Wild Watchtower: Shield & Claw Book One

Chapter Six: My Sister's Keeper

Fiáin hadn't eaten in three days, and no one had seen her in two. We knew she was in her room, only because she would never go off alone, but she'd withdrawn from the pack. I couldn't blame her; I'd seen the betrayal in her eyes that first night, when our father told her about Físí Faireinbhear. We'd all been shocked, and as much as I wished my sister would become the wolf that she had it in her to be, I had always expected to remain her keeper; her alpha, guardian, and her protector. I worried that our father had miscalculated; that by sending her away, he might be the cause of her demise, because my sister might just fade away.

My mother must have feared the same, because she barely spoke to my father. She deferred to him, obeying his rule without question in order to set an example to his pack, but a tension lingered between them that hadn't been there before. A tension I'd never, ever seen in the course of my life.

Aisling harboured some resentment too, both because of whatever argument she’d previously had with Fiáin over her own departure, and because Fiáin would be mated first, becoming a beta female in her own right. It wasn't like Aisling to be anything less than sympathetic. In truth, I suspected she channelled her frustration in Fiáin's direction because she couldn't direct it at our father. None of us could. It wasn't our place to question our patriarch.

And yet... as I cast a furtive gland over at where he sat, stiff and silent beside Mother, I wanted to question him. I wanted to tell him to reconsider sending Fiáin away.
“Do you have something you wish to say, son?” he asked, his determined gaze meeting mine. His fierce expression challenged, daring me to gainsay him.

I bowed my head, shaking it slightly, before I even realised that I intended to move. My father was my alpha, and every instinct I had told me to follow his lead... All except for the one small voice in my head that insisted Fiáin would be safer at home. That solitary voice whispered, nagging, reminding that it wouldn't be my father who called the shots during any war that came our way. Sending Fiáin away to protect her from it shouldn't be his call, because I needed her. In truth, she was one of the best sailors we had, and if she could overcome her fear, she would've been an asset to me. Maybe even more so than Aonair and Éiri.

My father refocussed on eating, and I closed my eyes, still debating whether to speak or stay silent. How would I ever lead if I didn't have it in me to stand up for what I believed? How could I wage war against a real tyrant, if I couldn't even speak to my own father?

“If you put her in a cage, sold to the first bidder, far from home, you'll suffocate her...” The words slipped out, even before I decided to voice my concerns.

Looking up, my eyes met my father's again, over the table laden with delicious smelling food platters and goblets of elvish mead, which had all failed to hold my interest. He bristled and I straightened in response; I'd started my tirade and so I might as well finish it.

“She did well in the hunt; she can play a role in this pack. And she's better on board a ship than any of us. If she overcomes her fear, I could use her, when the time comes. I don't mind her being here, any more than you mind Uncle Aonair being here. We could make it work. She doesn't have to leave if she doesn't want to.”

“She has to do as I order, I'm still her alpha until she reaches her mate’s territory,” my father responded, his expression grim and his posture straight. “I am still in charge of this pack, am I not?”

The dare could be heard in his voice now, too. Goading me, as if he wanted me to defy him. Maybe he needed someone to make an example of, and I was a better choice than my pregnant mother or Fiáin herself. I couldn't be sure.

“Of course, father. But if the high elves were right – and I pray to the gods that they are wrong – then it won't be you who leads us against the shadow empire. It'll be me. Cuannagealán and the Western Ports will be my responsibility. This pack will be my responsibility, and I think Fiáin has a place here,” I answered, hating every word of that  admission; that part of my argument lay in the prophecy which said my father would die, and I would be promoted into a position I doubted myself ready for.

My father sighed, a flicker of grief in his eyes as he shook his head, “There are still things neither you nor she understand, Cróga. My responsibility is to keep this tower, and the two of you, safe until you can take your places. You must be here, but sending Fiáin to Móinéarglas might keep her safe.”

“And if you're wrong?” I demanded.

“I can't afford to be wrong,” my father retorted. “One day, you will understand what it is to be obligated to chart the right course for a pack, a fleet, and a whole region of Tírlaochra, but for today, I need you to trust me.”

“You aren't infallible!” I stated, frustration getting the better of me. “You could be wrong!”

