The humanity in him was worried. It weighed misgivings against benefits, pain against joy, and the sorrow that could be born against his loneliness. Cellen wore assurance like an armor while inside he was everything but certain. And while he vacillated between uncertainties, his inherent feral nature spurred such doubts. For though they were one, fighter and feral, the feral was stronger. Unlike the domesticated Mokai, the feral understood life in a way which those who had become domesticated had all but forgotten; reaping the rich harvest when it was there and giving little thought to when it was not present. They, like their other brothers and sisters of the moon, only took what they needed to live and let the unseen forces, perhaps even what some called 'magic', guide their path.
Those of fang and claw lived and breathed their praises, their hopes, and their fears under their deities guidance. While the domestics walked blindly, those of feral blood, whether 'pure' or converts, were led by the loyalty for its alpha who knew and saw all, without question and took each step with faith. Although even ferals themselves knew not of where they would venture towards, even where the weaving threads of fate would stitch them into life's tapestry, they never questioned their pack-mates nor disregarded the unexplainable promptings which fueled their everyday journey. Perhaps it was the trill of the unknown, living life without bondage, the aspect of reveling in freedom which concocted a lifestyle which was simply satisfying and strayed from anything stagnant.
Listening to the feral instincts, Cellen was only beginning to understand. Just as people talked with themselves in their moments of solitude, so had the Mokai and his feral nature conversing one with another when there was nothing but stillness of the stars and night above for company. It kept loneliness at bay but the unknown still nipped at his heels.
He laid there along the cliff side of the Raupatu mountains, staring down towards the distinctions amongst the island; between where the domesticated Mokai's resided and then towards the unruly, undefined jungles that he called home. The longer he looked it seemed that he was beginning to realize something; he had never seen the island landscape quite like this at night. It was almost as if it were submerged in a thick sea of fog even though pure light filtered in from the small breaks within the haze. Visibility was distorted and the scene before him was more reminiscent of the recesses of a lingering dream than of tangible reality. Against what light managed to break through the obscure void of mist, the air itself seemed to shimmer with a surreal glow. The leaves of the boughs overhead and the foliage upon the ground were transfigured with a countenance of innocence. Cellen snorted with disdain. He was grieved with a holy envy, wishing that the aura which encompassed him was one that was half as luminous. He chased the thought away with an irritable growl that murmured from out of his throat.
What lay ahead—the future? What awaited her there? He tried to still the flow of his thoughts, but they rose up to torment him all the same. Peace was lost again. The security of a home. A place to belong. His own identity. All this was denied anew to him. Cellen was left with the same unanswered questions restlessly clawing at the back of her mind; who was he, what was he, why was he here? Forget, he thought fiercely. Forget. To brood brings only torment. The advice was good, but the memories were still too fresh, the hurt too raw.
Oblivious to the world around him, he stared blindly at the crisscross-hatching of the cedar boughs, his ocher eyes dulled to reflect the numbness of his mind.
Why do you vigilantly fight for something which you have yet to understand, a voice rose from out of humanities consciousness.
I have to do this.
Even if the battle is won or lost the same issue will follow: The problem is not that you must choose between the two worlds, fighter and feral. The problem is that you feel like an outsider in both worlds.
A feral growl thrummed from his lupine chest, his lips pulled away from his gums as fangs bore in retaliation. Humanities nature of second guessing and the self-preservation of the domesticated mentality warred against the inner wild but the beast whose form he bore fought to keep a level head. But such truth was hard to ignore and the rawness to its unearthed exposure was something that the feral Mokai savagely fought to resent. Yet he knew, deep down, that it was truly the heart of his internal struggle; one which he was quiet clever in masking from view until he was left in idle solace.
Cellen snorted, breathing deeply from his nostrils as a wreath of mist billowed into the air like a plume of smoke. His canine form was slumped upon the ground, mulch and dismembered branches creating a small bed that was suitable, sustainable for one night. It was better than nothing.
Leaves covered the ground in a sea of deteriorating green and brown, their withering forms crunching audibly with the simplest shift of weight from the wolf. Summer had long passed and Fall had come stripping the life from the forest. Akoya's moon shone down silently and Cellen huddled against the ground. His plush, plumed lupine tail curled around his frame. Despair seemed to return to crowd his thoughts and he could think no more. He did what her brothers and sisters had taught her when one needed to plead with their moon mother.
Thrusting his head upward from the ground, he lifted it to cry at the sky, to sing a chorusing heartfelt song. Through the cedar boughs he could see the moon, riding high.
What am I to do? He howled. What am I to do?
