Amaranthine: (adj) undying, immortal; eternally beautiful

  Wandering Grove, 1999

  The Grove was home. It always had been—the only place she had known since the earliest days of her lifeline. A life bound to the Grove and its God, a connection as ancient and unbreakable as the roots beneath the forest floor.

  Lycaeus, blessed wolf of the Red Moon. Of destruction and rebirth. Of life and death.

  But dying had always been the easy part—maybe for a life that had never got to experience it, that never would be given a chance to.

  Asena knew that when she ran from the hunt surrounded by midwives and physicians, when her legs carried her far from the pack, red staining the bottom of her garments and running down her legs, adding to the pool forming between her legs whenever she stopped. The same she had fled from minutes, maybe hours ago. She would’ve joined it if she had not moved; she was sure of it. But she couldn’t lie there- couldn’t bear witness to the lifeless lifeform that would’ve been her child. Could’ve been if the elders had listened.

  “Curse you…cursed be you DAMN…damn fools,” she whimpered snapped at the trees in front of her, the only audience in witness to her elonged fangs that poked at bloodied lips. Red and bitten raw. She would describe her body that way, too, if her mother or sisters or any person who stumbled upon her had asked. Weak and flipped inside out as her body collapsed against wood, dirt, and leaves. She couldn’t move. It hurt too much to move, but it gave just enough relief to leave her curled up with her tail between her legs– most likely reddened by the red fluid– and spots decorating her swimming vision.

  “Curse you…curse you all,” she sobbed, hands slamming– hitting– the dirt again as she pushed. And cried and wailed. Anguish and pain, crushed heart and soul, and whatever the people of Alcombey called….grief. Yes– that. But it was off. Wrong.

  Angrier.

  Wilder.

  More animalistic than the mortals, they had tried to live in peace with who ran them out after taking everything from her and her people. Burned it all to the ground and forced them back into the woods that had created them.

  Body limp and frail, pained and enraged- and yet she had never felt so alive. A surge of energy and emotion, something pushing her forward. Her eyes fell on herself, looking over her gnarled appearance with only a huff of laughter. The blood re-pooling between her legs, the stream of vital fluid that kept her living…and yet her eyes had yet to fall shut for the final time. “...new life,” she whispered, running frail shaky fingers over her body. The pain melted away, engulfing her in something close to warmth, a hug from something small and there.

  And then it melted away– the light. And replaced itself with a rage she could finally let herself feel. Nothing would come from sitting aside subserviently.

  She could be good- had been. When she cried about cramps that seemed too painful to be from a cycle Mother Nature had cursed her and her sisters with monthly from the ripe age of eleven to the constant fainting spells on hunts the pack’s physician had chalked up to a lack of nutrients and rest. Of course, the extra food didn’t hurt, nor did the extra rest and stolen actual pillows that didn’t feel like the rocks outdoors that she could rest her head upon– but she was in pain. And no one listened. Not until this morning. When blood pooled at her feet instead of amniotic fluid. When suddenly it felt like the weight of the world had crashed along her back and sent her plummeting to the ground and her body had to be lifted by women twice her height and age to the makeshift tent of cloths and stolen clothes as clumps of white and grey and blood trailed after her.

  Death could not be kind to her, to the young wolf that planned to breathe life into her pack as her sister had done with her twins years prior. It was her turn. Her celebration of the next stage of life and her pup’s beginning of life but–

  But she wouldn’t get that and neither would her pup.

  And from it, she screamed. Tore into the ground below her with sharp claws still growing. A female wolf at the age of 25 wouldn’t fully stop losing her claws, regrowing sharper and stronger ones until the age of 27. But these claws didn’t break or splinter when she ripped dirt from Mother Nature’s core. And when her body finally breathed– her voice running out of ways to scream and plea to their god that must have cursed his faithful disciple, she heard it.

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  The soft sound of wailing.

  It drifted through the air, mixing with the smell of pine and gentle shake of trees. Faint yet piercing, blending with the relentless ringing in her ears. It rose and fell like a distant echo, wrapping around her thoughts with its sorrowful melody. A cry.

  And oh, oh how that just made her heart shatter more. Shatter into another million pieces. Why did the sound of crying have to haunt her? Hadn’t she suffered enough– wasn’t today enough?

