaten days earlier. Mixed in with the remnants of the deer was also the remnants of what could only be poison, the red and black tendrils boding ominously for his health. Recoiling as far as the chains would permit him from the sight and smell, he blearily tried to take in his surroundings. What, what happened? His whole mind was a fog, unable to process the things around him. He took in the chains, the metal walls, the eerie silence without truly understanding what they meant. Was I captured? Where am I? Where are the others? Did I die? What's going on?
Before he could do anything else, the metal door to the room slammed open, the sound reverberating through his skull. "Oh good, you're awake!" a man said as he descended the stairs. "We were getting worried the stuff we gave you had worked too quickly. It would have been a shame to get you all the way back here only to have you die before we could use you."
"Use… me?" Isaac stammered, reeling once more as the memories finally slid into place. Allison dying… Arguing with Scott… Becoming an Omega… Leaving with Argent… Saying goodbye to Stiles… Calling and texting Stiles… never hearing back from Stiles… wandering alone in the woods… being captured by the hunter… being poisoned in the airplane… "You, you did this to me! Let me out! Now!" Isaac yelled, allowing the wolf to surface, fangs and claws and glowing, yellow eyes in full force. He jumped to his feet, swaying slightly as the chains refused to let him stand properly, and roared with all his might.
"Tsk, tsk," the hunter replied, unimpressed. "After all the trouble I went to, this is the thanks I get? Your kind are always so ungrateful." A manic gleam entered his eye as he continued. "Now, settle down young wolf. Here's how things are going to go. The full moon is tomorrow night, by which point I expect you will be completely feral." He paused, his eyes roving over Isaac's form, assessing. It made Isaac uncomfortable, feeling like he was a piece of meat being examined by a butcher. "Yes, I can see my family's secret recipe is already doing its job. By this time tomorrow there won't be anything left but the beast you truly are."
"Why are you doing this? I haven't done anything wrong. Please, just let me go," Isaac slumped, his body still weak and unwilling to support him.
The hunter ignored his outburst and continued. "One of my associates will bring you some food and water soon; you'll need your strength after all. When the full moon rises, the extra boost in power and the fact that you will be completely feral should be enough to break through those chains. You'll get a half hour head start, and then we go hunting. My son, Connor," the hunter gestured for a lithe and somewhat lanky boy about Isaac's age to enter the room, "will be leading the hunt. It'll be his job to find you, and end you, so that you can't do any harm to the innocent people of Minneapolis. If he succeeds, he gets to join the ranks of the noblest tradition there is – werewolf hunting."
"And if he fails?" Isaac asked, callously. He stared at the handsome young man in front of him, taking in the neatly cut brown hair and eyes that were too similar, and yet too different, to ones he longed to see again. The boy's smirk vanished at the words, his whole body tensed and those achingly familiar eyes darted towards his father briefly, as though fearful of how he would react. Isaac recognized those actions well, it was identical to how he used to watch his own father, always monitoring, always on the alert for the minute actions that would reveal how severe the punishment was going to be and when it was going to come. He felt a connection to the boy, albeit a grudging one, and instantly regretted his words.
"If he fails," the older hunter began ominously, "he will die – either at your claws or our arrows and bullets. There is no room for failure in our ranks, and knowing what he knows about our world would only make him a liability for the rest of us. No, Connor will either kill you, or die trying. But, just so we're clear…" the man leaned in as close as he could without being in striking range, leveling a fierce glare at Isaac that made the wolf inside want to cringe away, "even if he does not succeed in taking you down, you will still die tomorrow night. I will kill you myself if I have to. Werewolves are an abomination to true society, and your kind do not deserve to live." He stood straight again, turning and walking away while gesturing for his son to follow him. "I would tell you to enjoy your last day of life, but I expect you won't be able to. The rapid onset of feralness is supposedly quite painful. On the bright side, it also comes with total memory and personality loss, so very soon you won't be able to remember this conversation, or anything else for that matter. Goodbye, wolf."
Isaac watched as the hunter walked purposefully out of the airplane's cargo hold, his son dutifully trailing behind him. The boy gave a last, backwards glance at the wolf, almost mournful, before the door was slammed shut and Isaac was abandoned to his thoughts once again. Alone, was the first thing that came to mind as he fell back on the floor. I'm going to die all alone, and no one will even know what happened to me. He fought the tears that welled up for as long as he could, but eventually it all became too much and he collapsed, sobbing as he curled his knees up to hug them against his chest. I don't want to die, I'm not ready!
He laughed bitterly at the irony. Seven weeks ago, he had practically begged Argent to kill him. It was only now that his wish was going to come true at the hand of a different hunter that he realized just how much he didn't want that. I want to live! I want to go home, to be with my friends, my pack. I want to go back to school, and graduate, and get a job, and complain about it to the people I care about. I want to watch them get married, and have kids, and help raise them, and celebrate their accomplishments. I want to have a family of my own, maybe. I want… I want… Stiles, for him to be a part of it. Please! Somebody, anybody, please help me! I just want to go home. Isaac wept until there was nothing left inside, nothing left to give. There was no answer to his pleas, no one to swoop in and rescue him, no one to cradle him and tell him that everything was going to be ok. Isaac was all alone, just as he had been when his father had begun beating him when he couldn't do the things he was asked to do. He was helpless, just as helpless as he had felt for the years of abuse he had suffered. And, just as the darkness threatened to swallow him whole when the lid came crashing down on the freezer, soon darkness swallowed him once again as exhaustion, dehydration, malnourishment, and poison combined to force him back into unconsciousness.
