Chief's Son
Rain bound and cut the birth-cord, and handed the baby back to its mother. Trueflight cradled the mewling child against her breast. “My little fish,” she whispered softly.
At her side, her elder son Strongbow grinned from ear to ear, a rare expression ever since a hunting accident took his father from him. **Bearclaw will be so pleased,** he sent.
Trueflight’s smile soured. “I’ve no doubt.”
**I’ll call him in to see you.** Already he was turning towards the door.
**No!** Trueflight sent. Strongbow turned back, confused.
“Give mother and son a little time yet,” Rain said gently.
Strongbow scowled. At length he stalked out of the den. Trueflight paid him no mind, her eyes trained on her little son. At length the baby ceased his wails of protest long enough to open his eyes and gaze up at his mother.
Gray eyes. Just like Bearclaw’s. Trueflight sighed, a little sadly.
“My little fish. I should call you my Grayling.”
It was nearly dawn when Rain emerged from the den, carrying the babe in his arms. Trueflight limped out behind him, a little unsteady on her legs. Moonshade and seventeen-year-old Rainsong hastened to help her. Strongbow rushed up to take the baby from Rain’s arms. “My little brother...” he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse.
Chief Bearclaw raised his eyebrows expectantly. At his side his lovemate Joyleaf patted his arm. “Go and see your son,” she whispered. “You’ve waited so long for another child.”
“Don’t rush me, lovemate,” he growled back nervously.
“His is a fine Wolfrider’s soulname,” Trueflight said. “And the tribe may call him Grayling.”
“Grayling...” Bearclaw took a step closer. A hesitant smile graced his angular face.
**Grayling!** Strongbow proclaimed in sending. **A fine name for a future chief!**
Bearclaw stopped in mid-step. The entire Wolfrider tribe seemed to freeze as one. The silence that descended was cold as brightmetal. All eyes turned to the chief, whose countenance abruptly soured.
At length Bearclaw spoke. “I have not named that child my heir,” he growled.
Strongbow frowned. **But, my chief, he is your son. My little brother – your son!** he added in locksending. **Born of Recognition. Of course he will be your heir.**
**And I will take your mother to mate and toss Joyleaf aside like last winter’s leathers?** Bearclaw countered in locksending. **Don’t think I haven’t seen your plotting these last two years. You’d love well to advance your mother to chief’s mate.**
**My chief... it is... Recognition!** Strongbow blurted out.
“Aye, and most unwanted!” he snapped back aloud. “An unwanted Recognition and an unwanted child!”
A gasp went up from the tribe. A moment later Bearclaw realized his own words and he bowed his head. “I didn’t mean that,” he grumbled churlishly. “No child is unwanted. But this Recognition, with this mate – that I did not look for, and that unwanted bond I now consider fulfilled.” He turned back to Joyleaf and flashed her a nervous smile. “Joyleaf is my heart’s desire, not Trueflight.”
**Bearclaw,** Joyleaf sent softly. **I’ve no doubt of your love for me. Now is not the time–**
“No, now is the perfect time!” He swung back on the tribe. “Many of you have watched my steps too carefully these past two turns of the seasons. Many of you expected I would name Trueflight my lifemate. But I want none of her and she wants none of me. Isn’t that right, archer?”
Trueflight’s eyes were like ice. “My heart’s desire is departed this world, and I shall never look to another. I am content to raise my son and run with the Hunt. I desire neither lifemate nor lovemate. But whether I shall raise my son to be a hunter or a chief’s heir, that choice I leave to you, my chief.”
“He is the chief’s son,” Joyleaf touched Bearclaw’s shoulder gently. “My old badger, I know you do not want to wound me,” she whispered. “But you have a son. Go and hold him. Accept him as yours. Cubs are such rare treasures, even if they do not arrive as we would wish.”
Bearclaw grunted softly. Clumsily, he walked over to Strongbow and held out his hands for the baby. Strongbow handed the child over to him – a little too eagerly – and Bearclaw fumbled to support the baby’s head.
“No, like this,” Trueflight said, repositioning his hands.
Bearclaw looked down at the infant. “Hmph,” he muttered. “He’s... he’s got my eyes, doesn’t he? Hmm... my son.”
He looked up, and found himself staring at Strongbow’s proud smile and Trueflight’s mournful gaze.
His eyes drifted out over the tribe. Everyone was watching him so expectantly.
Joyleaf was smiling, but there was sadness in her eyes.
Bearclaw glanced back at the beaming Strongbow.
“Your son, my chief,” Strongbow whispered.
