Each shade of blue is kept in our eyes

Anatole Aston · 04-15-2012, 09:31 AM

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His duties had become regular and fully-consuming. Anatole lived for his work—he enjoyed scouting as much as he did the other aspects of being a wolf. The fact he was given the power to aid the hunters was doubly reassuring, for Anatole was a hunter as his mother before him. Lesser tasks had been more difficult to muster, such as learning to ride a horse and dealing with the pigeons. These were terribly irritating to him, but he tried his best and no one could blame him for that.

The winter had done him well. Without the excessive traveling of a bachelor wolf he had filled out impressively, and took after both parents in size. He was long-legged like his mother, however, and moved with a fast trot through the forest he now knew far too well. Once before he had been taught to map, and he used his nose and his eyes and his ears to remind him of these things. It was through this latter sense he caught her, a cry that was familiar and spoke for him alone. Her voice had changed; he did not recall if this was the truth or if time alone had done such a thing to his memory of her.

Pale feet carried him swiftly towards the borders, leaving what had once been his mother’s den behind. It was his now, but it was familiar and comfortable. He could not have settled elsewhere if he tried. Anatole slipped through the fence line and hurried on. The white shape ahead was familiar, but oh how time had wounded her. New scars littered her coat and she looked smaller then he had remembered. “Hello Aunt,” he greeted her, and crossed the border. It was a clear indication he had little faith to allow her to pass.

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