Night had now fallen, making some parts of the forest almost pitch black. Thankfully his paws knew the way, and the old snow was riddled with game trails. His paws slipped here and there on the packed ice, but the wolf was never unbalanced. This was his fifth spring, so he was no stranger to walking on ice, metaphorical or physical. His destination was close, he would know even with his eyes closed.

He would return to this place as often as he could, despite the fact that the grand old oak gave him the chills. He could see her ghost there, her pale body laid out as if asleep between the thick roots lingering in the corner of his vision. He knew she wasn’t really there, and that it would be impossible to do so, but he always caught just a whiff of her scent. Mental ghosts, he called them, playing tricks on his senses.

Approaching the tree after a day of foraging and hunting in the forest, the brown wolf caught the scent of another wolf, drowning out the tickling nose-ghost of his former mate. With a huff, Ryth slowed his pace so as not to make so much noise and circled round. One of the oak’s old neighbours had fallen many years ago and lay crumbling under the encroaching brambles. It provided good screening for a little spying mission.

The female seemed to be talking, her accent an intriguing brogue. Clearly this wolf was no highborn, and Ryth decided he would probably take an instant liking to her. But who was she speaking to? He couldn’t see anyone, nor smell nor hear. Was she talking to herself? Or to ghosts...? A chill ran up Ryth’s spine, ruffling his already mussed pelt.

His emerald eyes peeked over the fallen oak, but no apparitions stood before him. The tawny she-wolf was alone, but he got the feeling she was not exactly talking to herself. In fact, the more he heard, the more he could believe Snow was really there. Did this stranger see his dead mate? Did she know her? The mention of the ethereal wolf’s son only confirmed his suspicion. This wolfess had known Snow, and she knew their son.

Haunches bunched, Ryth hopped onto the fallen tree. The bark was soft and slippery, and it was all he could do not to slip straight off the other side. “Oop,” blunt claws sloughed off some of the rotten bark, but he finally got his balance. Not exactly a suave entrance, but at least the ‘harmless first impression’ was complete. “Hi,” he greeted her with a grin. Feigning ignorance, he asked, “What’re you doing?”

With a stranger he could keep the memories in the back of his mind, focus on the task at hand, but confronted with a friend of his son... it was like his son stood before him and he wasn’t sure how to react. The overwhelming feeling that he was close to finding his son sped his heart, but his had to keep calm; he’d had his hopes dashed against the rocks more times than he could count, he didn’t want to build them up again just yet.

It seemed he’d startled the poor young wolf though, so he focused on her own distress rather than his own. Trying not to sound urgent, he (carefully) sat himself down on top of the trunk, “Sorry girly, didn’t mean to startle you like that. I guess you and this friend are pretty close, paying respects to his,” he carefully avoided the word ‘mother’, “loved one.”

Ryth wondered what she was to his son. A pack sister? A mate? The desperate urge to know everything she had to tell him about his son and his life was almost too much to keep down. He felt as if he let it slip even a little, it would all come bursting out. What’s his name? How is he? What is he like? Anything just to answer one of his many questions.

She was a queer wolf, that much he knew. She’d mentioned the Creator when speaking to Snow, as if he was watching over her. So long as this Creator was a deity and not some other wolf, Ryth was glad that someone could keep her safe in whatever afterlife she was in. It was more than he had done when she lived. His facade faltered a little more.

Ryth wasn’t much of a theist, but this pup’s idea of how wolves were made was quite intriguing. He knew from the moment he met Snow that her name more than suited her. When this creator made her, he must have scraped the snow from the mountaintops and formed the most beautiful snow-wolf. She always seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, her kisses were soft like snowflakes, and she melted away just as easily.

His eyes dropped to the patchy snow around them, and he sighed, breath clouding in the cold night air. What he wouldn’t do to have her with him again, even for a moment. The little she-wolf before him suggested his grizzle was formed of snow, and that brought a wistful smile to his lips. If that were true, perhaps his mate was with him after all.

As the tawny wolf continued to speak about his son, he looked up quickly. This time he couldn’t hide his interest. She spoke only a few sentences, but the wealth of information was more than he had gathered in the last year. A kind and noble wolf. Respectful of his mother. Looked a lot like his father. “His name is Hythyr,” he breathed, eyes glimmering as they met the young wolf’s gaze.

He was silent then, his eyes darting between each of hers. Back and forth. Back and forth. When it seemed he wasn’t going to reply, he finally spoke, “He is my son.”

Lowering his gaze, he hopped down from the log and passed the she-wolf to the roots of the old oak tree where his mate was buried. “Her name was Snow, his mother,” he explained, looking to the earth. He looked older when his smile was gone, and his ragged coat only exacerbated his dejected appearance. The wolf clearly missed his mate, but he couldn’t stand to be alone with his ghosts, “You don’t have to go, Snow always liked company. Ryth is my name. What’s yours, girly?”

Guilt was like a muddy puddle: murky and sticky, and hard to get out of if it was too deep. If you stopped stepping on it, eventually it would dry up and crust over; but just a single tear could wriggle through the cracks and reawaken the grief and should it rain with fresh pain, that grief became alive once again. It seemed to Ryth that his life was a constant drizzle.

He glanced to the tawny wolf with sympathetic eyes. Ryth knew all about unfair loss, and how packs could decide the fate of one wolf in a moment. The older wolf met her gaze as she looked up to him, and he wondered if he should be poking at that old grief. The young wolf was definitely questioning everything, but Ryth could not be angry with her, she was just curious. What he didn’t want to do was overshadow her loss with his own, play some queer game of ‘my hurt is bigger than yours’.

