I have no idea why I wrote this. All I can say in my defense is that it seemed like a good idea at the ti--wait no that's a lie, I said, repeatedly that this was stupid and shameful every time I mentioned working on it.

The truth is I needed to publish something before the end of the year and there is CLEARLY a burning need for wolf stories in the psyche of children using the internet. But then they write them badly, or make their wolves behave like clans of cats. So here is a simple straightfoward story of a young wolf leaving his pack in search of a better life. Maybe no one will ever feel the need to write another one now, or if nothing else maybe this will give them ideas for how to do it in slightly more minimum-standards-meeting ways.

Final conclusion however is that writing about some dumb animal with no agency is not something I'd recommend.

If you don't know what this is for, then it isn't for you.

A short, educational piece. Please remain sensitive and respectful in the comment section. (I'd hate to have to report you to an admin for bullying me.)

(DO NOT READ if you're at all easily offended or lacking in a sense of humor. There's nothing graphic at all in here, but seriously, I still cannot stress it enough, this story is not for you.)



Dedicated to the good people of COG.

Vote!

The Chosen Child The dust swirled around the trudging feet of the long column of refugees, and their horses and cattle, and the wheels of their creaky makeshift carts and wagons as well. Hansheld rode up and down the line, keeping people together, encouraging those that were struggling. He saw other soldiers here and there, former comrades who had ditched theirs out of fear, or wore it like any other set of dusty rags. His own uniform he still wore properly, clean as he could keep it and in good repair. But then he still had a mission guiding him, while these others were only retreating in utter defeat. When the ragged caravan came to a halt, he rode up to a specific wagon, this one carefully made to look absolutely no different from the rest. Inside was a young woman, only 17, cradling a newborn baby. “No sign of pursuit. It seems the enemy really doesn’t know you’re here.” “Let’s pray it stays that way. We only need to reach the port, and then my son will be safe.” She looked up at him as she spoke, fair skinned with freckles and light, wavy brown hair. Her eyes were blue as the sky and reflected an inner strength, undaunted by everything they’d seen these pasts weeks of loss and suffering. The baby opened his eyes too, the golden eyes of the ancient line of the Hawk Kings, that and the mark on his forehead meaning his parentage would never be in question even with him being born after his father’s assassination, only weeks after the marriage. “I’m glad you and the child are doing well, Queen Hestia,” Hansheld said with a bow after looking over them both. “And the kingdom still has hope as long as the boy is alive, he *is* prophesized to rule it.” For this reason tirelessly he kept up the watch of the caravan and the one wagon in particular, as they all made their slow way to the coast. Enemy soldiers were spotted here and there, swaggering and smug in their victory with their betrayer on the throne. “Long live the new King! Long live King Tragonne! That’s right, run away little chickens! There's nothing left for you here!” they would cheer, and jeer, throwing dirt clods and stones after the wagons. But thankfully with no real interest in what seemed just another poverty stricken train of fleeing refugees. Finally they reached the ships that would carry them to freedom among some old allies, but it was then that Hestia revealed her plan. “What do you mean you’re not going?” Hansheld asked, stunned. “My son will be safe, I’m leaving him with trusted maids. One of those women raised ME, I know she’s more than capable. And we have many wealthy friends across the sea, they'll know where to find them. ” “But you...?” Hestia lifted her chin and regarded him with her fierce blue eyes. “My son has been chosen by the gods to rule this kingdom. But sometimes you have to MAKE fate happen, so I will work to clear the way for him. Before the child comes of age, Tragonne and his closest followers will learn to fear my knife in the dark.” Hansheld’s attempts to convince her to think of her own safety didn’t go anywhere, and