Bearclaw’s lip curled back in a snarl. He shoved the infant into Trueflight’s arms, and Grayling began to cry.
“But not my heir!” he snapped, so close to Strongbow’s face that spittle landed on his cheek. “And don’t think to push him into my heart, nor your mother into my furs. I’m not your father, and I’ll not be used by your foolish dreams.”
Strongbow retreated, stunned. “Bearclaw...”
“I am chief, not you! And not some snivelling infant! I decide who succeeds me!”
He stormed over to Joyleaf and yanked her around by her wrist. “She will be mother of chiefs!” he shouted.
**You – you cannot deny Recognition!** Strongbow shot back.
“My son but not my heir!” Bearclaw repeated coldly. “I say Trueflight’s son will not wear the chief’s lock!”
Grayling was howling with fear now, and Trueflight hastened back her den, shushing her frantic child. The tribe dispersed warily, no one daring to provoke Bearclaw further with an ill-chosen word. Joyleaf turned and jogged back to her own den. Bearclaw continued to pin Strongbow with his gaze.
“I am chief, not you, and not your brother!”
And such was Grayling’s introduction to the tribe.
“Grayling! Where have you been? You’re soaking wet. What happened!”
The five-year-old cub shrugged. He wrung the water out of his brown hair as he shifted from one foot to the other in the threshold of the den. “I was playing by the river.”
She seized him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him into the den. “Wasn’t anyone with you?”
“No. They were all busy. I went to play by myself.”
She cuffed him upside the head. “Oww, Mother!” he protested.
She tore his tattered jacket from his shoulders and slapped him on the cheek, just lightly enough to make his face screw up in irritation. Then she sank down on her knees, took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Don’t you realize how dangerous it is to wander off by yourself? You don’t even have a wolf-friend to look out for you! You – you could have been attacked by some forest beast. You could have fallen in deep water!”
He laughed. “Momma! I know how to swim.”
His bravado was ill-timed, and she slapped his cheek again, a little harder this time. Her brown eyes were wild, her voice rose in pitch. “You stupid cubling! Don’t you understand how dangerous the world is? One misstep and you could be taken from me, as swiftly as your father – I mean as Strongbow’s father was!”
Grayling tried to protest, but she seized his wrist and dragged him out of the den. She stalked through the Holt, Grayling in tow, until she finally found Strongbow with Brownberry. “You? Where were you? Your little brother could have drowned and you weren’t there to protect him?”
Strongbow blinked. He looked at his mother, then at Grayling. Before he could answer, Trueflight released Grayling so she could cuff Strongbow. “He’s your brother and you’re willing to let him drown! How can you?”
**Mother, you’re overwrought. Calm down–**
“Don’t you tell me to calm down!”
Grayling turned and ran from the scene. He knew how it would play out. Trueflight would scream and rant and become as mad as a wolf with foaming sickness. She would strike Strongbow – and anyone who crossed her – until her moods swung the other way, and then she would became cold and withdrawn, and she would forget she even had a child.
Grayling hid behind a large bush, hoping his mother wouldn’t find him until the madness left her. He feared the cold Trueflight less than the manic one.
Not surprisingly, it was Joyleaf who found him. “Hello, little cub. How did you get so wet?”
“Fell in the creek,” Grayling muttered.
“I see,” she ran her fingers through his wet hair. “And your mother is upset.”
“You heard her.”
“The entire Holt heard her.”
“Why is she so... wild?”
Joyleaf smiled sadly. “She was not always so. You know, Strongbow was only a year older than you are now when a hog’s tusks took Hawk away from his family. Trueflight grieved deeply – became cold as ice one moment and wild as a she-bear the next. It was like that until Strongbow was fully grown and had proven himself in the hunt. Then Trueflight became ice permanently. After a while we became so used to her coolness that we thought it normal. We thought she had healed. But when she Recognized your father.... Something inside her broke, I think, that day. A dam burst, and all the sorrow she held inside her since Hawk died flooded out anew.”
“She doesn’t like Father.”
“She respects him, as any tribemate should respect a fine chief. And she loves him in her own way, as she loves us all in different ways. But she swore never to have another lovemate after Hawk, and she keeps that vows to this day.”
“I don’t like Father.”
Joyleaf stiffened. “Why would you say that?”
“Because he doesn’t like me. He doesn’t notice me. He works hard not to notice me!”
Joyleaf stroked his hair softly. “Your father is... a difficult elf sometimes. He and your brother have clashed many times.”
“Strongbow wishes Bearclaw was his father.”
