FJ
“You sure you got this?” the Detroit beta asks FJ as he hands him the iron he will use to mark their she-wolf. “I did her first mark. Might be easier if you let me handle this one, too, seeing as how you’re from...some place else.”
FJ can tell the one called Yancey would much prefer to take this duty upon himself.
However, in full contradiction of his beta, the now former Detroit fenrir says, “I think he can handle it. You saw him out there with them Trouble Fuckers.”
“Yeah, maybe…” the beta answers.
Their words fade into the distance as FJ casts his eyes to the back of their female. He studies the mark already made upon her right shoulder. Two letters, which the young Wyoming princess did teach him were called “D” and “W” by the wolves of this land. A mark she did receive when she was but seventeen summers.
Seventeen summers. Of course, the North wolves have their rituals as well. Unheated girls of even less summers were oft given by their families to male wolves with similar rituals. But such things fell under what his father often termed, “Not to your mother’s liking.”
And much of certain rituals did their father hide from their mother. Keeping her sheltered within the relative civilization of their village, because he knew how little her soft heart would approve of such practices.
FJ himself had taken on many of his mother’s beliefs. He gave praise and made his animal sacrifices to her God after every hunt. And did he refuse to judge the one called Clyde because of his love for another male, as his mother had taught him that such was unjust—even if a male did behave in the manner of a woman, which was considered a killing offense in most other villages but theirs, thanks to his mother’s influence. FJ had also never slept with a girl below the age of heat, and never has he had much like for any ritual that left unwished for mark upon a female’s skin.
No, not until now would he agree to such. Not until now, with his wolf raging inside of him, would he have taken such action.
“Burn! Burn! Burn!” the Detroit wolves chant, growing louder and louder.
Their words give echo to his own furious wolf. And yea, does he now wish to mark her. To hurt her as she hurt him.
Suddenly, their female’s head turns. FJ follows her gaze to his brother who stands near the front of the throng. Out of place, not only because of the color of his leathers, but because he is the only wolf not giving chant for her burn mark.
Their conversation is silent, but easy for FJ to read. His brother’s eyes are hot and troubled. Their female’s face is blank and her back tight, as they argue back and forth about what FJ will now do to her.
But the argument is not overlong. And soon does their she-wolf make an abrupt turn from his brother, ending the conversation.
FJ is little surprised when Olafr’s voice appears inside his head just a moment later. “Brother, you are my fenrir, but I warn you now, this will not end well—”
FJ blocks him out, his wolf having little patience for the brother who would be so thoroughly led by his heart.
“I will now mark this female as mine,” he says to the one called Yancey, ending his argument with the now former Fenrir of Detroit.
“Hold on—” Yancey starts to say.
“I am your fenrir. Your king as it be called in this land,” he growls at the hesitant beta. “You will give me the marking iron.”
The beta looks to the former Detroit fenrir and despite neither of their expressions changing, much seems to pass between them.
Then the one called Yancey silently hands over the marking iron, the wolf head upon its end glowing bright orange with the fire contained inside its metal. This mark he recognizes…almost. It is near the same as the one that comes before each round of their female’s video game, except darker and wider. The male wolf to her she-wolf.
“Brother, you are her fenrir, but she will not forgive you for this. And I cannot make her understand why you do it…” Proving himself a wolf of great will, his brother once more breaks through his mind’s wall.
Olafr is right about one thing. He is her fenrir. And this everyone must know.
“It must be done,” FJ’s answers.
No answer.
And FJ adds, “If you think yourself incapable of controlling your human, then you should leave.”
Again, no answer, but FJ watches his brother look away from the scene, doing what it will take to stay by their mate’s side and keep himself at bay.
And FJ continues forward…only to stop when their she-wolf gives sudden move.
To run, he thinks at first, but no. She adjusts her dress and then spreads herself out, stomach down, upon the black ground. Head turned to the right and arms down at her sides, so her left shoulder is made a smooth canvas. Ready to receive his mark.
The chanting comes to sudden stop. Replaced by one voice. It is the now past Detroit fenrir singing a deep and resonant song. FJ knows not this song, but it seems to his ears both spiritual and old. Yes, the words are not as old as his time, but he can tell it is still old. Like the ones his mother did occasionally sing when he was a child, the ones she said were from a time when her people were held in captivity for countless winters.
And soon do the rest of the Detroit wolves join into the song, their voices rising as one. FJ senses that this, too, is part of the ceremony, and he remains still, knowing without having to be told that the mark should not be given before the old song is done.
“You should have told me.”
His queen’s voice appears inside his head, flat as the boards beneath his feet.
He answers her only because he wants her to understand it is she, not he, who is responsible for her current circumstance.
“You have proven hard to tame, Female. I did not wish to deal again with your interference. For this reason I told you not of our plan.”
“No, not about your plan to claim the Detroit throne. About you…” Now does her flat voice become sad. “You shouldn’t have pretended to be nice. I actually thought you were kind. Warm, a wolf worth loving. But you’re just like my father.”
Her words hit him like a slap and FJ’s hand goes tight around the branding iron. “Your defiance has already brought enough trouble upon you, Female. Now it would seem you wish to invite further punishment.”
“You’re right, you’re not completely like my father. Every once in a while, he gives me a choice. And I never did have a choice when it came to you, did I?”
She is still so defiant. Despite what she did. Despite the claim he gave her body in front of his people.
His wolf very nearly overtakes him again. And he has to grip the brand tight to keep himself from grabbing her by the hair and once again giving her claim in front of her people. Once again forcing her body to submit where her mind will not.
“We are your fated mates,” he snarls into her mind. “Yet did you fight our bond at every turn. And then did you run, seeking to give another our claim. You are the one who forced my hand. You are the one who brought this upon yourself. I am an outsider, who is to be the new fenrir of your people. You do not understand the way of fenrirs, but when a people are not raised to accept you, you must show them your worth from the beginning.”
“Sure, that’s perfectly understandable,” she answers. “Thanks for explaining that to me.”
Her tone is light and agreeable now. However, FJ can tell these are not true words.
“I do not wish for you to use the false tongue with me, Female. I will have your respect along with that of your people.”
“Oh, you have my respect all right,” she says. “I mean how could any she-wolf not respect someone who would fuck her in front of a room full of people so he could prove his might and then brand her? You’re a total Viking dreamboat come to life. So tell me, Viking Prince Charming, what are you getting in exchange for all of this romantic stuff you’ve been doing for me?”
And suddenly does the air in the room become cold, despite the burning iron held in his hand.
The deal he made with the former Detroit king is necessary. He knows this. Not only for the coming battle he must fight, but also for the protection of the defiant she-wolf lying upon the black boards at his feet.
However, their female’s words do make him feel some manner of guilt for unknown reasons.
And in this moment does the Detroit wolves’ singing end. The pack going silent as the old song fades into the shadows, like a ghost taking its leave.
It is time. His wolf continues to burn inside of him, unchecked by human or command.
Yet he finds himself unable to lift the iron to mark her. Not yet. First he must tell her, “This be not the business of females. You are our mate and now shall you bear the mark of your fenrir. That is all that matters—”
“Not to me, FJ, not to me.” And then does she turn to face him, her dark brown wolf eyes giving glow in the dark room. “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you want from now on. You’ve broken my human or tamed my wolf or whatever you want to call it. But before I give all the way in, I need to know. How much did I cost? Just tell me. What is my dad paying you to do all of this?”
FJ does not realize what he is doing, until the branding tool clatters to the floor and his hand is wrapped around several ropes of her hair.
“Yet does this she-wolf need more taming,” he yells out to the Detroit wolves as he forces her to her feet in front of him.