finally he gave in only if she agreed to let him stay too and help her. “Whatever happens, you are my Queen, and I will always stand by your side.” Running away had never sat right with him anyway. But still his hands trembled as he strapped on the sword he had thought he was setting aside for good. Bidding farewell to the ships, in the plain clothes of ordinary citizens, appearing just as a man traveling with his wife, the two of them made their way back the way they had come. Years went by, and they did all they could to help fate alone. Hestia had the easiest time, it was no trouble at all for a pretty young woman to get a drunk man alone, even army captains and nobility. But they used arrows or poison too when they could, a variety of methods to leave no pattern. Sometimes the escapes after this were harrowing, and they hid for weeks half starving in barns or caves, but helped now and then by trusted followers they were slowly collecting. The hardships drew them closer together, eventually as more than just a Queen and her loyal captain, and they found comfort in each other’s arms, becoming married soon after. A son was born, this one with only the blue eyes of his mother and Handsheld’s face. He had no prophecy from the gods, but Hansheld loved him dearly anyway. For a time this meant they couldn’t do their work against Tragonne the Betrayer, but the follower’s they’d collected picked up the slack, sabotaging supplies and the iron mines the soldiers depended on. In a couple of years the work resumed again, the child joining them in their travels and hardships as he grew, and becoming a part of their schemes. He was there when Hestia stood proudly over Tragonne’s bloodied corpse, dagger in her hand, and he caught her when she staggered and fell from her own wounds, blood staining her dress and pooling on the floor at his feet. Hansheld and his son kept a long vigil praying beside Hestia as the doctors worked, but nothing could be done. Her blue eyes stared heavenward as she grasped their hands and breathed her last, but the last word on her lips was neither of their names, but the chosen child she’d done all this for. Years passed. The revolution had had an easy time after the removal of Tragonne and so many of his most loyal followers, and an aging Hansheld oversaw matters of the kingdom now. “Sir, an armada has been sighted! They say the ships bear the banner of the Golden Hawk!” an stunned messenger informed him one day. “That would be Hestia’s first son, ready to take his rightful place now. Making it easy for him was what all of this was for,” Hansheld said, standing with a sigh. He and his son walked down to the beach to watch the distance specks of the approaching ships. “The kingdom is in pretty good shape, and the people are happy,” the young man remarked. “Everything has been done for him. But...*we* have a good armada too. And I’m just thinking of all that we sacrificed to get things this way, how I never had a normal childhood.” The young man’s voice took on a sad and reflective quality. “Mother lost her life, I held her in my arms while *he* was wealthy and comfortable in a nice home far away. But in the end she loved him more.” He stood there contemplating a little longer, then spoke again more decisively. “I’d trade a kingdom for what he got for nothing...but no, he doesn’t get to have both. Why did he even need to come here now? You know...maybe we should just keep what’s ours by right. What we worked for and earned. They say he’s the chosen one? The gods don’t choose fairly, if that’s true. But I wonder who REALLY even decides these things.” Hearing this, Hansheld’s own mind had drifted to all the long, hard years, the endless fighting and hunger and fear. It was true Hestia had never wavered in her purpose. But him? His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword and trembled, not from age but from the enormity of what he must do. He stepped forward, placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Then he gazed down at him with eyes glowing with love and pride. “You know, sometimes, we do have to MAKE fate happen.” Drawing his sword, hands steadied now with the resolve of what was to come, he pointed it at the armada and added with a quiet fierceness. “And sometimes, we have to defy it. Whatever happens, you are my son, and I will always stand by your side.”

