by Noah Harris
As a matter of fact, he suddenly realized that the whole of the Grove felt like this. There was an ancient feeling to the place that spoke of forgotten wisdom and memories of days long since passed from mortal memory. The conditions grew worse and the feelings even stronger the further they traveled along the path. Honestly, at this point, he didn’t know if it was his imagination making him feel unsettled, or if somehow this sacred cairn actually held some sort of power that he was picking up on as they grew nearer.
His nervous mind wanted to turn to the rest of the group and ask, but he thought better of it. As much as the wood felt ancient and almost alive, it also felt like a crime to break the silence between them all. Then again, they pretty much all thought of him as a dead man already, so he supposed he could be forgiven for breaking the peace too, a dying man’s last words and all.
He finally spoke, glancing over his shoulder while only slightly slowing down. “So, what’s the deal? I feel like I’m being watched and that the trees are thinking—is it just my imagination or what?”
It was Katarina who spoke finally, though he felt the tension in each of them rise when he said it. “You can feel that?”
Dean tensed, “That’s not just me being paranoid then?”
He could sense rather than see her shake her head, “No. But that’s—”
Pausing, he turned to the group, eyeing each of them. Mikael was looking at him with the most thoughtful expression Dean had ever seen on the man’s face. Artemis was staring at him in wonder, and even Apollo seemed to be at a loss as he stared at Dean. Katarina was the only one frowning at him—out of confusion of course—but also with an emotion on her pretty features that he couldn’t read.
“That’s what?” he asked, now feeling a little nervous, well, more nervous.
Katarina’s frown deepened, “Explain what you’re feeling.”
Dean wavered for a moment, teetering between telling her and demanding that she tell him, deciding finally on the former.
“What am I feeling? How old this place is I guess. But it feels like everything around me is watching us, but not like . . . in a totally scary way, either. It’s just unnerving to feel like dozens of trees, older than this country, are aware of me. It’s kinda weird to say, but it’s almost like I can hear them talking, but they’re not actually talking . . . am I making sense?”
He knew then that he’d said something significant, if only because Apollo’s eyebrows practically rose to the top of his forehead. The thoughtful look on Mikael’s face turned to wonder as he looked at Katarina with an unspoken question on his face. Katarina barely glanced at Mikael and shrugged, probably answering whatever question was being broadcast to her.
“Uh, guys?” Dean asked, after a long moment, “Wanna share with the ignorant human here?”
“You sure you aren’t Kin?” Katarina asked, sounding genuinely curious.
That made him pause, “Um, not that I’m aware of, no. Is that only a werewolf thing? Could my grandfather sense it?”
Katarina frowned at that, shrugging, “If he did, no one ever told us about it.”
Mikael looked worried, “Yeah, but . . . what about the voices?”
Dean huffed, “I did say that it wasn’t actual talking I was hearing, only that it was kind of close to talking . . . or whispering. I don’t know how to explain it, but the best way to put it is that it’s like I can tell they’re communicating, or trying to anyway. I just can’t make out what’s being communicated.”
Apollo’s brow burrowed down from the top of his forehead as Artemis whistled, “You’re just full of surprises, Dean. We can sense everything you’re saying, except that.”
Dean’s breath caught at that, looking worriedly at Mikael, “What . . . does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Mikael answered slowly, reaching out to run a hand down Dean’s face with a faint smile. “Let’s worry about it after we’ve dealt with the mess you got us into, okay?”
Dean wanted to argue, even with the playful teasing he could hear in Mikael’s voice. But the real worry that was seeping out of the man held him back from doing just that. Mikael was right really, Dean had no one to blame but himself for this one . . . the whole challenge thing. Mikael’s inability to maintain his independence might have been the motivator, but Dean had made the choice of his own volition. He had been the one to challenge a full grown, well-seasoned werewolf to combat.
