The victors, that is what they called them. It was hard - it took a long time - but they had finally defeated the monstrous beasts called Royal Bears. Royal, indeed. But, perhaps I should not scoff - the boys that race towards the border of Moladion now are far different than the ones who once raced over the former landscape as boys and pups and babes. They are scarred, a little more jaded, and yet far more handsome because they had lived life and knew struggle.
Seamus was the least changed. His changes were mostly in his ranking among the other boys. They treat him with more respect now, a little less babying and coddling despite his smaller stature. He is not treated like a child and his wisdom has made sure to use this to his advantage. Ifrit is mostly changed in his cruelty. He has some limited sense now, knowing how to fight far better than in the days where Seamus could best him now and again. He is still a royal ass, but the honing of his strength has done the four good. Fenrir is most changed by his healthy respect and yet lack of fear of death. He cannot fear death because he had stood at its very door and played ding-dong-ditch. He fights with every fiber of his being because while he will not die easily, he will not go mewling into the night. Finally, the most changed, is Neirin. He is more beautiful than he had been as a lad, the golds like sweet honey and cream. His scars even improve upon this appearance. He holds them with pride, having taken them for his mate before her passing. He is as Maximus was in the story, now. A war hero, masterful leader, and far more than some Disney image of princehood.
They run now as a unit, though their formation is far more lax than during the times of trouble behind them. Once golden prince would have ran with a broad smile across his face, reveling in the race. Once upon a time you would have heard the black second running so to allow his comrades to hear him. Once upon a time the red brother would have trailed farther behind the faster siblings of war. Once upon a time Seamus would have been on the heels of his primary protector and advisee. No longer are they a part of the old rules.
With a loud guffaw, Ifrit rams his full form into the littler man and throws the brown wolf’s feet clear out from beneath him. “You all are getting so slow!” He shouts as he crashes through the underbrush and straight into the flying tackle of his black as ink brother. Vicious and deceptively violent snarls erupt, the black’s mouth closing over the flailing red’s throat as they still tumbled and rolled and careened in the same direction as their group. “Keep in Line!” And with just a little time, a few seconds, all three wolves have recovered and have righted themselves. Seamus has readjusted further from Ifrit, Ifrit has fallen in at a war distance from the heavier foliage, and into the foliage, Fenrir fades into memory again.
As usual, Neirin chuckles to himself at his brother’s expense. Letting Fenrir handle the mess was easy enough, letting him keep their heading and letting the black beast have a little rage-reducing spar on the fly. They run into the outer rim and skid to a halt, Seamus barely dodging to the side fast enough to evade Neirin’s haunches, Ifrit skidding just a little ahead of his golden leader, and Fenrir trotting out from the edge of the forest.
Their world is changed forever. They would not be going to the great Plateau, they would not find the dense forests of Scotavia here. All that their eyes see is different and yet Neirin knows his heading had not been skewed. They had followed the same path as Fenrir had recalled. They see Diveen now where Trenus had once stood, split with a canyon made by the Paracon faultline. They see Glorall where Judila and Litherum had once been strong. They see Spirane where Mirovis and Solevionused to be. And in the distance a murky, foggy land whispered of swamp and field where once they would have thought to see the murkier forest of Mirovis and the Heroma Swamp.
“Seamus. Do you see what I do? Is this really Moladion?” His voice is pained. His voice, in that pain, is cold and hard like ice. He knows it is true and all four know it as well. “I see it, but in my heart I cannot feel sorrow for our sons. Bahamut was with them. Even when mad, our father never fell. He would not let them fall with this place.” And of course, never to be forgotten, Ifrit shares his infectious curiosity. “I wonder if they have imprinted yet...” and for all his former show of intelligence, he stops too late. His green eyes swoop to the far off Inky mystery that is the brother back from the presumed-dead. The pale green in his eyes turns from a soft pastel to a sickly dead-flesh green in the flash of hate and rage that bleeds into them.
Neirin snaps in the red’s direction and gives a carefully stern eye on Fenrir to stop the potential firestorm from beginning. “Silence. Do we go forward or do we retire back to Nanruan borders? Life-bond or Imprint - for you know as well as I do that Moladion will have us play her game if we choose to enter.” Fenrir bared his teeth, pained by the thought of Moladion replacing his beloved Doe - who he had betrayed to save - with anyone so far below her memory. “Nanrua.” Blue eyes turn to Ifrit. “My heart died with my mate. Moladion is my savior.” Neirin nods, for he knew that Ifrit had truly fallen in love with the woman who died beneath the crushing paw of the she bear Jezebel. He turns then to Seamus, the one who had mated a woman who had survived a severed life-bond and had never allowed him to perform the Courting Chase. “I am sorry, Fenrir - But you may not have loved your mate as much as Doe, but I do not know if there will be a sweeter woman than my own in that place. It was luck that led her to love me. I cannot return without knowing my boy has lived, has found someone who loves him like he deserved...” He turns back to his leader. “Moladion.”
And with only an apologetic look to Fenrir for the briefest of moments, the golden male starts into the outer rim and opens their souls to the games of fate once more.
SINGING THE SONG OF ANGRY MEN
the first children of the original moladion packs
of trenus - of scotavia - of solevion - of ferrine
no imprint - no imprint - no imprint - no imprint
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