The golden hero He knew this prophecy all too well, but he had never thought that he will be the one whose fate of the kingdom rested on his hands. After picking up his staff he headed to his first and final opponent. The last words of his teacher rang with each step in his head. “When the last shaman of Euphrates enters the capital, a city will fall and a golden age will be sown. The golden hero will then be known.” This mess had all started the moment his dear teacher let out his last breath. At first the overwhelming hurt overshadowed every rational thought in Mathis’ mind, but with each passing year this pain grew weaker as a certain numbness slowly settled in. With his dear teacher and his sole companion gone, he traveled aimlessly from one place to the other, not even bothering to check their names on the map. With his magic skills he made enough money to eat and sleep in some crummy hostel and to catch the next train if he was lucky. Mathis usually took the Eastern line, but after he had read in the papers that the neighboring country Tigris had bombed the main train station of that region, he decided to hop on the Western line instead. Perhaps a change of scenery would do his mind some good. Maybe he will at last be able to smell the scent of fresh grass or taste food that isn’t some formless shrub. Ever since he had left his teacher’s house, he had seen nothing but an endless span of desolate wastelands. So Mathis couldn’t help but be a little excited for the new things to come with this chance of plans. Well, he should have scolded himself for letting his hopes up. Although the city he arrived in was bigger than anything he had ever seen, his optimism got crushed when he witnessed the sickening smell of feces and rot coupled with the nauseous amount of smog spewing from the many factories in the area. The drab houses and the inhabitants’ gaunt and wary faces, only soured his mood even further. Mathis sighed as he aimlessly wandered from one street to the other. He should find a quick and dirty job and get out of this congregated pile of misery as soon as possible. Wallowing in his own disappointment, he bumped into someone, a young man around his age. Although he was dressed in fine clothing suited for a nobleman, his sunken cheeks and yellowed skin was more befitting to a factory worker. Just when he was about to exchange some firm words with him, he found himself dragged into an alleyway and pressed against the wall. “Please be silent for a moment,” the young man said while he pointedly looked behind his back. His thin body trembled. Mathis saw that the man’s eyes were directed at the guards passing though the main streets. As the distance between them increased, their once loud voices quieted. The young man let go of Mathis. His furrowed brows quickly morphed into a cheery smile. “Pardon me for my manners, but I’m grateful for your cooperation. The guards are getting better with each passing day. If you want a reward, please don’t be afraid to ask.” “Who in the name of Euphrates’ sickle are you?” “A mere street urchin struggling to survive in the harsh streets of the capital.” If it weren’t for his smirk and clothes, the act would almost be convincing. “Drop the act,” Mathis said. His eyes bore daggers at him. The man waved it off with a shrug. “It’s a pity that a traveler like you isn’t this naïve. My name’s Victor, I take residence in the capital’s palace.” “Why is your ass then in a place like this?” Victor halfheartedly gestured at his body. It was a wonder that the young man was able to move at all. “There aren’t any doctors who are able to cure my condition. I thought-“ Victor trailed off. His eyes got a wistful glint to them, a look Mathis was painfully familiar with. Discarding all his teacher’s stern lectures, Mathis took Victor’s hands in the spur of the moment. He closed his eyes as he poured his magic from his fingertips. It had been so long since he had used this technique. However, his inexperience didn’t deter him from locating the illness in the body. The main culprit turned out to be the liver. The familiar words of his teacher’s healing spell easily escaped from his lips. His eyes then opened. Slivers of green light soon dissipated while a rosy color returned to Victor’s skin. The boy looked at him with pure astonishment, his hands kept holding Mathis tightly as if he was his last lifeline. “Healing magic, you used healing magic. I thought- So you’re really a shaman?” “Don’t tell this to anyone, don’t want any trouble.” Mathis tried to pry his hands off him, but his attempt only strengthened Victor’s grip. His eyes sparkled under the glow of the setting sun. “Please tell me your name. It would be a shame if I didn’t know what my friend is called.” “Fr-Friend?” Heat crept up his cheeks. Wasn’t this all going a bit too fast? However, his heart swelled upon seeing Victor’s smile. Friend, a word so unfamiliar yet so wanted. “I’d like to know you better. Aren’t you traveling alone? Come with me if you want a place to stay,” Victor said. “The only payment is your name.” “How good is the food?” “To die for.” “Mathis, my teacher named me Mathis.” With a warm handshake and a brief exchange of smiles, a new bond had been forged. With Victor’s hand gently guiding him, Mathis came to know an entire different side of Euphrates’ capital. The food served in the gargantuan palace tasted beyond acceptable, the colors draping the furniture bombarded his eyes with vibrancy and the sheer size of the rooms left him shy of disbelief. After seeing how the guards treated Victor with utter reverence and how the king’s brother addressed him with a frosty politeness, it soon dawned on Mathis that his first friend wasn’t any regular nobleman, but the crown prince. Life in the court of Euphrates turned out to be just as isolating and dull as when he was hopping from station to station. However, this time around, he had someone by his side, his own golden hero. Despite Victor’s busy schedule, he always found time to chat up with Mathis. His own chest heated up whenever he smiled at him. His mere presence bathed his days with a shimmering golden light. However, this tranquil peace didn’t last long when news broke out that the aging king had died, leaving only Victor as the sole heir behind. An inevitable outcome though too soon for many. There was sadly no time for his friend to grieve. The day after the funeral, tragedy struck once again, when Mathis found Victor’s limb body lying in his bedchambers, barely clinging onto life. His hands trembled as time slowed down for him. After taking a glance at the half-eaten bowl of grapes on the table, he knew that the cause wasn’t an innocent illness, but a nefarious plot. Biting down the urge to panic, Mathis immediately started to prepare his spell. He gently cradled his dear friend’s cheeks and flooded the veins with magical energy. Concentration was the key and time wasn’t on his side. He couldn’t afford to stumble, to lose him. The poison wasn’t completely expelled, but his magic had at least halted its most harmful effects. His