When Isaac awoke next, the first thing he realized was that a substantial amount of time must have passed. Before, sunlight had shown in through the small, cutout windows at the top of the cargo hold while the hunters had taunted him. Now, however, the room was bathed in the ethereal glow of night, the night before the full moon. The second thing he realized was that he no longer had any control over his wolf features. Claws, fangs, sideburn fur, glowing eyes; nothing he did had any effect whatsoever. The wolf was apparently here to stay.
Isaac slumped to the floor, nose twitching in disgust at the smell of the vomit nearby. Then, his nose caught a different scent: food. A plate had been left for him nearby. Not bothering to worry about what it might contain, what more could they do to me anyway, he lunged for it, biting and tearing his way through the meat it contained until there was nothing left. The wolf sighed, momentarily satiated, and tried to take in his surroundings once more. He was surrounded by cold metal. I hate this, it reminds me of… something. What does it remind me of?
Shrugging his shoulders as the memory refused to come to him, he bared his teeth and let out a howl that echoed through the night air. The howl went unanswered however, proving once again how alone the wolf was. I need a pack, he thought to himself, straining at the chains that refused to budge from their anchor in the floor. I need to get out. Why don't I have any packbonds? What happened to them? Did I have a pack? Have I always been alone? Again, he struggled, both physically with the chains holding him hostage and mentally with the memories that refused to surface. But he was unsuccessful with both.
Exasperated, and exhausted, Isaac finally collapsed back down on the ground, curling in on himself, whimpering. The power coursing through his veins form the moon hurt, it longed to be free, to run untethered through the trees he could smell just beyond the metal walls. Yet he remained trapped, a prisoner in his cell. He took a deep breath, raised his neck as high as he could, and howled again, loud and long, a plea for a wolf, any wolf, out there to come rescue him. But still there was no reply, no one willing to come to his aide, no one who cared about him. Why don't I have a family? Did something happen to them? Why can't I remember what happened?
He fumed and strained and struggled throughout the night, desperate to be freed through any means necessary. But as morning came, the light and power from the moon waning, he was still trapped, still tethered to his cage, his wrists and ankles shredded and bleeding A man entered, and Isaac looked up expectantly, hoping the man would free him. But he only dropped another plate of food on the floor, shoving it over to the wolf with a nudge from his foot before walking out. Maybe he can't free me. He's only human after all. At least he was nice enough to bring me more food. Isaac tore through the cold meat ravenously, a hunger awakening inside him that he could never remember feeling before. He wanted more – to rip, to tear, to kill.
Reinvigorated, he began struggling with the chains again in earnest, sweat pouring off his skin as he yowled in frustration. He continued relentlessly, the one thought driving him being the desire for freedom. He was making progress, the chain had a weak link, one that was slowly, ever so slowly, being pulled apart. If he could just get it a little wider, he could slip it apart; then he would be free. But pain and exhaustion began overtaking him once more. I'm too weak. I should be strong, what happened to me? Why do my ribs stick out? Why am I not as strong as I should be? Confused and frustrated and alone, Isaac slumped back to the floor, panting for breath. The sun was high in the sky by this point, he had been at it for hours. Perhaps a quick nap would help. A little sleep and I'll be stronger, strong enough to break the chain.
The wolf awoke to the clanging sound of a door shutting, startling him out of his slumber. His eyes pierced the night air, his nose sniffing for enemies. He sat on his haunches, taking in his surroundings. The glow of the full moon rising shone through an opening far above his head. He longed to feel the moon's light on his skin, but as he began to walk towards the door he was stopped, something tied around his leg preventing him from moving. Growling, he snapped his teeth at it, but it refused to release him. He tore his claws into the thing, anger roiling inside and fueling his strength. With a roar, he tore through the thing, grinning in satisfaction as he was able to move freely.
He crouched down, keeping low to the ground as he stalked his way through the room, turning his nose up in disgust at the putrid pile near him and giving it a wide berth. He could hear sounds, movements, beyond the walls, but that did not concern him just yet. He was weak, he needed food, needed to find prey. His nose led him to something cold and made of meat left in a corner. It wasn't as satisfying as chasing down his own food through the woods, but he was too hungry to care. He tore through the meat quickly, afraid another predator might try to lay claim to his meal. He finished just as a loud, scraping sound tore through the air, instantly putting the wolf on alert. He scrambled away from the nearby opening, taking refuge in a corner and holding himself ready for an attack.