Dean winced at the thought, nodding slowly before turning away from them and resuming their journey. The sensations he described only got worse as they came upon the open area of the Cairn. In a rather literal style, one he’d come to expect from the werewolves, the opening was circled by a ring of stones. Each was about the same size and slightly irregular in their shape, though even from here he could see that they were symmetric in their placement. As they passed, he saw that there were circles within the largest outer circle. Each circle possessed a specialized flat stone within it, each black, save for whatever part of it was carved and filled with a silvery white stone that glittered in the faint light. It took him a moment to realize that each stone represented a phase of the moon, one fully black for the new moon, one half filled for the half moon, which could be considered either waxing or waning he supposed, depending on how it was situated. The raised pedestal in the center ring probably contained the symbol for the full moon, though he couldn’t see it from his angle.
“Pretty,” he said softly to himself, liking the way the open area looked to him. The symbolic stones glittered in the moonlight, and the white stones around them seemed to glow. It was eerie, but there was a definite beauty to it. It was simple, much like most of the things the werewolves did, simple and to the point. Yet there was beauty and grace in it, showing that simplicity could possess its own sense of both wonder and pleasure.
The sensation passed as they moved beyond that place and into the next open area. This was even simpler in appearance. A circle of squat, dull looking stones lay in the middle of this clearing. The outside of the circle was ringed with flickering torches that banished the moonlight. A fair number of the people from The Grove had come—their Mother standing on the opposite side of the circle from where they approached, watching them, stone faced. Samuel of course, stood in the center of the circle, wearing nothing but a thin pair of shorts, his tanned, muscled body shining in the torchlight.
The man’s eyes came up to meet Dean’s, the slightest crease forming a frown on his face, “You actually came.”
Hoping he sounded far surer than he felt, he faced the man, “I made the challenge, didn’t I? Here I am.”
There was a tilt to the man’s head as Dean stepped forward, past the line of stones and into the circle they made. His small group of supporters stayed behind, leaving him to enter alone. He had known this moment was coming, but he still felt a tension run along his shoulders at the realization that it was now here.
Fighting to push away the loneliness that threatened to eat at him along with his fear, he eyed the other man. Without most of his clothing, Samuel looked even bigger somehow as he stood there, eyeing Dean with an unreadable expression. If Dean was reading the man right, he would almost say that the other man was wary, disliking that it had come to this. Then again, Dean supposed that he couldn’t blame the patriarch for that feeling, he didn’t much like it either. He wasn’t an experienced werewolf, noble leader of his pack, about ready to fight a human farmer whose only claim to any fighting experience had been a few scuffles as a kid.
“You can’t win,” Samuel told him quietly, now that they were only a couple of feet apart.
Taking a deep breath, Dean squared his shoulders, looking up at the man, “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to fight.”
Samuel squinted, his nostrils flaring, “Yet I can still smell the stink of fear on you.”
That made Dean snort, an ugly sound, “I’m about to fight a big ass werewolf who’s had more fights than I could dream of. I’d be an idiot to not be afraid.”
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“Even the lowest of animals run when the odds are against them,” Samuel told him.
“Yeah, but they’ll fight when they’re backed into a corner, too,” Dean reminded the man, glancing over his shoulder for the first time to look to Mikael. “And I think this counts, you’ve backed me into a corner, Samuel.”
Samuel’s gaze hardened, “You stink of him. Which means you both went directly against what I commanded.”
Dean’s head whipped around to glare at the man, “I was already challenging you, consider what you uh, smell, a sign of just how serious I am about this.”
The man seemed to swell in size, and Dean felt his gut twist at the man’s low growl, “I will break you for that, little farmer.”
“Try me wolfman,” Dean shot back.
The man moved as quickly as his son, his arm lashing out to drive a fist into Dean’s face. With a feeling of Deja vu, Dean dropped to the ground, feeling the whistle of the intended blow flow over his head as his butt hit down. Again, the maneuver had been graceless, but it was effective as well. That is until the man’s foot came up and caught him in the chest with sudden force. The wind knocked from him, Dean had the awareness to roll out of the way of the follow up kick, holding his chest as he moved through the dirt in a tumble.