lips quivered. He didn’t want to return to the emptiness of the rail, not when he had someone else to live for. Just as his tears trickled down his cheeks and all hope had left Mathis’ heart, Victor opened his eyes. His hands soon clumsily clung onto him, his head rested on the crook of his shoulder. “I thought that Euphrates and my people- I thought that I had failed them,” He whispered. “Their welfare and livelihood will all depend on a weakling like me. I haven’t even considered the war against Tigris.” Mathis stroke Victor’s back, which trembled under his touch. It had been a long time since he saw his golden hero this small. There must be a way to ease his friend’s worries. Then his teacher’s words had at last dawned on him, the same old words that had for many years laid untrodden. “My teacher once had told me about prophecy. When the last shaman of Euphrates enters the capital, a city will fall and a golden age will be sown. The golden hero will then be known.” Mathis carded his hair, his touch remained featherlight. “Every prediction of him had come true. You’ll be a great king, don’t worry.” A calming silence had placed a spell on them. When the last slivers of daylight had burnt out, Mathis heard soft words escaping from Victor’s lips, breaking the unspoken law of their fragile peace. “The last shaman, there might be more.” Thus, with the arriving dawn, the warm persona of the young prince had quietly left to be replaced with a cold feverish fervor. The following day Mathis’ dear friend had ordered the execution of his own uncle. After Mathis saw the head tumbling off the chopping block, Victor took his hand and squeezed it. A sliver of his former self was seen in the wetness of his eyes. “Will you please stay by my side?” Mathis squeezed back. “I will.” How could he refuse? After this incident, coups and purges became a common sight in the palace grounds. Then came the hunt of every last mage residing in the kingdom. It started with the capital, then the smaller cities and at last the distant countryside. Victor wouldn’t explain his actions to him, but he somehow knew that it was related to the words Victor had whispered to him that night. There was not much difference between a mage and a shaman after all. After the last mage had been beheaded, Victor asked him that certain question again. “Will you please stay by my side?” It had always been these words. He knew how to reply. There was a time where his resolve had wavered, but every time he had pushed these intruding thoughts away. It was better to not think too much, to keep up this hazy dream of his. “I will.” He only had to say these two words. With the disappearance of magic in Euphrates’ armed forces, the kingdom became weak against Tigris’ attacks. The palace advisors reported more losses than wins with every passing month. Victor ignored their advice and continued ordering his men to an early grave. After another province had fallen, Victor invited him to his bedroom one quiet night. He asked Mathis whether he could design a more potent weapon. “What are you planning?” “A gas which burns the victim’s lungs and veins. Please make its natural odor something soothing, like the scent of fresh grass. Could you do that for me?” Mathis found that he couldn’t answer him. The scent of fresh grass. The more these words lingered in his thoughts, the more he found the strength to escape this dreamlike state of complacency. A cold shiver ran through his body. This needless bloodshed had to end. “Will you please stay by my side?” Victor’s proposal was so alluring, so easy to accept, but he finally pulled away the clouds that blinded his eyes to see his friend for what he truly was. A shadow of the golden hero he once was. Mathis shook his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot.” “So even you are conspiring against me? I thought that you were different.” His words cut like daggers. “Shall I chop off your head or whip you to submission?” “One battle between you and me, that’s my price.” “I see, then I’ll meet you tomorrow in the ballroom,” Victor said. “Beware, the prophecy is in my favor.” “When the last shaman of Euphrates enters the capital, a city will fall and a golden age will be sown. The golden hero will then be known.” These words echoed continuously in his head as he waited for the morning to come. He wryly smiled. During his entire life, he had never fought someone before. Now, the outcome of the future rested on the skills he had never bothered to nurture. When he entered the ballroom, Victor was already there, all alone with only a sword by his side. There was no need to exchange any pleasantries as they both dived into the quiet battlefield. The heavy steel of victor’s blade viciously slashed into his skin. Mathis barely managed to keep his head attached during this lethal dance. He bit his lips as he kept moving despite the pain. In a battle of brawns, he will certainly lose. However, their agreement never said anything against the power of words which dictated the flow of magic. The poison of that night must still be sleeping in his veins. When Victor was about to lunge at him, Mathis duck under his swing and captured him in a hug. Ignoring the sword digging at his side, he quickly chanted his spell, a spell to reverse all the active spells he had placed on him, to awake the poison. As soon as he had finished his chant, the sword clattered on the ground while Victor collapsed in his arms. Mathis had been prepared for anything. Curses, condemnation or perhaps contempt. However, no hostility was shown. All victor did was holding him tightly, just like he did when the two had first met. “When did you stop being my friend?” he whispered. “I never did.” A single tear rolled from Victor’s cheek before he took his last breath. All Mathis could do was holding his lifeless body tight. When the last golden rays of the sun enveloped the two friends, the faint screams of battle was drowned out by the beating of his heart. The first army that found Victor and him triumphantly carried the flag of Tigris. Mathis lifted his head. So this was the end for him too? The tallest man which seemed to be the commander stepped forward. He aimed his rifle at him. Mathis closed his eyes awaiting his execution. However, his punishment never came. When he slowly opened his eyes, he found the commander kneeling along with the rest of the soldiers. “A new golden age will come due to your efforts. Thank you for slaying the mad king and freeing Tigris from its chains. The prophecy had spoken. I’m honored to have met you, our golden hero.” The commander never asked for his name. Well, he had no name to give them anymore. All he ever was and will be was the golden hero. Their golden hero.

Just have to stay before the authors of these start rolling around in the dirt and pulling each other's hair, I really just appreciate that they both showed up in a timely manner! The theme was 'a chosen hero', fantasy. (And just a reminder, there are two more duel threads being voted on now.)

All votes go here yadda yadda you know the drill.