Skógafoss

[Thalia]

He had slept many long summers while the world drowsed; when wolves were just wolves, and those who entered the dream did so without knowledge or intention. But ancient things stirred once more, among them new brothers and sisters woken blind and mewling into an existence that did not care for them. Two-legs did not always heed the importance of pack. And they certainly did not remember beyond their short frantic lives. The turn of ages was an unknown concept. They had forgotten much.

Thankfully wolves did not forget, not naturally anyway, and Thorn Paw's was among the oldest of souls in the dream. He shook the sleep from his old bones when those first vulnerable chirps pierced his consciousness, and observed as others nurtured these new weak things and the dream grew thicker with howls, not lonely, but united. The old wolf stretched languorously to the knowledge, tail high, toes spread, jaws widened in yawn, only to pad back round in his den, content to let younger hearts guide.

At least until his rest was disturbed by the endless pounding of man paws; a single, lonely set that thudded ceaseless every time they entered the dream.

This time when Thorn Paw roused, it was not to his sun-basked twilight home of warm rocks and dappled clearings, but a tundra of ice and wide lonely vistas. Cold scent flooded his senses, his thoughts reaching out in vain to any brethren, ears perked to the silence punctuated only by those pounding footsteps.

He watched the pup for a long while; the desperation of the run, night after night, year after year. Creaking bones might have rushed a parallel path and forced notice -- certainly he had always been there watching, but he waited for others to rally as they usually did. As time flushed forward, the young one would be found in the waking world and sheltered protectively in this one. His pack would grow around him, robbing him of his man-sight or flourishing the delicate balance between both two-leg and wolf.

Either way he would be claimed.

He should be claimed.

But no pack came.

And so Thorn Paw continued to follow, until the day the two-leg remembered to use at least one of his senses (the wrong one, but still) and finally realised he was no longer alone. The surprise scented strong, though ignored while Thorn Paw sated his thirst. He had forgotten how obtuse the two-legs could be when they knew not what they were. A dog, indeed. A grave insult had it been made knowingly, but Thorn Paw only provided a rather pointed correction.

He mirrored the pup's unease, flashing tongue to soothe. A yawn cracked his jaw to ease the tension, though the pup seemed too dense to understand. He seemed rather fixated on what Thorn Paw was rather than why he was here. Impossibility meant little to wolves. He was asking the wrong questions. Irritation snorted through the wolf's nose as he stood, slow so as not to startle. 

A sending urged the pup to follow. Large prints followed by smaller in the snow. Sometimes the new ones struggled with even the most basic instructions, so wedded to the communication of their flapping mouths they failed to see the swift simplicity of wolf-speak. Still, he did not refrain from articulating more, though made great effort to send the images slow and clear. A young cub shivering in the ice, head low, tail drooped. The eye stretched endless ice in all directions; no swift running shadows, no mother's warmth or the soft bodies of siblings. Not even the faint comfort of a howl. A pup utterly lost. Where is your pack?