1538 words
Dubhe felt like a wimp.
That was almost the worst part -- the feeling that he should be over this, that he should be able to shake it off and grit his teeth and get on with his life. But it was only the second worst part. The worst part was the pain.
It was terrible. His jaw ached, and his head throbbed. He could hardly talk for the swelling in his bruised jaw. And his shoulder! His foreleg hung from its socket like a useless sack of meat, limp and aching. It was numb, in places, like it didn't even belong to him. But his shoulder joint tingled and burned as though it were on fire.
Kalain could have healed the wound. That was the other worst part.
Oh, certainly the shaman had looked him over. He had examined the wound, and listened to his heart, and done some other things that Dubhe couldn't quite fathom the purpose of. But then he had shaken his head and backed away and insisted that his fate was in the hands of the spirits, now.
Dubhe understood by this that his grandfather intended for this to be a learning experience. A punishment for his foolish, impulsive actions. An opportunity for him to be still, and listen, and contemplate what he had done.
He knew why his grandfather had left him here, like this, but that didn't make it any better. It made it a thousand times worse.
If there was one thing Dubhe despised, it was being still. Since the moment he could walk he had been consumed by a restless energy, a manic need to move, to act, to travel, to hunt. To do something, anything, but sit still.
And now here he was, confined and immobilized and left all alone for spirits-knew-how-long and his shoulder ached and he thought he was going to die.
Another of the worst things: He was now going to miss the first hunt of the season.
The only thing he had been looking to every single day he had been training? And now it was gone. He was going to miss it. And who knows how many training sessions? And how many hunts? And -- the terrible, niggling thought whispered in the back of his mind -- what if his shoulder never healed? What if he was maimed, permanently lame from his stupid actions? What if he could never, ever hunt again?
He would sooner die. He would rather throw himself off a cliff face like Nashira than try to live without hunting. Only he would make quite sure his cliff-diving efforts were unsuccessful.
But that won't happen, he tried to assure himself, to force down the panic that had risen in his chest. Grandfather Kalain wouldn't allow that. If he thought the damage would be permanent, he would have healed it properly.
He drew small comfort from the thought, but it was all he had.
---
He dozed, for awhile. He couldn't sleep properly; whenever he slept, he dreamed of hunting, and the muscles in his ruined leg would twitch with longing and he would wake up with sharp pain stabbing all along his side.
From where he lay, he could make out the stars above. He had never taken much time to look at the heavens before, but he realized now how truly bright they were. He watched the stars, the way they gently pulsed and throbbed, distant pinpricks of light that sparkled in the inky blackness of the sky. The moon was nowhere to be found.
The darkness was soothing, and as he stared at the stars above he began to feel a sort of deep calm wash over him. He allowed his breathing to relax, slowly, and the tension in his broken shoulder eased. The pain worsened, for a moment, before it began to dissipate, and he realized that if he lay perfectly still that it barely hurt at all.
I am thankful for Kalain, he thought, staring up at the patch of sky. I am thankful for the life you saw fit for me to keep this day.
The thought made him smile, slightly. He had never had much time for the acolytes before. It had all seemed so...silly. Why bother searching for deep meanings when you could spend your time doing something that mattered -- like hunt?
But today was different. Tonight, in the utter stillness, he felt something stirring inside of him that was not pain. It was strength...a deep, spiritual power that filled him with light and warmth and happiness. A feeling that told him that, tonight, he was not alone.
I am thankful to Jaitain, he thought, his gaze still firmly fixed upon the stars, staring meditatively at their twinkling, pulsing lights. I am thankful that you sent me away from your den this day.
He took a deep breath, feeling sleep tug at him -- not the fitful drowsiness that had overtaken him earlier, but a deep, restful, healing sleep.
I am thankful to Rhiavet, he thought, sleepily, For lighting up the heavens...and watching over...me...while I...sleep.
He faded into slumber, then, and it was warm and dark and blissfully dreamless.
----
As the days progressed, the pain slowly -- agonizingly slowly -- began to fade. It wasn't as fast as he would have liked, but it was progress. He slept more, anyway, and the swelling went down in his jaw after just a day, leaving his broken shoulder to mend in relative peace.
Acolytes came and went. Family came and went. Visitors never stayed as long as Dubhe wanted them to. He was deeply embarrassed whenever they came, though, and couldn't find words to say. Often, he faked being asleep so he wouldn't have to speak with anyone.
How did a wolf like Dubhe find the words to express gratitude to his family? How did he say, "Thank you for coming to visit me" to his mother? How did he tell his acolyte sisters "thank you" for tending to his wounds?
And how could he ever breach the topic of what had happened with Dia? He knew she had blamed herself, in part, for his actions, and that tore at him but he couldn't find words to say anything, so he faked slumber and hoped that she would somehow come to understand.
---
After a few weeks, his shoulder healed enough that he could move without terrible, searing pain. The bone began to itch as it knitted itself together; a deep, painful itch that he could do nothing but bear. It was nearly as bad as the pain, but he knew that it was an encouraging sign, so he tried to handle it with as much dignity as he could muster.
He started to walk again, once the itching began. The others had been so kind as to bring him food and water, but he still felt thin and wasted from the inactivity. He couldn't put much weight on his healing leg, but he could hold it to his chest and hobble about on three paws well enough.
Someone had told him a story of three-legged wolves, and he decided that even if his shoulder never healed that he would find a way to be a great hunter, anyway.
During the nights, he lay awake long enough to admire the stars, to see all that great Rhiavet had illuminated for him. They brought him peace, a certain stillness that he had always associated with stalking prey -- a feeling he had never expected to feel while doing anything else. Each night before sleep took him, he recited his thanks in his mind to the spirits who had watched over him as he healed...but he always thanked Rhiavet last, and most especially, for the odd connection he had suddenly fostered with the spirit.
During the days, he stretched his tired body and hobbled around, one paw lifted. He wandered often to the riverbank, where he would lay in the sun and enjoy the warmth while listening to the subtle movements of the water. He enjoyed the coolness and the sweetness of its taste, and he enjoyed the way it seemed to bubble and whisper and speak.
He didn't stray far. He hobbled around a little, to prove that he could, but he didn't dare tempt himself by wandering too near the prey. He had learned some lessons in patience, during his solitary time beneath the stars...but he hadn't learned enough self-control to trust himself around all the temptations. The competitive streak was not yet beaten out of him. Spirits willing, it likely never would be.
When the pain came back, as it inevitably did, he hobbled back to the den, carefully arranging himself so that his injured leg bore no weight. He slept and, as the days wore on, he began to understand why Grandfather Kalain had forced him to stay here for the long, bitter healing of his leg. It wasn't a matter of punishment...it was a matter of enlightenment.
As his limb began to heal more fully, he resolved that as soon as he felt comfortable on all four paws, he would head out on his rites of adulthood. He was ready.
