Adolescent Youth with Potential
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I was caught day dreaming between circuitry and memories again when the one with the familiar wolf helm woke me. The black armor clad priest gently woke me from slumber to recall my horrifying nightmare before the Twelve Companies in the Great Hall. It had just happened yesterday, why would they want to hear it again? As I lumbered down the halls that once seemed larger, he questioned me about my dream and I responded with the clarity of one who lived it.
Sub zero winds whipped the mountain's peak, lashing its back in great flurries of ice and thunder. In a crag, near the spike that scraped the sky, I stood next to my Father, the Great Wolf. He congratulated me on my unification of over fifty solar systems and I swelled with pride. We laughed of days past and grinned of the memories to be made. He told me he had a tale for my ears and mine alone. He spoke about it as if it were happening that very instant.
Far below, snow wrapped wolves prowled, searching for refuge from the storm and rivals. In the depths of a rift, two packs circled each other, snapping jagged fangs, and preying for their foe's soft neck. A pack white as snow and a pack black as death fought for a mammoth's carcass. The snowy wolves were well fed, and strong but their king was smaller than his enemy. The king of the midnight black wolves wore his crown differently. His pack mates were emaciated, more fearful of their king than the enemy, they watched from a distance with hungry eyes. The rival alpha males stood against one another, fur ruffled to the gray sky, claws pawing the ground.
Freezing wind burst behind the black king, as if conjured, blinding the white wolf. In this moment he struck, lunging with slavering jaw open, confident it would close around flesh. But he overestimated this wolf. His shadowy presence did not inspire fear in this white wolf's heart. With eyes closed it lightly hopped back, shifted its weight and countered. The white wolf's jaw found his flank, rending fur from flesh. But this did not stop the black king's onslaught, he pivoted and shook his enemy off. In one swift action, he scooped a nearby pup in his jaws and threw it towards his foe, catching him off guard with such brutality. In an instant the black king was upon the white wolf again. This time his jaws found its quarry and he wrestled the white king into the snow, steaming crimson stained the battle ground. Countless murders, and non memorable, the black king would sigh if he could. But his hubris had finally caught up. These white wolves were a different breed. They were not coerced into obedience, they offered their loyalty willingly. They would not let their king die.
Before the black king could finish the kill, he was assaulted from all sides. The white wolves snapped his hocks, shred muscle from bone, and tore at his throat. All the while the black king's subjects watched in paralytic horror, unwilling to come to their king's aide. This black wolf was not worth dying for. The last thing he saw was his pack shrinking back into the darkness, no longer under his dominion.
The white king rose on four shaky legs, puppies and pack mates tenderly licked his wounds. They laid a large chunk of mammoth flesh in front of him and waited for his blessing before they would start. He tried to signal with a howl, but blood was caught in his maw and it sounded like a whimper. He scooped up some snow to clear his throat. His howl shook the canyon's walls penetrating the blizzard's blanketing silence.
My Father looked at me and said, “A king is only as strong as his pack.”
He abruptly turned away, heading down the long cavern towards the Great Hall. I chased after him begging to ask him what he meant. But I received only cold silence.
Deep within the Fang, the strongest pack of Fenris dined, thunderously howling. Here in the Great Halls, illuminated by countless guttering candles, the younger Sons of Russ swore boisterous challenges to one another and sealing oaths of brotherhood over flagons of ale and chunks of meat. This was a day of joy to them, the day the Emperor cast down his traitorous son and ascended his Golden Throne. To the old gray beards, with the longer fangs, this was a day of sorrow, a memory of bitter betrayal but even they could take comfort and find joy in each others company. Despite the twelve Great Companies that filled the cavernous Hall with their mirth, it still felt empty. The young pups sat in the back oblivious to the sombre mood of their father, the Great Wolf.
Leman Russ entered the Great Hall to thunderous applause and grinning fangs but he did not grin back.
I watched The Great Wolf, the Wolf King, my Father, Leman Russ, the one who could always be found laughing and swearing the loudest, drinking the most, and fighting the fiercest, go to his throne and sit silently. His eyes were locked where old Bulveye, Lord of the 13th had once sat. This was the first Great Feast the grizzled Lord was not in attendance and his absence was felt hardest by Russ. The Eye of Terror swallowed them all, promising to never release its hold. The din of the feast was nearly louder than the cacophony of battle. But when the Great Wolf stood, his pack went silent. He scanned us with almost vacuous eyes, so deep was his despair. To die in battle was all a Space Wolf really wanted, and now that is all the Great Wolf sought.
He never had much use for words, he learned to snarl and growl and it still suited him well enough. But he knew he had to say something, anything. With the Emperor gone, the Imperium needed men who could stand together. I still remember how forced the words, how he struggled to push them through his maw. I could see a cold sweat drip down his brow and how he swayed when the occasional gust of wind blew through the Hall. He stood atop that table, and every second crawled along, feeling longer and longer. Then his fierce gray eyes went white and rolled into his head. I caught him before his knees completely buckled. My fellow Wolf Guard brought ale and his throne as quickly as possible but our Father had already recovered. He pushed us aside, finding his footing once again.
The Great Wolf growled, “My pups, I must take my leave now. There is naught but bitter memories of heart break here. My Guard will accompany me and together we will hunt the traitors within the Warp.”
I looked at their faces and heard them wail, whimpering that he change his mind. They tore at their beards and howled in pain. I swelled with pride for a second time that night knowing I would go with him. I didn't hesitate, immediately rushing for the door towards my room to collect my fell claw and sacred armor. But I never made it.
“BJORN!” my Father called, and every set of eyes in the Hall fell upon me. “Bjorn, my son,” my Father paused. He stammered, “this is not a journey for you.” Those words gnaw at me every waking moment and every time I sleep.
“These pups need you to lead them, Bjorn the Fell Handed. But worry not, for in the end I will return. For the final battle. For the Wolf Time.” Not one wolf cheered when he said that. Their hearts were breaking.
I felt the world spinning, worse than when I'd been laid low by heavy bolter fire only months ago. I blacked out.
The familiar voice that belonged to that familiar helm beckoned me. Asking me to recall my dream, or was it my memory, to the Great Hall.
I was slowly coming to, my vision was still fuzzy and out of focus. But I could already tell the faces that surrounded me weren't familiar. They looked excited. So different from the sorrow I had just been surrounded with. I blinked my ocular sensors, I mean my eyes. No, the GUI (graphic user interface) wasn't my imagination. These were merely sensors so I could see. I looked at the young faces around me. I looked at the old one who sat in my Father's spot and even he looked up to me like I had when I sought counsel from my Father. These weren't the wolves of old. Their deeds hadn't been sung and their fangs hadn't been tested.
No. No. No.
This cannot be.
He didn't leave me, did he? Surely, I fought fiercely enough. Surely, I've proven myself to be by his side for the Wolf Time. Surely, this metal sarcophagus wasn't my body. Surely, this is but a nightmare.
I looked again at the faces 10,000 years young.
“Please, Bjorn the Eldest. Please tell us your tale,” pleaded the Old Slayer, Ulrik.
I remembered my duty and my promise to my Father. If I were to break down now, who would steel these young pups' resolve? Who would guide them through this vast darkness? If I fail I will surely never see my Father again. I am a lone wolf, the Last of the Company of Russ, and I will never yield.
I began my tale the same way as I had every century.
“A king is only as strong as his pack...”
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