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Mt. Isolation, White Mountain National Forest, New Hampshire. The spring of late April, 2021.

Silvera led them out of the Birches and into the wide open woods; they were going to meet their pack member, Marco, by the river, one they called Dry River.

“I’d say you got a kick out of beating me up, Thorn,” Finbar chuckled, walking beside the soldier in the peaceful afternoon forest.

The aging gray male glanced at Finbar, his expression somewhat unreadable. “Maybe just a little,” he admitted, his tone light, “but you have got heart, Finbar. There are not many who would have gotten back up after what you just went through.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, then. I’m just glad I didn’t completely embarrass myself,” Finbar admitted lightheartedly, with a tinge of weariness. He noted that this was the first time one of them had said his name directly in a positive way, and decided to secretly savor the moment; it was definitely a good sign.

Thorn’s brown eyes softened slightly, the scar across his face giving him a more menacing appearance than his demeanor suggested. “You have still got a long way to go before you are any good, but you have at least shown that you are not just some outsider looking for a place to hide.”

Oddly enough, Finbar felt that through the maiming of themselves they had formed some kind of brotherly bond, albeit a very small and fragile one. He could not fully understand how, but he felt it.

Sorley, who had been quietly watching the exchange, nudged Finbar’s shoulder with a friendly grin. “You did good, mate. Don’t worry about Thorn too much—he’s like that with everyone. Tough love, you know?”

Thorn chuffed and grumbled.

Finbar nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. Sorley began to lick his torn ear the same way that he had done to Thorn, cleaning it and sanitizing it. The tired wolf-dog more than grateful to his new friend.

The adrenaline from the fight was finally wearing off, and the pain was starting to subside, although the ache would remain for a while yet. He could feel the camaraderie beginning to build, even if it was only the first steps toward acceptance.

These wolves were warriors, through and through, and he knew very well that he would have to keep proving himself, over and over, to earn a place among them. He had to show them that he was willing to become one of them, until they could believe nothing else.

The words of his mate rang in his ears, remembering what she had said to him months ago back in the cave while he had still been healing from his leg injury. ‘Remember this: you are capable of far greater than you know.’

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Finbar chose to believe her.

The dense forest gave way to a more open area, where the trees thinned out, and warm sunlight dappled the ground. The air was mountain fresh, carrying the scent of pine, lichen, and damp earth. It was a busy day for wildlife, as small critters gathered nuts and seeds, rabbits nibbled on grasses, and birds scanned the ground from high tree branches in order to find bugs and juicy berries.

“Lady Silvera, I have a question for you,” asked Finbar, trotting up to her though keeping his distance to give her respect.

“You may ask it,” she responded, never looking back at him.

The wolf-dog spoke quietly: “Back in the Birches, you said that combat has no rules. Why is that?”

“Let me answer your question with my own. Why would you want there to be regulations?” Silvera countered.

Finbar was taken aback by the question, for he had not expected it. Thinking deeply for a moment about his reasoning, he eventually spoke. “Morality. Should we not live by some sort of code?”

He could hear Thorn let out a chuckle, one of amusement. Looking behind, he saw Sorley flatten his ears in second-hand embarrassment. Why was the idea of shaping one’s actions by a code such a weird thing to the wolves?

Silvera stopped in her tracks, then whipped her head around, staring into Finbar’s eyes with a dead seriousness. “If you bring morality into combat, your morality will die with you.”

The pack kept moving after that in silence, leaving Finbar to contemplate the heavy words of the Lady in the lead. It was a lot to take in, but he supposed she was right; making his struggle harder in a fight by holding fast to a set of various rules was just a way to handicap himself, and to doom anyone else who depended upon him. His enemies may or may not live by the same moral code as he did, should he fight that way; in that case, they likely would not hesitate to be nasty, to take life wherever they saw fit.

Finbar remembered the cruelty of his past owner, tossing him into the river after attaching his collar to heavy objects, ensuring that he would die. The world was filled with those kinds of people, human and canine alike; was there even sense in warring fair? Why show mercy to those who would not show it back?

Show mercy, and you’ll get bitten; that was the philosophy of the wolves, it seemed. He could get behind it, and find a way to nestle in with the mindset. If that was the way of the Wild, then he would gladly adapt for his own sake and for the sake of his family, for that was honestly what he cared about the most.

When they reached the river, they stopped and rested in the sun’s rays, waiting for Marco to arrive. The rocks were smooth and made for quite the comfortable napping spot. Finbar especially appreciated the downtime, even if it was to be short; his body needed it after all the stress and battering.

The tired father’s ear stung, but the sensation was remedied a small bit by the heat of the sun.

“Hey!”

Finbar lifted his head to take a gander at whoever had called out, in unison with the others. A red wolf with darker point markings on his face, legs, ears and tail could be seen making a mad dash toward them. “Is that Marco?” he asked, a question directed at anyone that would be willing to inform him.

Sorley’s face drooped. “Oh. It sure sucks to be you right now, Fin.”

Finbar closed his maw, ears erect. “Why?” he asked uncomfortably.

Silvera sighed heavily, then laid her head back down.

Thorn snorted in mild annoyance. “That would be Jargoth. The male that your woman was meant to pair with.”

Finbar did not move. He growled and mumbled, not out of defensiveness but because he was fed up with the day at this point.