Shadewylf

Bonus || Maynard

Pain.

It was all he could feel. It was all there was. A multitude of serrated claws sliding into every groove of his trembling bones, scraping away, slowly carving him from the inside out.

Maynard had thought he knew pain. Countless times, he'd felt the prick of a clawed strike, or a slice of fangs, or the persistent ache of a throbbing wound. He even knew the heart's pain, the one that sapped the warmth from his magic. That type stayed far longer than any other.

Somehow, this was worse.

A scream, pitched as a vulture's shriek, tore from his throat. Even that was no comfort. The inside of his mouth was drier than sand, his tongue swollen, his soundless voice a sharp dagger. His very fangs seemed to protest at their place in his jaw, their bases rimmed with frost.

He snatched for breath, but the air fought him back, dismissing his clutching lungs. An invisible serpent wound around his neck, constricting, choking his life away. He batted at his neck to chase away the sensation, but it only wrapped tighter, and his claws passed through nothing. Everything was an illusion. But the pain was real.

Stripped of air, his insides hard as ice, he waited for death to claim him. For a black void to close over his broken mortal form and to tug him away to somewhere safe. A calm place, one where pain was a concept left far behind.

But it wouldn't come. It never came.

His eyes stung. Such a small, insignificant feeling amongst every stab within him, yet he felt it all the same. He was cursed to feel everything. He fought to close them, but his stare was an unceasing blade.

Through the haze of pain, his stare met another.

A pair of blue eyes. Dark as the deepest reaches of the ocean, waves roaring high in their depths. That stare too was constant, but purposeful, a fierce beam of shadowed light.

More than anything, Maynard wished to look away. But he couldn't. The eyes pinned him where he was.

He snapped at the air, grasping for words, but they had long since escaped him. All he could do was will silent pleas to enter the space between them.

Stop this. I'm begging you.

As if in response, a spear of ice shot through his chest, piercing his heart. A scream evaded him now. Yet no blood matted his fur, and still death would not take him. If only a real spear would strike his heart.

A lifetime of survival, and now all he wished was to die.

His claws stretched out, reaching for those blue eyes, yet any energy left in his muscles shattered away and they fell.

Please. You're my son.

Somehow, some part of him still fought, and he cursed it for trying. Flames flickered within him. They were extinguished instantly by the sea of icy cold that claimed his breath.

Above him, a black snout drew apart, fangs slipping from a jaw touched with night's chilling palette. The blue eyes pulsed. Another wave ripped through them.

"Maybe I'd rather not be your son."

It wasn't the voice he would match with such a beast. It was a younger voice, a more hopeful voice, one Maynard knew all too well. Yet it was shredded by snarls all the same.

The snarls were of his creation. The voice was the spark he had destroyed.

Another thread of pain joined the rest, and when it cut, it cut deeper than everything else combined.

He felt himself shake, his shoulders rocking back and forth. A breath slipped into his jaw, but it was formed of mist, and he no longer wanted it.

"Ofici Maynard!"

His head jolted upwards as it all leaked away. The pain, the darkness, and the haunting blue eyes. He gasped, and found his chest no longer rejected his breathing.

He rolled, jerking to his paws in one swift movement. He was still shaking. Swallowing hard, he attempted to stiffen his paws -- to no avail -- as he turned to find the source of the second voice. The real voice, the one that had severed pain's embrace.

A wolf stood before him. A young Flamewylf, with russet fur touched with palest gold. Her head was dipped, her eyes shining with concern. "Are you alright, ofici? I struggled to wake you."

Digging his claws into the wooden boards he found beneath, Maynard forced himself to nod. "I'm fine, Vixa. Thank you for waking me."

She ducked her head again before straightening, her wispy tail flicking towards the doorway behind her. "I'm afraid you need to come with me right away. Lead ofici Joeonto says the Shadewylf arrival is imminent."

Shadewylves. A shiver coiled around Maynard's spine. He shook it away with a growl. "Of course."

He took a step, and barely saved himself from buckling. The world spun, tendrils of shadow edging his vision. Taking a shallow breath he hoped Vixa wouldn't detect, he flashed her a brief smile. "Although, I need a moment or two to collect my thoughts. I'll follow you shortly."

Vixa lingered. "But Joeonto said--"

"I don't care what he said, listen to what I am saying!" he growled, a blaze of flame bursting around his neck. He calmed it instantly, his claws clenching tighter at the fearful backward step Vixa took. "I... I'm sorry. Send my apologies to Joeonto. I promise, I won't be far behind."

A moment more of hesitation, a nervous glance at where the flames had emerged, and Vixa finally nodded and left.

A heavy sigh drove Maynard to the floor. He counted back the nights, each one a tap of his claw against the wood. Had it really been three days since then? So much time for the wound to heal, but still the scars ripped open the moment he closed his eyes.

He clenched his fangs together. More fire rose at his frustration, dancing along his paw. He hated this sickness within him, this weakness that took him. But he couldn't wipe the memories of the pain, and he certainly couldn't forget the wolf who had planted them there.

Toivo. Thirty-Four. The blue-eyed Shadewylf stalking his dreams. Whatever name he gave that beast, Maynard couldn't chase away the reality of his youngest son.

Even the thought of him was enough to send ice hissing through him. He drew a sharp breath, and his fire flickered out.

Slowly, shakily, he rose to his paws. Life was gradually returning to him as the waking seconds ticked by, but he wasn't up to his full strength yet. Perhaps Joeonto would growl at him for letting down the Wylfire, especially at such a key time, but there was no way in Sylvera Maynard was letting the others see him this way.

He paced around the room, his stride quickening with every step. He raised his head, trying to rekindle something of what he once had been. This had to be temporary. He couldn't be haunted in this way forever.

"You are Maynard," he muttered to himself, pouring command into his tone. "You are Maynard, future Wylfire leader, protector of this town. And by Lunisk's holy name, you need to start acting like it."

But he was also Maynard, father to a Shadewylf, destroyer of innocent hearts, and he couldn't dismiss that part of himself either.

With a final growl, he whirled towards the door. That was enough. He wouldn't let himself become some weakling who needed to steel himself up merely in readiness to step outside. It was time to go and be what he was. No, what he should be.

Shoulders high and fiery magic tensed, Maynard strode out of his shelter. He could face the wolves of darkness tonight.

Or he could die trying, and finally escape that chasing pain.

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There you go, your reward for giving me 10k reads. Extra pain :D

I wrote this not long after I finished Shadewylf, but have only ever shown it in my discord server, so I thought it was high time I shared it here too. The insight into Maynard was very fun. And also an insight into more what I want Toivo's power to be next draft--

- Pup