There is a common theme among wolves. Those that live share a relentless desire to stay that way, to protect their pack. The 12th family, my home, showed me that with every act of defiance, every lost life, every second they stayed with me knowing my father's betrayal of the crown and the goddess.
-Diary of Elsbeth Moonchild, last Alpha of the cursed Southern Pack.
The sun was like a kiss on my cheek, wrapped in the embrace of my lover, my mate. I'd never felt so safe. His large body was coiled around me like a blanket. His scent is intoxicating. The pull of a fresh mate bond has its claws deep in my belly.
He's asleep, the steady shift of his chest against my cheek soothing my soul. A light smile graces his peaceful sleep and I can't help but admire him. His face is a masculine masterpiece, the kind of beauty that seems sculpted by the moon goddess herself. His chiseled jawline is strong but inviting and shadowed by the kiss of the faintest hint of stubble that seemingly sprung up overnight. The stubble will never be able to hide the sharpness of his features. His lips, full and a shade darker than his fair skin, part slightly in his sleep. I have to hold back the sudden desire to kiss him.
I can't help but wish he'd open those eyes, deep and smouldering, reflecting back to me the colour of pine needles that mix in his scent. Last night the intensity of them set my heart on fire.
His brow is strong and a little furrowed, even in sleep, as if perpetually lost in thought. Despite all of his sharp angles there's a softness to him, a gentleness, that pulls me in and makes me want to know more --or maybe that's just the aftershock of the many orgasms that he nursed from me like a poet composing the perfect verse.
His body is magnificent. Taller than me with broad shoulders, his strong arms meeting a chest that rises and falls with his steady breath. Muscles rippling beneath the thin sheet as if his perfection is carved from marble. His arms, each muscle standing in beautiful contrast against the softness of his skin like a promise of power held in reserve, a strength he wields with reckless intention. His legs are long and perfectly proportioned.
I can imagine that he probably has a grace when he moves, soft-footed like a prowling beast stalking his prey. Like a man aware of every inch of himself, who owns the space around him. It's not just the way that he looks that enchants me though, it's the way he carries himself with a magnetism that I'm not sure I can differentiate from our bond. His presence draws me in, tugs at something deep inside, like he holds the power to make my very soul tremble with the slightest smile.
I'm not sure how long I stared at my beautiful mate before his eyes opened and he fixes me with a gentle look. Nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck to breathe me in.
"Elsbeth, love, good morning." His words rumble deep in his chest, the feel of it tickling me in the best way. I can't help but sigh, leaning into him more closely and repeat my question from last night, "What should I call you love?"
He laughs, "My name, Fenrir, would be a good place to start." Fenrir, I absorb it like a precious truffle and mentally savour the taste on my tongue.
I shake my head teasingly, "No, no that wont do."
"Oh, well what'll you call me then?" He whispers teasingly, kissing my neck and nuzzling the mating mark.
I gasp, the thrill of his kiss striking me in my core, igniting my need for him.
"I'll call you Fen, my Fen." I whisper, breathless, feeling his smile against my skin.
I'm a second away from pouncing on my mate and claiming him again when a knock strikes our bedroom door. I growl reflexively and he laughs again, "Come in!" He calls to the intruder into our bubble.
A kind looking elderly woman shuffles in wearing a maid's uniform. Though simple, her uniform is immaculate, not a single crease or wrinkle to be seen. She looks both humble and effortlessly graceful, carrying a large tray of food with each purposeful step. Her presence brings with it a tranquility common among people of her age, a promise of quiet service and care.
She smiles softly at me and bows, "My queen your council is gathering, there's been another incident." My mate, my Fen, sits up abruptly and nods at the woman. I didn't expect him to be kind to a servant but I'm pleased he is. My father had raised me to treat everyone from the most powerful to the least with the same respect. It makes my chest warm to know he does too.
Just as quickly as she enters our room, she exits, and I mourn the loss of his warm body in our bed.
---
My throne room is rougher than I remember, the grand symphony of marble in silk in my time is an unpolished young stone draped only softened by the rich mismatched silks that cascade from them like waterfalls of colour showing the emblems of the 12 houses. Even knew it still hums with quiet, unspoken majesty. Bold crimsons, deep blues, regal purples all fluttering like they're alive in the flickering torchlight of the now dreary afternoon. A regal reminder of the burden on my shoulders.
The floor beneath my bare feet is a polished marble, its veins swirling around in soft greys, blacks and gold flecks. It looks like the reflections of stars against dark water. The coldness of the stone acts as a conduit to the thrumming power under my feet, a steady reminder of the rooms purpose.
At the far end of the room the throne catches the flickering light like a creation of intricate gold filigree and carved stone. It's back rising high into the shadows of the ceiling, an object of beauty and authority. The high arms of the regal chair are draped in purple silks matching the colour of the 12th house.
The object of beauty and authority catch my attention like a promise to rule, to claim the legacy of the woman who's life I had taken over and those who came after her. The throne is but a chair but it reminds me that though rulers are often born from strength they have to be equally woven from elegance and grace. It makes me cringe at the thoughtlessness of my bare feet.
The throne room I grew up in as a child was a paradox of contrasts, sharp unforgiving stone met with the softness of silks, cold marble floor beneath the rich tapestry of history dancing in a delicate balance. A place where both the rulers of our realm and the whispers of their legacy come alive in the same breath. A room full of secrets and promises, a place where you claim destiny after you come into your power.
The only aged item in the room is a long round table, its surface worn by the touch of many hands -- hands that have shaped the 12 tribes of wolves, forged alliances and altered the course of destiny. Around the polished wood sits a council of figures that are both formidable and timeless, the oldest of our kind. One from each of the twelve houses. When wolves reach this age their physical progress declines but their bond to the moon goddess becomes fortified. This fortification sometimes lends itself to special gifts and powers.
On this council there is but one so blessed. Her face a map of time, each wrinkle carved by experiences too vast to count. Her bright eyes crinkle with genuine care but reflect a knowledge that could bend the very fabric of reality if she so chose. Elder Moonchild of the 12th house is a touched with gift of sight and I recognize her immediately from her portrait that still sits in the entryway to our packhouse.
Her silky red locks are mostly silver now. Her fingers are gnarled but steady as they rest on the table but the way she carries herself is with the unmistakable power, a quiet strength that suggests that she could, despite any infirmity, still slip into her true form in the blink of an eye and tear the world apart.
Next to her is a man I don't recognize, he's younger than the rest and he leans forward towards me as I take my seat. His face in angular and sharp, it bears the marks of battles fought long ago and deep set eyes that reflect the wildness of the forest. The look of a man still untamed from this new arrangement, more comfortable in the forest than in the castle.
Only he and my ancestor drop their hoods under our custom. He must be the head of the 1st house, the only house to never grasp at the throne and the impartial face of justice in internal disputes.
The other shrouded faces make me suppress a shiver. The lack of trust between the packs in the newly formed kingdom is apparent by their refusal to shed their cloaks and expose themselves to the others.
"What's happened Elder Moonchild?" I ask her, nodding at the head of the first house, Elder Whiteclaw.