Akela

Akela huddled low to the ground, resting his graying muzzle on the flank of a motionless she-wolf. The old wolf clenched his jaw as he fought back tears, knowing his beloved would stir no longer. Muttering ancient curses under his breath, the old one mourned his mate's passing, as he knew his own mortality wove between his aching bones and turned to mist in the cold Autumn air.

He would follow in her pawstepts shortly. The blood of the ancients refused to release him a moment before moon-high on his eighth birthday, and a pang of anger rose from deep within his chest. Why had the Ancients chose him to rule? Why when he was nothing without the wisdom of his beautiful mountain flower?

A noise towards the mouth of the den caused the old wolf's head to jerk forward. His lips lifted over his gums, chest rumbling with a deep outraged snarl. Just as the grieving wolf rose to his paws, ready to tear into his unwelcome guest, a familiar soft whimper reached his ears.

A pale blue-grey head pushed through the thick foliage, her ears held tightly against her skull. Anira, his eldest daughter, whimpered softly before daring to go any further into the old wolf's domain. Akela's tensed muscles relaxed as gazed upon the melancholy face of his pup. She held just as much a right to mourn as he did. Nodding his head, the old wolf took his place back beside his mate.

As was custom, no words were spoken between the two wolves as they rested muzzles on the departed. This she-wolf, though not of Nausuca's blood, had loved the her as if she had been her den mother. The two held vigil until the sun began to illuminate the den around them.