Ryth had heard countless times that ‘talking about it helps’, but in truth, the wolf was far to frightened to get over his grief. It was as if the grief was all he had left of his lost ones. If it dulled, would he forget them? Would it make their deaths all okay? He remembered his brother, and he knew that their deaths would never be all okay.

“I never knew my son. His mother and I were... separated when she was with child. She died of sickness before I could find her,” It pained Ryth that that was all he knew. The love of his life had died and ‘sickness’ was all the explanation he had for it? Had she suffered? Had death been gentle? He didn’t want to answer any more of her questions, not if they were going to prompt so many painful ones of his own.

The night was getting late, so Ryth turned away from his mate’s grave and went to the hollow caused by the fallen tree when his roots had torn out of the ground. The shadow enveloped him, and only his green eyes caught the starlight when he glanced up to the young female. “I’m a lone wanderer too. You’re welcome to stay here for the night, on one condition,” his teeth glinted in the darkness, a smile. “Tell me your name.”

Just listening to Caprina was tiring. The young wolf was babbling and full of more questions, and Ryth could only nod and smile politely until she finished. He should learn to hold his tongue next time someone asked about his past, it brought old memories unbidden to the forefront of his mind, and they were no less painful than they had been when they happened. Best not stir up that old puddle and avoid the topic entirely.

“Don’t worry about it, Caprina,” the black wolf hunkered down in the soil basin, finding the most comfortable place to sit. He dug a few little roots out of his way and nosed a stone around until he was satisfied. Cats might sleep anywhere, but wolves were picky. “I’ve already eaten, but thanks for the offer. It’s late, and I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said wryly.

In a more serious tone, he continued, “I would very much like your company, Caprina. I’ve been searching for my son for a long time, and if you could help me towards finding him, I’d owe you a great favour.” He held her gaze for a moment, hoping he wasn’t exploiting the eager wolf’s nature to please.

Serious moment aside now, lest the conversation turn back to his past, the shaggy male flopped down in the little hollow and rested his head on his paws. With a grunt and a bit of wiggling, he was finally comfy enough. “Hole’s big enough for two, if you’re sleeping. I don’t bite,” he chuffed and closed his eyes, “Not much, at any rate.”

The black male cracked and eye open at her reply, “Hmm, suit yourself. I’ve been sleeping alone for years now, I’m used to the cold,” the last words were muffled as her buried his nose under a wrist. Eyes closing up again, Ryth began to drift off. Truth be told, the friendly company was nice, but he could understand her reluctance to trust him. He didn’t exactly look trustworthy with matted coat and tattered ears. He was a wolf that had been a long way and had been through a lot, and it showed.

The night did not pass quickly for the wolf, he didn’t get fully to sleep for a long time and when he did, it was in fits and starts. Tomorrow was the day he might meet his son, and that was no simple thing. He felt that overwhelming hope that he last felt when he was hot on Snow’s scent, the day before he found her still and lifeless. He dreamed of meeting his son, yet he dreaded it. So many things could go wrong, and Ryth was expecting all of them. He tried to only think of the good things, he could save his bad feelings for the event that the meeting actually went wrong.

His name, Hythyr, a name he and Snow once picked should they have a male pup. He smiled at the memory, of him and Snow quibbling over names. Jyslyn, Sylys, Mysyrys for girls, Jyrn, Gythr, Hythyr for boys. Snow had looked so round when he last saw her – he dread not think what happened to the rest of the pups in the litter. Surely Hythyr had not been in there alone... Ryth sighed and closed his eyes tighter, as if he could force himself to sleep. If he had found Snow earlier, if he had ran with her and not stopped to fight his brother, would there have been more pups?

Sorrow and guilt as familiar to him as the back of his paws finally lulled him to sleep for a few hours and when he woke, the forest was beginning to lighten. Dawn. Already. Today was the day he met his son. Ryth could feel himself almost quivering with the bottled turmoil of feelings. Excitement, guilt, anticipation, trepidation. He took a deep breath and tried to wrap a calming aura around it all. Just focus, Ryth, pretend you’re on a hunt or in a fight. Don’t let your feelings rule you now. Not yet.

By the time he’d had a stretch and eased out the stiffness in his joints that set in during sleep, he was ready. “Caprina?” He scrambled out of the hollow, peering round the root ball for the young female. Dawn was breaking fast, and it seemed it would be a bright calm day. A good omen? He hoped so. He really truly hoped so.

The grizzled male turned at the sound of her voice, and was surprised at what he saw. He’d known Caprina was young, but until the sun came up he didn’t realise quite how few years she had seen! She couldn’t be much more than a yearling, yet simply by her voice and maturity, he would have guessed she was at least two. How did one so young become so capable? And she was a huntress too. What a little mystery she is, Ryth thought to himself.

He greeted her with a smile and took the rabbit without complaint. It had been a long time since anyone had hunted for him, and the gesture was appreciated. “Thank you, Caprina. That’s another favour I owe you – I feel like I may be in your debt for some time after today.” He tucked into the rabbit then, listening to her plan.

Packs and borders, not Ryth’s most favourite of subject. He had a problem with packs and trusting them, but if his son was in one, he would have to suffer the stuffy traditions. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Caprina. I’ll wait at the border like a good little submissive,” he winked, and crunched on a foreleg. Really, he had no idea if a proprietary border would stop him once he was on the scent of his son. He’d crossed borders before for less.

“So Caprina, you don’t have a pack?” She didn’t smell like one, and she braved the world like a tough little loner. He admired the little wolf, strangeness and all.