Old I may have been and perhaps with that age a certain amount of deafness assured, yet by how much was choice and how much was truly the defect of so many years of wear remains to be seen, even so, the cry that echoed upon the winds did manage to permeate that mist of age and see my tattered left ear turn and swivel towards the sound that wind carried. For half a moment or so I simply remained content to ignore it, to leave Isola or her border patrol to do as they should and investigate whoever the hell it was that had decided to make an unholy racket at this time of the day and yet….there was something within those notes still, a sweetness that I have no heard in so very many years, a flavour I have very near forgotten and one I remained just as content to ignore until my memory teased further. I am near twenty two years old, sorting through my memories is hardly a quick process now is it? My mind turning as quickly as it was able through the files and files of thoughts that existed, some vague tendril of familiarity existing and yet I was assured I did not know that cry, at least….did not remember it being so deep, so grown, so loud…..he was a mewling pup the last I had seen of him, a yearling, then a lanky boy whom had followed in the wake of Seraphiel with the marks of warriors stained red upon him, truly rare markings amongst out kind, Ferox having sat beside me that day within the summer heat atop the plains of Trenus as I told him of the world that would be his to own. That is perhaps the last true memory I hold of him, the boy lost within the aftermath of the meteor though of that I had known he had survived, my own form of white having raced into those flames over and over, dragging out wolf after wolf until Ferox too had fled to some sense of safety- before fleeing his family entirely.

Maybe I should be mad, perhaps I should be furious at his abandonment and yet perhaps I am simply damn well to old and tired to bother with that emotion. Maybe instead I am…lets call it…relieved (I think joyous is a bit of a stretch don’t you?) that my ears are given to hear a voice I never truly believed they would. Maybe he did leave, but I think coming home takes just about as much courage as leaving ever did and for today at least, I am content to allow my mind to focus on that along, aged frame hauled upwards now, pelt still as white as ever as the ever-bright violet of my gaze moved to seek his white form upon the horizon, limbs pushed into a lope despite the protest aged bones offered at such a moment. Maybe I am a little deaf, a little blind, my vision a little dark about the ages now and yet I know the sight of my own son when I see him- the last to be born from my Zeivah, a child born with the markings of Legends and indeed perhaps I held some hope that he had managed to be at least mildly successful on whatever ridiculous adventure he had taken part within. Honestly, why he ever left I hardly know and yet that is an agitation I can save for later, my old frame pushed forward now, closer and closer to a scent so unchanged since he was a child and yet- well, I’ll be damned if he had grown into rather the impressive specimen, then again, why shouldn’t he? I do not breed anything less the perfection, the boy designed to be perfect, to be better, to survive where others falter, this superior breeding surely the reason my line is the most successful, the most potent within these lands, the blood of Angels within so very many and I do suppose I am satisfied with that.

After all, I raised the most powerful pack this land has ever seen before passing my crown to my daughter, Diveen now the greatest power amongst the packs, superior to all, littered with those of my blood. Hell, why make a kingdom when I can build an empire? Perhaps, one day, I will finally have a relative worthy to walk in my footsteps- though for now those steps remain focused upon that target, form slowing now to a walk, ears pricked forward as I moved to pause before the boy now, assuring my eyes of the scents my nose told me were true, my son- returned. I think I may have even managed a grin of sorts, striding those last few paces between the boy and myself, moving to wrap my neck about his own.

“Ferox.”

It was merely a mutter, a sigh or sorts released upon a breath I have been holding for the wretched boy far to long. I suppose I have missed him, I suppose I have cared as to where he has been all these years.

“Tu, fili, multum ad illustrandam.”
(You, my son, have a lot of explaining to do.)


I moved to step back from him, violet gaze upon his own once more, watching him now, a smirk of sorts lacing my lips. Now this, I think, better be a damn god story.

h e y e l
The Original Angel