  Her feet carried her before she could blink. Before she had enough time to process what following the cries of something so young could’ve meant for a female wolf bleeding from her core. Good, bad, ugly, or brutish– it didn’t matter. The cries were entrancing, leading her further from her crumpled bloodied form on the earth’s floor and to the culprit of tears.

  A child.

  Oh.

  Oh, a child. A young boy– 2 or 3 years of age at most. Maybe more. It was hard to tell with the dirtied navy blue blanket the child had been wrapped in. But his tufts of black hair, as dark as the night that was soon to fall over the sky, allowed her eyes of gold to track his frazzled movements. Left. Right. Left. Stop. More crying. And then back to moving again.

  And then he spotted her– wide beady hazel eyes of exhaustion and fear and oh he was so young and yet so alone.

  So was she.

  Again, her legs carried her, moved her closer until he let out another round of wails that made her pause. That left her just watching the young boy pup trying to move away from the woman covered in blood and tears of her own. He was so small, so frail and afraid…just like her baby.

  “It’s ok,” she whispered, lowering herself back to the ground, on her knees, and just close enough for her to reach the young boy if needed, “I won’t hurt you. I’m hurting, too.” Her gaze didn’t leave him, watching him stay haphazardly wrapped in the blanket that’d probably kill him if he moved the wrong way. Sapphire tears rolled down his cheeks, vanishing under the sea of navy he wore around his body that finally seemed to run out of that endless energy all children seemed to have and plopped down on the ground beneath him. And then quiet engulfed them. Asena's lips pressed together as she stared at the child who tracked her every movement. Then laughed at the second set of tears rolling down her face.

  “You’re just a boy,” she whispered, shuddering as her arms, stiff and tired, reached out to gently pull the boy from his binds of clothes. At least whoever had left him here chose to clothe him: black shirt. Beige pants? Khakis? Simple white socks and untied black shoes. No wonder this kid was about to choke himself trying to move. The panic alone would’ve done it, but with untied shoes? That was a recipe for disaster. “Just a little boy,” she muttered, watching the boy flinch away from her touch once, twice, and then a third time before realizing that something wasn’t coming. A strike, maybe? May Lycaeus curse whoever left this child this far in the woods, defenseless and alone. “I won’t hurt you,” she promised, watching him peek up at her from the one eye she could see from where he was turned to face away from her. His cheek was the only thing turned towards her. “Sweet boy…sweet pup. Oh, it’ll be ok,” she whispered, arms once again reaching for him. To hold him, to heal him of his wounds and pain while hers continued to grow by the second.

  His gaze didn’t leave her, watching her hands like they’d strike him if his guard lowered for just a second. Just for a second, his gaze dropped to his shoes, the black laces lying at his feet instead of tied into the pretty little bunny knots he’d been taught. One step forward, towards her– that's all he took, but it seemed to please them both, her arms finally enclosing around him like a shield, pulling warmth back into his shuddering body. Right, it had been quite windy and cold today. Autumn was passing through, but winter would be the coldest time. The trees always spoke and shook when its arrival drew near.

  “You’re safe,” she whispered, moving a hand to ruffle his hair. “Blessed be Lycaeus. I won’t let any harm come to you.” His gaze lifted, meeting hers with a small snaggle-toothed grin that melted the rage in her heart and refilled it with a need to keep this child happy and fed and smiling all the time.

  “I’ve got you now. I’ll take care of you if that’s what you want,” she mumbled, moving to sit them both near the tree he’d been left at. “Raise you as one of our own, safe and warm and protected against anything that’d try to cause you harm. And then…one day,” she glanced at the navy blanket laid amongst the dirt, “when they come for you…you’ll give them hell.”

  That was how the pack found them, barely awake, curled against a tree with blood and dirt, dried tears staining both of their cheeks. And though it left her scarred and refusing to ever try again to birth a child of her own, to the dismay of her mate and mother, she at least had a boy of her own. Something with so much life and energy; it felt like her baby had never really left. Just blessed her with another soul who needed her more in the moment. So when she held him before the pack, cradled in cloths of green and black, praising their god of rebirth, of life– she knew she had spoken no spell, said no incantation. This boy, her wolf pup with or without transformation, had come from scratch and had blessings higher than she or her people could understand.