“I daresay he does. He hardly remembers his own father.”
“I wish Hawk was my father.”
“Why, cubling?”
“Because then Mother would love me... the way she loves Strongbow. And then Bearclaw wouldn’t always work so hard not to see me.”
Joyleaf kissed the top of his head. “We all wish for things which cannot be. That is the folly of our hearts. Wisdom is learning to accept what is here and now.”
* * *
**Keep your elbow tucked back!** Strongbow instructed the twelve-year-old Grayling harshly. **Hold your arm level!**
“I’m trying, Strongbow!” Grayling protested.
**You’re not trying hard enough. When I was your age I was already hunting with our chief.**
Grayling thrust the bow at him. “Then you take it and hunt! I’m not you, Strongbow!”
Anger flashed in Strongbow’s eyes. Then his expression mellowed. **I’m trying to help you, Grayling. I know it’s hard. But... surely you can’t be content to be a gatherer alongside Brownberry and Rainsong. You have a hunter’s blood in your veins, little brother. The blood of Bearclaw and Trueflight – the blood of the finest hunters! You’ll lead the hunt one day.**
“Not if Bearclaw has anything to say about it,” Grayling muttered under his breath.
**Then show the old strutter-cock what you’re capable of.** Strongbow shoved the bow back into his hands. **Now line up your sights. Keep your left arm level. Close the inner eye. Breathe – you’re too tense. Come, Grayling, you’re quivering like a leaf.**
Grayling tried to line the sights with the tree. But his left arm continued to shake.
“You’ll never kill anything with that arm,” Bearclaw chuckled as he intruded on the scene. “Come on, Strongbow, you’ll never make an archer of him. Better you teach him to hold a spear in the other arm.”
**He’s the very arrow shot from our mother’s bow, Bearclaw,** Strongbow said defensively. **He’ll be riding with us before long. By Skyfire, boy, keep your arm level!** Strongbow forced Grayling’s left arm rigid.
Bearclaw laughed. “A spear, I say. That’s the weapon for the lad. Give him a spear and some heavy work to put some flesh on his bones.” He gave Grayling the closest he could manage to a friendly smile. Grayling looked away, and Bearclaw scowled. “But he’s your brother, Strongbow. You continue this folly if it suits you.”
**A bow is a fitting weapon for a Blood of Chiefs,** Strongbow sent.
“Don’t start that again,” Bearclaw growled. “Unless you have the guts to challenge yourself, you leave the boy out of this.”
“Can’t deny blood,” Strongbow murmured under his breath. **Curse it, Grayling, hold your right arm higher!**
Grayling threw the bow down. The string snapped. “No!”
Strongbow straightened. He pointed to the bow. **Don’t you dishonour your weapon. Now pick it up.**
Grayling held his ground.
**Pick it up!** Strongbow’s lip curled back in a snarl.
Grayling seized the bow and snapped it in two over his knee. Bearclaw laughed out loud at Strongbow’s horrified expression. “There’s your chief in training, Strongbow!”
“I’m not a chief in training!” Grayling shouted. “I don’t want to be chief!”
**Quiet,** Strongbow locksent.
“You want me to be chief so you can say you’re the chief’s brother!”
**I want what’s best for you!**
“You want the chief’s lock! You want Bearclaw’s blood. But I don’t – I don’t want anything to do with either of you!” He threw remnants of the bow away and stalked off, leaving the flustered Bearclaw and Strongbow alone.
To his surprise, it was Bearclaw who came to him first once tempers cooled.
“I never said I don’t want you,” Bearclaw said, his expression surly. “You should choose your words more carefully... son.”
Grayling shrugged. “You chose yours well... Father.”
“I see. And if I were to name you my heir, set you above any children I might have with Joyleaf... would you call me ‘Father’ with less hesitation then?”
“I don’t want to be chief! And I don’t want to be a hunter! I want a father who’ll support me and guide me, that’s all.”
“Of course I’ll guide you, Grayling. You have only to come to me.”
“Couldn’t you to come to me, first?” he implored.
Bearclaw frowned, confused. “I... can’t read cubs like I can deer tracks, Grayling. You expect too much from me, if you want me to see into your soul.”
Grayling snorted. “I expect too much. From my father. I understand, my chief.”
“Don’t show your teeth to me, cubling, or I’ll make you show throat. I won’t tolerate that from any tribemate, let alone my son.”
Grayling looked away.
“Be a gatherer! Be a tanner! Be whatever you want!” Bearclaw exclaimed in exasperation. “It’s clear you are the one who wishes we weren’t kin!”