I heard cutlery clatter onto plates as my siblings stared at me, in as much shock as they had Fiáin when she announced that she hated our father. My mother turned towards me with a plea written in her expression, a request that I back down, but I’d gone too far to let the matter lie. Standing, I pulled myself up to my full height, glaring down at my father and trying to appear as determined, as uncompromising, as he often seemed to be.

“I want Fiáin's help with the fleet. Even if she doesn't fight, she can help train others to sail our warships and navigate the rocks and reefs which may scupper our vessels. She has a place amongst my forces.”

My father growled at my claim, his lip peeling back in warning as he stood, rounding the table so he stood almost chest to chest with me, and stating, “That is not where she needs to be, son, and this is not a battle you want to fight with me. You aren't ready for it yet. Now sit down.”

Despite the relentless urge to do as my alpha ordered, I shook my head, my posture tense, knowing he would have to make me submit if I continued to rebel, and yet knowing that I needed to make a stand as well. I needed to know that I could follow my convictions, even if it meant hardship and pain. And defying my alpha would certainly bring pain, at least in the short term. I had to respect myself and my own judgement enough to follow this through, even as I forced my father to do the same.

“Ready or not, this is the right course of action. I will not bow unless you make me do so,” I answered, and heard my mother's shocked gasp at my unusual defiance.

My father frowned, but a little more respect showed in his expression than I'd expected, even as he began to divest of his clothing, preparing to shift into his wolf form.

“If you insist, Cróga,” he murmured. “On your head be it.”

Stepping back, I shirked off my own shirt too, whilst eyeing my father warily. No etiquette demanded we fight in wolf form, and by challenging his authority, I had given him permission to lash out in his human form, just as he could with claw and canine fangs.

As I watched him, I became ever more aware of the multitude of scars that marked his arms and chest, documenting a lifetime of challenges overcome; challenges I had yet to face. Some of those scars, he'd picked up from hunting or protecting the tower, but many he'd gotten from his own siblings as he fought to claim the beta position, securing his status as my grandfather's heir. The worst of his scars, claw marks which ran from his left pectoral to his right hip, had come from my grandfather himself. This was our way. A wolf's way of determining who should lead, and whether controversial decisions should be upheld or overturned.

“Are you sure you want to do this, son?” my father asked.

“Want to? No, not at all,” I confessed, shaking my head. “But I need to. I think you've made an error of judgment, so I have to do this. If I didn't... I'd never be able to respect myself.”

My father nodded once, then his skin rippled over shifting bones, his body contorting and sprouting fur, in a change that was almost too swift and smooth to follow. I shifted too, knowing he wouldn't hesitate if I did anything less than move. Backing into the centre of the great hall, away from the banquet tables around its outer edge, we began to circle one another. We ignored how our family’s interest and agitation as we appraised each other; every move and twitch, each snarl and flick of a tail.

When he lunged, he struck like lightening, darting towards me and snapping at my neck, even as I twisted away. Backing up far enough to avoid his teeth, I countered with my own attack; a mistimed bound that drew me no closer to my target as he skidded away, claws clicking and scraping against the stone floor.

I had no doubt that I was stronger than my father, I might even possess more stamina, but he had both speed and experience on his side. He pounced and feinted, keeping me reacting; ensuring I had to defend rather than attack.  Irritation drew a growl from my throat, but my father only leapt at me again, claws raking down my shoulder as he sought to gain purchase on my flesh.

I refused to be so easily overcome...

Using my strength to twist away again, I pulled free of his grip, even though my flesh tore more to do so. Bleeding, already panting, I knew my only chance of beating him was to overpower him quickly, to use brute strength before he weakened me with his lightning quick attacks. I had to pin him, to get my bodyweight over his in such a way that he couldn't shake me loose. It was the only way. And I would only have a chance or two to achieve my goal.

When he tried to press his initial advantage, I lunged around him, my fangs gripping his scruff, sinking through fur and flesh, while my claws tore at his side, making sure the scent of his blood flavoured the air, just as mine did. But he was no more willing to submit than me, and proved himself no more concerned by sustaining injury either. Jerking back, he yanked himself free of my grip, blood welling to pour over his neck and chest, staining his grey fur in tones of dark ruby and crimson.

