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Near Mt. Isolation, White Mountain National Forest, New Hampshire. The spring of late April, 2021.
The heavy rain came down loudly, hitting the newly sprouting leaves and blades of grass like an orchestra of many drips and taps. Finbar slept well, because it sounded very similar to the white box with metal blades that the man who’d dumped him would play at night while he slept; the white wolf-dog had enjoyed its constant noise.
The snow had faded away and melted, feeding into lake and river systems throughout the land.
In the spring days that followed the end of winter, it had remained cold for a while but soon enough the warmth had returned to the White Mountains. Birds chirped their songs once again, soaking in the sun’s heat without the chill that dug deep to their very bones.
The afternoon was serene and soothing. Misty clouds enveloped the tall peaks, still topped with white snow, and a gentle drizzle fell on the foliage, refreshing everything in the land.
The air was warm, yet starkly crisp. A faint earthy aroma wafted up with the falling of the rain, the weather creating a pleasant, unique scent that filled Finbar’s lungs.
While the skies were painted in a mottling of various shades of gray, the terrain was arranged in hues of picturesque muted colors.
Memories of morning kibble and long walks were becoming irrelevant now; he had let go of his former life, and he did not miss it one bit. His mate Willow had shown him a life of freedom out here in the wilderness, and it became his preferred way of living. He could have sought out another home in a town outside the national forest, away from the ever-present dangers of the mountains, but it wasn’t something he wanted.
He liked what he had going for himself now.
Finbar was still rather undecided on humanity—he didn’t particularly like them, but he wasn’t living in pure hatred toward them either. As long as they kept their distance from him, he was content. Willow, on the other hand, would be willing to kill a human if one dared to enter the peaceful domain of her pack.
‘Her pack…’ he thought, acknowledging worry in the depth of his heart. ‘We’ve locked, and I still haven’t met her father or the rest of her family yet.’
Finbar imagined her father, the great pure-blooded wolf named Balto, who had kept this area safe for years, according to his mate; Willow had explained that Balto was all sorts of strategic, very persistent, and honorable. Her family was, in all senses of the word, nobility.
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That was exactly what had the white wolf-dog filled with anxiety, though he was careful to never show it to her. He knew he was a nobody of no good pedigree, and so an outsider like him had hardly a chance to be accepted anyway; due to their carelessness, they had not gone about things properly. Everything had been rushed in their passion.
Finbar should have insisted that he be introduced to her father first, then gotten his blessing to become the mate of his only daughter. Instead, it was growing more likely by the day that his existence would be discovered only by the noticing of Willow’s growing belly.
He knew she was carrying pups, even if she’d not given him the news officially yet; her identifying scent carried the bodily changes with it in the air, which met his nostrils and told him all he needed to know. She must have noticed her nipples and belly slowly growing larger, but had chosen to keep the pregnancy to herself for now.
He allowed her to have space regarding the topic, because that was her prerogative to tell him or not; his concern was, however, the safety of Willow, their pups, and himself. If they didn’t make a plan soon, things may not pan out so well.
Finbar decided that when she showed up next he would address it, to her discomfort he assumed but for the greater good.
He enjoyed the good weather of the season for a little while, but as the day progressed he noticed that Willow did not show up like she usually did. The two met at some point every day, often after a hunt conducted by Willow’s pack-mates.
It was possible that she was running late. She had done so in the past and then popped her head up out of the undergrowth only to jump on him, followed by them playfully tussling on the ground.
This time, the daylight came and went as Finbar waited in vain. What if she was in trouble? He stayed put, despite the overwhelming urge to search for her. He knew that would only cause more issues for the both of them.
The storm outside his home cave grew worse that night, sending buckets worth of rain down to the earth so badly that part of the interior of his shelter had flooded. Thankfully there was higher ground within, however, which Finbar sauntered up to and rested upon.
The boisterous squall roared outside, fervent gale winds crashing into the billowing pine trees and the worn rock-faces.
No sleep came to him, his distressed mind running away with him as fast as trucks did on the highway. On this evening, the white wolf-dog felt a twinge of longing for the easy comfort of his old owner’s house, to snuggle with him by the warm fireplace, and to enjoy scraps of whatever the man did not eat.
It would have been far less difficult than what he was currently dealing with. He closed his eyes and vividly imagined it, immersing himself into the fantasy.
Happiness and joy flooded him as he embraced the long-passed memory of his previous life; that was until he remembered what the sleazy man had done to him. It entered his mind like a battering ram, and smashed into him like a murky wave of black.
‘No. He never cared for me,’ he snarled and huffed, chin against the cold stone floor. ‘I refuse to long for something that was never real.’
With that, Finbar got a hold of himself and was grounded in reality; yes, things were wrong at the moment, and things were uncertain… but at least they were real. His love for Willow was real. His puppies were real. The threat against his life should he be found out was real.