Written in her Stars

°☆•Nine•☆°

Lear

When he woke up, opening his eyes carefully, fighting against a vague feeling that something... wasn't right, Lear found himself in a forest he did not recognise. He was alone, dressed in a set of clothes that did not belong to him. What happened, how did he get here...? And where was here, anyway?

Feeling weak a confused, he pulled himself into a sitting position, squinting against the strong sunshine which assaulted his eyes, the bright light streaming in single beams through the gaps among the leaves of the trees growing all around, creating a thick green canopy above him. He shook his head to clear it-- it seemed to be filled with black, impenetrable fog obliterating a part of his memories-- then pulled himself to his feet grogily. He had the strangest headache; his head felt... empty and too full at the same time.

Focusing his senses on his surroundings, he noticed a whisper of a distant waterfall, the sound, and the smells the place contained vaguely familiar, even more so the distinct scent of a female werewolf that lingered in the memory of the forest, and tugged at something hiding deep in his own mind. He must have crossed the scent before; it must belong to one of the females in his pack... He should finally open his eyes and look for a mate, he was old enough to marry.

Lear chuckled, the thought would undoubtedly please his father. He needed to guard his thoughts from the alpha well, he mused as he undressed and morphed. Otherwise, his father would take advantage of his momentary weakness and arrange a marriage for him in no time. Unlike Lear, his father did not believe that every werewolf had a fated mate. Maybe he was right.

But the scent... the scent was so much stronger in his wolf form, so sweet and unique and familiar... so perfect. Turning in the direction from where the scent was being brought to him on the breeze along with the sound of running water, he stared towards the waterfall he could not see. To whomever this girl belonged, was a lucky man... Shaking his furry black head he took the barely visible path snaking through the long grass at a run in the opposite direction, taking distance from the tempting scent, knowing without thinking about it that the path would lead him to King Magnus' castle and from there home.

He only realised how hungry he was when he couldn't resist the sight of a lone deer crossing his path. Surrendering to the needs of his wolf, Lear attacked and devoured the animal in no time, closing his eyes at the taste of the too fresh, still warm meat, its rawness and the smell of blood mildly disgusting his human part. It was something he did rarely; he preferred to eat in his human form. 

Just how much time had passed since he had last eaten, what was he doing in this part of the forest far out of bounds of the werewolf territory, in the king's land? What had happened? Why couldn't he remember anything beyond... telling someone about the abandoned tower his best friend Raoul had showed him a few days ag... recently? And whom had he spoken about it? he mused, confused by the strange time skip in his memory as he washed his bloody paws and muzzle in the stream, splashing in the cold water for a long while to remove the lingering strong odour of blood from his fur, then continued on his way, groaning when he realised too late that he had taken a wrong turn. 

Why would he come to the King's apple orchard? He had no business here. He had never met the man in person, but he disliked him for his cruelty in ruling the kingdom nonetheless, like the majority of his subjects. He stopped to observe the sand coloured walls of the castle through the last row of the ancient trees of the forest separating him from the orchard, the multitude of apple trees covering the sloping hillside all the way to the vast, placid lake.

The place was beautiful, no doubt... but there was something wrong with this feeling of admiration; it felt as if some other, stronger and deeper emotion lay wrapped in it, concealed by the layers of black fog filling his head. And the scent, the omnipresent scent of a female werewolf that had thinned almost to nothing in the forest, felt stronger here again.

Lear growled his impatience and frustration, the sound making one of the apple trees explore with the flock of birds that had been hiding in its branches. He had no time for daydreaming. If he had really spent days away from home, his parents must be crazily worried, they must be looking for him... He turned back towards the forest, and with one last look over his shoulder, he ran home.

As always, he revelled in the view of the forest unfolding in front of him as he ran, watching the trees change as he left the tidy kings' land, morphing into thicker and more natural and unkempt woods belonging to the numerous werewolf packs. He was at home... and yet something weighed him down, not allowing him to be as happy as he normally was upon his return home, making him stop and look behind towards Magnus' lands longingly too often. Just what did it mean? he wondered, pushing himself to run faster and focus on what lay in front of him-- his pack's forest, as well as his future of the alpha. His father was only waiting for him to settle to let him take his place of the head of the Blue Moon pack. And for the first time, Lear felt like the time to assume his responsibilities had finally arrived. He had no reason for stalling; he could also please his father... 

His parents' frantic thoughts penetrating into his mind the moment he neared his pack's lands, disturbed his reverie. He closed his eyes in desperation even as he ran faster. It really looked like he had been gone for a long time, but... where and why?

It wasn't his father, though, who had traced Lear's thoughts and found him first, but Raoul, his best friend from the Half Moon pack. Why was he even here? It didn't matter, Lear was happy to see him. He jumped at his friend's coppery brown wolf in a friendly salute the moment he approached him. Raoul was his closest and oldest companion, and Lear only realised now how much he had missed him.

Where have you been? Raoul spoke in his head, linking his mind directly to Lear's, shielding their conversation from the other werewolves Lear could sense moving in the forest nearby, his words fast and worried. You asked me to cover for you for one night, but you've been gone three... They came to look for you in my village, the packs have been searching the forest for you for days...

Allowing Raoul's confusing words to sink in, Lear skipped towards the rock formation standing by the brook, found his clothes and Raoul's in the crevice of the damp stone he always used as his hiding place, and the two friends shifted at the same time.

"I don't know. I don't remember," Lear muttered, his frustration turning into anger as he pulled his clothes on hastily. It was the most awful feeling knowing that he had forgotten something vital, some... one who had once been... as important as the air he breathed, a part of his very being. He knew he would never feel complete again. Or happy... But he couldn't think about it; he would drive himself into insanity if he did...

Raoul opened his mouth but closed it when Lear's father suddenly appeared behind him. "Don't, Raoul. Leave it. Remember what we talked about before." 

Raoul dropped his eyes to his bare feet before he lifted them to Lear's father, and a look of agreement and understanding passed between them before the older man turned to Lear. 

Lear wanted to ask what was this secrecy about, what had happened, what was he missing when his mother appeared behind the two, straightening the folds or her gown hastily, the sight of the small white hand against the bright blue fabric tugging at Lear's memory, making him forget about the men's exchange. 

She ran towards her only son and wrapped him in a bone crushing embrace, the strength of motherly love defying her fragile stature. "We've been so worried, Lear. You must never disappear like this again," she sobbed, hiding her face in his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. 

"I promise," he said, patting her back awkwardly. He had never seen his mother cry before.

"He's back. Call off all the wolves!" his father called, his words meant for whichever member of the pack would hear him and pass his words on.

"Let us go home, son," he spoke to Lear then, mentioning for Raoul to walk at his side as they preceded Lear and his mother into the village.