My own russet coat had been streaked with gore; blood that dripped onto the stone floor. But the burn of torn flesh meant nothing to me as adrenaline spiked.  The copper flavour on my tongue encouraged the wolf in me to lunge again and again, instinct urging me to claw and bite, even as my father did the same. In those violent moments that followed, maybe we were more wild animals than ‘people'. Maybe we earned the way elves often spoke of our kind, with scorn that said we were lesser creatures.

A large forepaw swiped down the side of my snout, claws stinging as they cut into me, and I growled, biting at the offending limb. Another swipe, and my father’s claws dug into my haunches, even as my teeth cut into his ear, tearing a chuck of flesh from him. Neither of us showed any sign of letting up and no one tried to intervene, aware that now it had started, this battle had to come to its own conclusion.

I gave everything I had, confident that against any other pack member, I would have won, but my father had earned his right to lead. As more and more of my blood flowed from an ever-increasing number of wounds, my body started to slow, my attacks becoming sluggish, and even my growls sounded a little feebler.

On the other hand, if my father struggled to maintain the pace of his furious assaults, I didn't notice. His ears remained up, alert. His tail stayed raised in a position that said he knew he could dominate me, and it seemed so much easier just to bow out...

My breath came in rasping, ragged pants, each inhale tugging at the cuts that littered my chest and sides. A whine escaped me against my will, and I resented the sound, even as I forced another snarl to follow it. I lashed out again, paw swiping at my father, and missing as he darted away again. My brain felt foggy. My body ached with exhaustion and injury, and I knew, sooner or later, I would lose.

Perhaps I should have lain down, rolled over; given my father my belly and submitted. But I remembered Fiáin's tears, and I remembered how she'd forced me to abandon my worries for a while to join her on The Sea Wolf, and I just couldn't do it. Forcing myself to keep moving, I kept fighting, even when my father landed on top of me, bearing down on me when I no longer had the strength to throw him off.

His jaws closed on my neck, his claws dug into my sides, and no matter how I thrashed and bucked, I couldn't dislodge him. When my body finally stilled, it wasn't a choice. Pain and exhaustion bound my limbs more effectively than any rope or chain, and even though I could hear the rasp of my father's ragged breathing, and feel it, hot on my fur, I didn't have the strength left to use his own weariness against him. Still, even then I didn't want to give in, and despite lying prone under him, breathing hard, a low growl continued to rumble in my throat, and I made no attempt to submit.

It didn't matter. My father had his victory and he was willing to wait me out. His teeth remained where they were, cutting into my neck, while his body held me down against the cold floor. My blood smeared across the stone slabs under me, and even more of my strength seeped away.

When a second whine left my lips, it wasn't a choice. The sound seemed pathetic, and my ears went back, flattening, as instinct finally making me submit. Sensing the change, my father released my neck, lifting some of his weight off me. Not enough that he couldn't pin me again if necessary, but enough that I could try to roll over, to offer my vulnerable underside.

I only made it onto my side, too tired and sore to do more, but he accepted the attempt, removing the rest of his weight from me. He stood beside me, unbowed; our rightful alpha male, and I couldn't so much as raise a paw. Rubbing his head against my cheek, he told me without words that we were alright; that he didn't hold my challenge against me. When I didn't respond, he reverted to his human form, his skin still ragged and painted in blood.

“You fought well. Better than I did the first time I defied my father. I'm proud of you; at least I know my pack will go to the most able person, when the time comes.”

With that, he walked away, taking his seat at the table once more, and tearing a leg off a roast chicken as if he wasn't bruised and injured, having just fought another adult male. It took me longer to move, to drag myself onto my feet and out of the hall, climbing slowly, agonisingly, upstairs, to collapse in the doorway of my room. I couldn't make it to the bed, and I didn't have the energy to care.

Sometime later, an elvish healer arrived to apply poultices and bandages to the worst of my wounds, probably at my mother's insistence. I would've preferred to be left alone to lick my wounds and sleep, but I didn't rebel against his ministrations. I was in no fit state to fight anyone further.