"Wolf! Your time starts now!" The sound of a man's voice yelling startled him, but the words meant nothing to him. He cautiously inched forward towards the opening, scenting the air. His eyes went wide as he caught a horrible smell, like death itself, just before a loud bang echoed around the room. Scared, the wolf bolted through the door and out into the trees, looking back to see several men, all dressed in black, watching him. There were too many for him to take on by himself, the wolf could tell, and he was still weaker than he should be. He needed a pack, he needed help.
The wolf darted through the trees, on high alert for any of the men he left behind. He seemed to lose them quickly, they weren't chasing after him, so he eventually slowed down and tried to get his bearings. Racing through the forest had taken a lot of his energy, and he had no idea whose territory he was in or even where to find them. He began picking his way through the underbrush, staying hunched over and low to the ground to remain hidden as he searched for the scent of any nearby wolves. This forest didn't seem to be home to a pack though, the only scent he could find was that of the men he had left behind. They apparently spent a lot of time in these woods. He growled in frustration, unwilling to risk a howl for fear of the men.
Suddenly, a small stick came flying through the air. The wolf lunged out of the way, the death smell from earlier clogging his nose again. Whatever it was, it was bad. The wolf's eyes darted around the forest, trying to figure out where the attack had come from. He bared his teeth and let out a warning growl, showing he was not to be messed with. A twig snapped to his left, and he instantly darted in that direction.
"Watch your footing," he heard a man say, the words still meaningless in his ears but giving him direction to find his enemy. He raced forward faster than any human could move, and soon the man came into sight. "Shoot him!" another shouted from off in the distance, which the wolf ignored as his eyes locked onto his prey. Rip, tear, kill, echoed through his head as he raced closer. Another stick came directly at him, thrown from something the man held in his hands, the death smell warning him of the danger of being hit by it. He darted out of the way, a second later launching himself claws first at the man. The wolf howled in satisfaction as his fangs ripped through flesh, the smell of blood powering through the night air. The wolf felt alive, free, as something inside himself changed.
"Bobby! Shit, hold on, we're coming," a voice called out. The wolf roared, daring the feeble men to take his prey from him. More sticks and metal balls came flying through the air at him, the smell of death almost overpowering the smell of blood. The wolf was angry, something else shifted inside, he no longer cared about safety. These men were attacking his territory. He needed to defend it. With one more roar of warning, he went on the offensive, scenting the air to see how many there were. He kept low to the ground, his limber, small frame becoming obscured from view by the snow and fallen leaves. The men couldn't see him, couldn't find him, and while he had the advantage he took three more of them down, ripping his claws through their flesh and rending them to pieces. The wolf grinned to himself, thrilled by the kills and wanting more. Voices echoed all around him, the scent of fear and anger wafting on each gust of wind.
The wolf snuck up on another of the men, this one smaller, younger. He was inches away from attacking when the man suddenly turned around, honey-brown eyes wide and staring fearfully into glowing yellow ones. The wolf paused, clawed hand hanging in the air mid-strike, as a memory stirred in his mind. Brown eyes, a boy, laughter, a funny feeling in the gut, blood rushing to a different body part. "Please, please," the boy in front of him pleaded, though the words were meaningless to the wolf. "I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you, it's just… my dad made me. Please, just let me go, I won't hurt you, I promise. Please." The wolf could tell that, whatever the boy was saying, he was sincere. He sniffed the air, practically tasting the fear and anguish rolling off the boy. Not the same boy from the memory, but one that looked similar. Maybe from the same pack even.
The wolf lowered his hand slowly, cautiously taking a step forward, while the boy stumbled backwards, tripped over a root, and fell. Another memory stirred. The other boy again, stumbling through trees, yelling in frustration; feeling content, feeling cared for. The wolf tilted its head slightly, appraising the boy on the ground in front of him, unsure how to communicate with him. The wolf desperately wanted to know if the boy knew the one in the memory, if he could take him to him. All that came out though was a low whine. Frustrated, the wolf dropped to the ground as well, eye level with the boy whose eyes had grown even wider and more afraid.
Before the wolf could do anything else, another shout echoed through the trees and, a second later, a stick flew through the air and struck him in the arm. Anger seared through him as he tore the stick from where it had lodged into him, the rage burning away the memories and everything else. The wolf looked back at the boy in front of him, scrambling to get away. Without a second thought, he lunged, pressing his weight on top of the boy, trapping him against the ground. "No, no, please, please!" With a roar, the wolf's claws dug into the boy's flesh, tearing him to pieces.
"Connor! No!" Another man screamed as the wolf felt the life drain out of the boy underneath him. With a feral grin, the wolf slowly stood, feeling the change as his once golden eyes faded to blue. With a roar, he attacked, his next target being the man who screamed. Dodging flying sticks and metal balls, he made quick work of killing that one, and the others who were left. Satisfied that his territory was now safe, the wolf settled down to rest, exhausted from the battle. He found a small clearing with a brook, lapping up some of the water to quench his thirst and staring at the reflection. His bright blue eyes shone brightly under the pale, full moon above. With another grin, he howled for the moon, thanking it for giving him the strength to defeat his enemies. He waited for another wolf to answer the call, but none did. Annoyed, he was just about to howl once again when he felt something, a different power tugging at him. But investigating that would have to wait. He had a territory to claim.