Grayling waited until Bearclaw was well out of earshot before he began to cry.
The sixteen-year-old Grayling speared a fat trout from the stream and tossed it to the bank. Rillfisher rushed in to finish the dying fish in one sharp blow to the head. “Hah!” she laughed. “A good one. Woodhue will be overjoyed.”
“And Longbranch too,” Grayling added. “Hang on, I see another one!” Another swift thrust of the spear, and the fish flopped onto the riverbank.
The hunters returned, Bearclaw, Strongbow and Trueflight leading the pack. Behind them, Joyleaf, Redmark, and Kindle towed a large buck behind them on a travois of sticks. “Hah, good fishing I see,” Bearclaw chuckled. “But fish don’t fill the stomach like red meat!”
“Don’t feel bad,” Rillfisher said when they had passed. “Hunters never see beyond the bloodsong.”
“Strongbow should be happy,” Grayling chuckled under his breath. “The less Bearclaw cares for me, the more often Strongbow rides at his side like an heir.”
“You should be Blood of Chiefs,” Rillfisher said softly. “And Strongbow’s not the only one who thinks so.”
“I don’t want to be chief.”
“Bearclaw has no other heir... save his cousin Kindle. If he should die – with no named heir...” Rillfisher led Grayling away from the stream and continued in locksending: **There could be factions... too many contenders coming forth at once. Kindle... your brother... perhaps even Joyleaf or Treestump. We all know Longbranch’s tales... the break between Two-Spear and Skyfire, or the confusion when Freefoot died, leaving his sons and hunters to quarrel.**
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should. The tribe’s welfare may one day be in your hands.”
“Let Kindle or Joyleaf fight for the chief’s lock,” he growled low. “I never asked to be the chief’s son.”
Rillfisher shook her head sadly. “You’re still young.”
Now Grayling bristled. “I understand well enough.”
He left the river and walked through the familiar paths of the Holt. He wished the tribe would stop whispering about Blood of Chiefs and heirs and the succession of the chief’s lock. Perhaps if the elves could just accept that he would never be chief... perhaps then Bearclaw would not feel he had to shun Grayling just to preserve his absolute authority.
“Hey there, cub,” Pike dropped down from the trees.
“I’m not a cub.”
“Oh, you’re in a mood. Don’t tell you and your sire crossed paths again. You should go find Rillfisher, huh? She’ll soothe those tensions away, hey?”
Grayling frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Grayling.” He gave the youth a nudge. “You two are always together at the stream. You said yourself – you’re no cub. You telling me you two aren’t....” he gave him another suggestive nudge.
“No,” Grayling said. “We’re not! I... I don’t look to maidens.”
“Oh, come on,” Pike chuckled.
“I don’t. I... I don’t like them.” He looked at Pike. “I like you,” he said bluntly.
Pike blinked. “Oh. Oh... well...” a slow smile spread across his full cheeks. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Mournful howls rose up from Goodtree’s Rest. Foaming sickness had struck the Holt. A bite from Moonsbreath’s wolf had left Rain stricken and semi-conscious in his den. His strength failing, it was all he could to continue fighting the disease in his blood. There was no healer now to save the others who now sickened. The wolfpack had been halved by the grieving elves, and the bodies of the infected thrown into the river to be swept downstream, away from the Holt. But it was already too late for some.
Redmark was sobbing in Brownberry’s arms. His mother Fawnspot was dead. She too had been bitten – not by a wolf, but by a racoon she had tried to catch. The foaming sickness had taken her quickly, paralyzing her body first. But a kind death was little comfort to her son. He had not even been able to kiss her goodbye, even in death, for fear of contagion.
Her body too, had been given to the river, to be taken far away from the Holt.
Trueflight was also ill. And the foaming sickness was not taking her as gently as it had Fawnspot. She was even now bound to her bed, to keep her from hurting herself.
“Can’t the trolls offer some kind of help?” Grayling asked Bearclaw. “They have great skill in herblore.”
Bearclaw shook his head. “High Ones know I tried, cub. Offered to pay old King Greymung anything if he could offer me hope. But he turned me down. ‘Our potions are for trolls, not elves. And nothing kills the white-foam, elf. A dagger’s the only cure.’”
“That’s no cure!”
“It may be all that’s left to us.”
“Rain will recover. He’ll fight the infection.”
“Foaming sickness is a ruthless predator, cub. Even if Rain recovers... it may be too late.”
