The Fenrir Saga - Part I

Chapter 1 - Running

Beonnie

Werewolves never run. Or, well, to be honest, we love to run. We run all the time—for fun, to hunt, or on full moon nights together with our pack. We run in all ways but one—we never run away. When the "fight or flight" adrenaline kicks in, we never choose the flight option. Just fight. Always fight.

I sighed, not this time, though. This time, I was in full flight mode, cast away like I was nothing. The last three days had been life-changing for me. And they had ended in the most expected yet the most agonising way.

"I exile you."

Alpha Brett Carson had been unforgiving. I was an innocent bystander, but my affiliation, family, and, more specifically, my father were not. The shame of being exiled made me blush. Werewolves were pack creatures. That is how we lived, defended ourselves, and were. To be banished from the pack was not just humiliating; it was a loss of everything I knew and a plunge into isolation.

 I'm sure people would argue that death was worse, but I don't know. The pain was like drowning. Slowly. I was now a rogue, easy prey for anyone I came across. I guess, in a way, it was like dying.

However, I could not say that I was surprised. My family had never engaged in the pack life per se. My father was from some faraway part of the world, Northern Europe. He had only ended up in our territory by mistake when he, as a lone wolf, strayed into the Dark Moon territory one day. He managed not to get himself killed as the first patrol he stumbled upon happened to include my mother.

She had convinced the alpha to let him stay and join the pack. They fell in love, of course, but for the many reasons that all started with my father, they ended up building a small cottage on the outskirts of the territory rather than living with the rest of the pack.

In our tiny house we lived, well, had this been the fairytale I would have wished for – I would have liked to say that we lived peacefully, but the looming darkness that never seemed to leave my father made peaceful the wrong word to use. 

And now, I needed to leave a little over 17 years after my father crossed the border.

I hurried back to the cottage and put what I thought I needed in my backpack. I found the hiding place my father had directed me to, where I found some money, a leather pouch, and some photographs. I grabbed it all and put it in my bag with some personal things. My hand flew up to my neck, and the unusual feeling of the jewellery reminded me of his last words.

"Beonnie. Take this! Please take this. You'll need it!"

A necklace was hardly something I expected to need at some point. But he was my father. I still loved him.

I looked around.  I didn't want any traces of me remaining here, in this house, in this pack, when I left. I was humiliated and ashamed, and the layer of shame was not only because I was exiled but also because I felt like a coward. I ran away. I ran away not only because I was forced to. I also did it because I didn't want to stay for the execution of my father. 

His death sentence was being effectuated later tonight, and he had begged me to leave before it happened. I knew that had I been the strong daughter I should have been, I should have stayed and supported him. Fearing for my safety after his death, my father had urged me to run instead, to sneak out before anyone missed me so that I could live to see another day.

I had had an internal debate about it.

Should I stay and try to save his life?  Should I try to break him out? I didn't know if I was strong enough. I didn't know if I had... it... in me. The berserk that overran my father when he was enraged, an unknown force that overtook even such a strong wolf as my father's. He had once called it an ancient power inherited through the ages from his ancestors. The ones with the funny language he had insisted on teaching me.