Knowing he couldn’t stay on the ground and expect to last very long, he tried to scramble to his feet. Samuel was having none of it, lunging toward him with another blow from his strong leg. Dean threw himself back, hitting the ground again. He rolled, shoving himself up to his feet, the momentum carrying him upward until he stood there, wobbling.
The man was there again, this time his attempted punch caught Dean in the arm rather than his face again. Dean’s jerked reaction might have spared his face, but it sent a bright flare of pain down his arm, a vaguely numb feeling following it. Hissing in pain, he weaved away from the next blow, the next, and tried to jump around to the man’s side. That little tactic earned him a closed backhand to his jaw that sent him reeling to the ground with a solid thump that shook him to the core.
He could taste blood, even as he rolled away from Samuel’s stomping foot. Vaguely, he was aware of the man’s growl of frustration. Dean was on the defensive, barely managing that and failing more quickly than he would have liked. His only real comfort was that Samuel apparently hadn’t expected Dean to have even lasted this long, even though it was only because he was focused on dodging and weaving away from the blows.
His wayward thoughts cost him again, his head snapping back as Samuel’s blow landed on his chin. The next blow against his gut was barely felt, save for the whoosh of air from his lungs. He was largely oblivious to it due to the ringing pain in his head, however. He could barely move the arm that Samuel had hit, his chest ached, and his gut was cramping. He was also pretty sure the man had narrowly missed dislocating his jaw twice now.
Rolling onto his stomach, he fought to push himself up with only one arm really cooperating with him. Pain spread out in a harsh jolt from his gut as Sam’s foot connected there again, and once more. The blows sent him flying over onto his side, a noise akin to a whimper coming from him as he landed. It had probably not been more than a couple of minutes, and his body was already a riot of pain.
Groaning, he pushed himself from within, rolling onto his stomach once more. This time his attempts to push himself upward were even more weak and slow. Yet, it wasn’t met with another blow, it wasn’t met with anything more than another frustrated growl from the large werewolf.
“Why do you even bother?” he asked, crouching beside Dean who was still struggling to push himself upward. “You can’t win, so stop. What is the point of this disgraceful display?”
Still trying to push himself upward, Dean barked a harsh, pained laugh, gasping for air as he tried to reply. “Because . . . some things are worth fighting . . . for. Some things are worth . . . bleeding . . . for. You don’t . . . scare me . . . anymore, Samuel. I’ve been beat up . . . hurt . . . and knocked down most of my . . . life. I’m not going to . . . going to stop getting back up . . . if I can . . . help it.”
He couldn’t see Mikael right now. He couldn’t see much more than the dirt around them and Samuel’s ire filled face. It was so much more than that though. It wasn’t just about his own refusal to back down, which had certainly come into play. It wasn’t even the fact that standing up for what you believe in was important, especially against bullies. The truth was, he had learned what it meant to no longer be alone, to no longer be simply comfortable and safe. He wasn’t going to go back to that just because some werewolf with an ego said otherwise, not without a fight and not without giving it all that he had.
The anger filled him again, as he realized that this arrogant bastard sought to take that from him, and to take what joy he could from his son. His breath evened out as he pushed onto his bad side, his good arm holding himself against the ground so he could stare into the man’s sharp eyes. With the taste of blood and dirt on his tongue, he felt his heart speed up, and his muscles tense. As he leveled his gaze with the other man, breathing deep of the clean, refreshing night air, he felt the pain of his body ease away.
“But mostly . . .” he told him, hearing his voice come out steadier than he would have expected it to be, “mostly because I want to say, fuck you!”