“But we’ve all got scratches and nips from tussling with our wolves and hunting in the woods! Father – this foaming sickness is everywhere this season. Racoons, treewees, wolves – and who knows how many of our healthy-looking wolves are developing the sickness even now. If Rain can’t recover... and if the trolls can’t help us.”
Bearclaw shrugged. “I... I can barely remember the stories of my father... of the last time the foaming sickness struck us. It kills many of us. But never all.”
“So all we can do is sit and wait and watch our kin die?”
“What would you have me do, Grayling?” he growled.
“Go back to the trolls! Beg them for anything. Even if they say it won’t work. Even if they say it’s poison to elves. Any potion they can mix for high fevers or paralysis. Something must work!”
Bearclaw shook his head. “The trolls are no answer. Greedy creatures... they’d take everything we have and give us nothing but a cup of slime-water. No, I won’t crawl and beg and let them think they can take advantage of our tribe!”
“You have to do something! You can’t simply sit and wait–”
“Enough!” Bearclaw’s face darkened. “It’s not your place to tell me what to do, lad. You tend to your mother. Leave the run of the tribe to me.”
“You cannot let her die!”
“I said ‘enough.’”
“Don’t you have any feeling for her? If it were Joyleaf ill you’d go to the trolls–”
Bearclaw struck Grayling across the face, and the blow sent him reeling.
“Enough, boy! I’ve given you more patience than your ramblings deserve. Now go tend your mother.” For a moment his voice seemed to soften. “Don’t let her die alone... while you prattle on.”
Grayling retreated. But he did not go to his mother’s den. Instead he sought out Rain’s den. The healer lay motionless in his bed. Occasionally a little twitch of his lips or tick about his closed eyes betrayed his dire condition. His lifemate Moonsbreath mopped his brow with a damp leather. In the corner of the den, the infant Shale was sleeping in his hammock.
“How is he?”
“He’s a fighter,” Moonsbreath said. “But the sickness spread fast... so much faster than usual.” Her eyes fell to a bound wound at Rain’s side. He had tried to heal Moonsbreath’s sick wolf. After he fell Bearclaw ordered all wolves with so much as a nervous twitch shot from the safety of the trees.
“He sent to me a little while ago,” Moonsbreath added. “He’s so alone... inside himself.”
Grayling kept a respectful slience.
“He's asked if anyone has died from the sickness. I've lied and told him that only the wolves have suffered.”
Grayling started. “Can you lie? In sending?”
Moonsbreath sighed. “When one is this sick... it's harder to tell. I only hope he believes me.”
Rain began to shiver, and Moonsbreath threw a fur over him. “He’s always either too hot or too cold.”
“Can you not tell when he will recover?”
“The next days are the crucial ones. He will awake again before the second coming sunrise... or my children shall lose their father, and I...” she shook her head sadly. She looked over at her infant son. “Shale... he's been fussing lately... coughing... refusing to nurse for long. He knows something's wrong.”
Grayling left Moonsbreath to her grief and returned to his mother’s den.
He found Trueflight thrashing in her bed. Rainsong was trying to offer her drink, but Trueflight whimpered and tossed her head as if Rainsong were offering her poison. She was convulsing in pain, and the muscles in her throat and jaw clenched and flexed under her skin.
“Don’t get too close,” Grayling warned.
“She won’t take food or drink. She’ll die from thirst before she dies from this.”
“That might be a blessing,” he whispered.
The hunters returned from the forest, with little to show for their night’s work. Few still had wolves to ride, and no one dared bring in a warm-blooded beast to eat, for fear of the foaming sickness. A few birds was all they had to feed a hungry tribe. Grayling, Rillfisher and Woodhue had speared enough fish in the stream and pools to keep everyone’s bellies reasonably full, while Woodlock and Moonshade hunted for nuts and berries. It was enough... for now.
“Come, Redmark,” Brownberry urged the youth. “Let’s go pluck these birds.”
Redmark slowly got to his feet and followed her. His gaze was hollow, his eyes bloodshot with tears.
“Where are Amber and Thistlemane?” Joyleaf asked. “They left to hunt on their own. But they should have come back now.”
It was nearly morning before they had their answer. Woodlock’s parents sent an open sending to the entire tribe. **We have suspected the worst for days, and now we know. Fever... pain in our throats when we try to swallow... pain in our stomachs... such pain shooting through our bodies. We don’t intend to die in torment and fear. We want to die on our feet, as Wolfriders, not as mad beasts. Farewell, our tribemates.**
Woodlock collapsed in horror, and the tribe knew his parents had sent him a more intimate farewell. Strongbow and Bearclaw led a team to find the hunters, while Grayling remained in camp, tending Trueflight. She fell into a sleep for a few hours, a small mercy.
