The stars spun imperceptibly above them, shifting across the night sky ever so slightly as the Earth moved though its orbit and spun about on its axis. Sometimes the wolf felt as if he were about to be released into the sky, as if gravity had relaxed its tender grasp and let him go. He let his eyes relax, resting gently on the grand scene before him, and let his muscles loosen. A little surprisingly, lying splayed on the hard ground was extraordinarily comfortable, especially after a busy day. All parts of him were relaxed and at peace, and as he stared upwards he could almost see the constellations rotating around the North Star.
He enjoyed the stories of the constellations, and really, he enjoyed any stories at all. It had been quite a long time since the wolf had much to read, and the things he used to have memorized were slipping away. Were he not constantly surrounded by tribesmates and other potential friends, the fading of plays and books that he had had memorized might have bothered him. When he had lived in solitude his books were his sole companions, the characters in the pages his only friends. With real friends came the lack of necessity for imaginary ones, and Hamlet and Pierre Bezukhov retreated back to the realm of forgotten fiction. Hemming's new friends were more responsive and less neurotic, and he didn't take time to mourn the loss of the old ones. |