With more strength and speed in his arm than he thought himself capable of wielding, he lashed out with his good arm. Just as surprising, his fist connected with the older man’s face, knocking him sideways into the dirt with a surprised and angry cry. Pain that was nowhere near as severe as the pain already throbbing through the rest of his body sparked up in his hand where his fist had connected with Samuel’s face.
Whatever strength he had managed to summon up from before now dropped from his body as his good arm strained to hold him up. Samuel was already pushing up from the dirt, his motions sharp and hard. Fury filled the man’s face as he came up from the ground, already moving to come toward Dean, a lethal venom in his gaze. Dean closed his eyes, wishing he had been able to see Mikael before the next inevitable blow came down, and ended it.
Instead, he felt a rush of air, accompanied by a voice pitched into a roar that he’d never thought he’d hear. Only after he blinked to clear his eyes did Mikael become clear in his view, and he realized the source of the roar. Through his hazy vision, Dean could see the tall man perched atop his father, the older man prone on his back and gazing up at Mikael with a shocked expression that totally eclipsed his previous anger.
Mikael’s fist was raised in the air above Samuel, while his other hand gripped tightly at the man’s throat. In the dimming light around them, Dean could see that there was a smear of blood on Mikael’s raised fist. Apparently, he had missed the part where Mikael had already got in a blow or two. Vaguely, he wondered if Mikael had really moved that quickly, or if his brain just hadn’t had the staying power to keep up with this mess.
“You dare?” Samuel asked, his voice holding an incredulous tone that Dean knew would give way to anger in no time.
“I have rights, by blood, Father,” Mikael growled. All traces of wavering were gone. All that lay in his voice now were barely restrained fangs and a threat that was all too real to any that were listening. “I invoke them, as your heir.”
“For him?” There was the anger that Dean expected, his vision wavering once more as he watched the disgusted anger come over Samuel’s face.
“For the man who stood against you when I was too much of a coward to do so, yes,” Mikael told him. “For him, I stand ready to tear your throat out in heartbeat should you ever try to lay another goddamn finger on him. So . . . I invoke my rights.”
“He is unable to fight,” the soft voice of Matalina came, and Dean realized her soft, warm hands were now laying on the back of his neck. “The Challenge is resolved.”
“And he’s going to stay safe, Father,” Mikael told Samuel, never once looking behind them to where Dean lay. “You will respect my rights, or I
will Challenge you myself. Ask Dante what I’ll do if I have to fight for Dean.”
Dean lost the thread of the conversation then, barely realizing that Samuel had at some point said something, or that Mikael was no longer on top of the man. He was losing time again it seemed, and he wondered vaguely, desperately, where Mikael had gone. Then the man’s face swam into view, and strong gentle fingers were on his face.
“Baby,” Mikael all but whispered, his eyes watery. His lips trembled slightly as he looked at Dean.
“Hey,” Dean managed, trying for a weak smile, but unsure if he had succeeded since he wasn’t really able to feel his face. “D-don’t feel so good. They got rid of the torches.”
Mikael bit his lip, shaking his head, “I . . . I think you might be passing out, sweetheart.”
“That it?” Dean asked, feeling the truth of the man’s words as his body struggled to stay active.
“You’re not allowed to do anything else, you hear me?” Mikael told him, stroking Dean’s face, “Not after all this.”
Matalina’s voice floated in from somewhere behind Dean, “We must get him back, Mikael. He’s not one of us, and we must treat him immediately or . . .”
Mikael’s face tightened at that, bending forward to brush his lips along Dean’s forehead, whispering faintly, “I heard you earlier, I wasn’t asleep. I love you too, okay? So, don’t you dare go anywhere until I get to say it to you when you’re not passing out.”
“Promise,” Dean managed, as the darkness seeped into the center of his vision.
His last thoughts before the darkness pulled him down, was of the way that Mikael smelled, strong and good. Of how he could feel the softness of the crush of the grass beneath him, and of Mikael’s comforting touch upon him. Of how the whispers of the trees were even louder now, and that he finally could understand what they were saying.