The sun was just rising when Trueflight’s spasms returned. She tossed and fought against her bonds, and Grayling wedged a stick in her mouth to keep her from biting her tongue.
He knew that Rain would never recover in time to save her.
His hand drifted down to his dagger. It was the kindest thing to do.
But he could not. He was no hunter. He had no idea how best to strike, how best to spare her pain.
**Mother?** he tried sending.
The reply was garbled, like one trying to send through a bad dream.
**Hawk... lifemate? You?**
Grayling hesitated. **Yes, lifemate. It’s me.**
She was so far gone in the fever she didn’t recognize the distinctive sending of her own son. **Forgive... lifemate... forgive....**
**For what?**
**Should have... fought.... Recognition – kill... die rather than betray... forgive...**
Grayling winced. **There’s nothing to forgive, lifemate. I only wish.... I had lived... we could have raised your son together.**
**Child... should have been yours... how proud you would have been...**
**I’ve watched him... I... I am proud... very.**
**He’s... not a hunter... but... he’s a fine boy... worry – him – worry... such a gentle heart... such a weak bow arm...**
**He will be fine. He has his brother and father to care for him.**
**They... don’t understand... don’t... accept.... He’s all alone. Hawk... Sier...**
**Come join me, lifemate,** Grayling sent as the tears rolled down his cheeks. **Stop fighting... just... let go.**
**Sier... I can’t leave him...**
**You can, Mother,** Grayling sent softly. He touched her forehead. **Go with your lifemate. Go find Sier.**
Her muscles clenched once more, and she bucked against the leather straps. Then she fell back against the bed, and the tension eased form her limbs. Grayling cut her bonds and held her close as he felt the warmth gradually leave her body.
The hunters returned by noon, bearing the bodies of Amber and Thistlemane. Grayling staggered out of the tree-den to meet them.
“Aye, they’re gone,” Bearclaw growled. “Found them in each other’s arms at the base of the old ravine. Amber knew herblore well – looks like they took some smoke-thistle root. A quick death... and far gentler than the sickness would have given them.”
“Trueflight’s dead,” Grayling blurted out.
Strongbow bowed his head. Bearclaw looked away.
“Did you hear me, Father?” Grayling said. “My mother is dead!”
“I heard you, cub,” Bearclaw growled. He raised his hand as if to brush his long bangs out of his face.
“And you feel nothing?”
Bearclaw withdrew his hands and Grayling saw the tears in his eyes. “Don’t tell me what I feel and don’t feel, whelp!”
That night they howled for Trueflight, Amber and Thistlemane. Strongbow and Bearclaw howled the loudest. Longbranch comforted his grandson Woodlock, and once the bodies were lashed to logs and set adrift on the water, the two withdrew to the woods for quiet contemplation. Redmark climbed high into the trees to continue mourning his mother in solitude.
Two days later, little Shale began to grow listless, and Moonsbreath feared the worst.
The day after that, Rain finally emerged from his coma.
Shale regained his strength in his father’s care. No further wolves grew ill. Within a few months the Holt was almost back to normal.
One day Grayling picked up his mother’s bow and tried once again to learn to shoot. His left arm still would not keep steady.
“She was a grand huntress, lad,” Bearclaw finally said, after secretly watching his son try and fail at archery for close to a month. “But she wouldn’t want you to be what you’re not. And you’re no archer, that’s certain. Stick to your fishing spear and keep our bellies full of your namesake.”
“I want her to be proud of me,” Grayling protested.
“She is, lad. I’m sure she is.”
Grayling looked at Bearclaw. “And are you proud of me, Father?”
Bearclaw gave an uncomfortable shrug. “You’re a good lad, Grayling.” He patted his shoulder clumsily. “Of – of course I am. One day... you might make a good chief after all.”
Grayling opened his mouth to protest. But he checked himself. If that was the only way Bearclaw could express his love for his child, then so be. It was enough. And Grayling gave a shy nod.
Elfquest copyright 2014 Warp Graphics, Inc. Elfquest, its logos, characters, situations, all related indicia, and their distinctive likenesses are trademarks of Warp Graphics, Inc. All rights reserved. Some dialogue taken from Elfquest comics. All such dialogue copyright 2014 Warp Graphics, Inc. All rights reserved. Alternaverse characters and insanity copyright 2014 Jane Senese and Erin Roberts