Birth of A Dire (What Went on Before, Chapter 1)
#1 of What Went on Before
Okay! Let it be known! I am writing this story and series because I figured enquiring minds want to know! In case you are on YiffChat, yes, tis I, the RukbatLupa. This is the history of that character, and an interesting one if I may say at that. Twill be long, twill be emotional, and hopefully, will explain a LOT. Before you guys ask, no, I am not being put up to this by any means, and I merely got tired of not having it down! There ya go. I hope you enjoy, and I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. More to come!
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The wailing had been heard long before in the night that preceded, the snow a mute witness to the blood that spilled from the wolfess' body. . . the birthing blood, a harsh lubricant of a harsher birth. The cub born on this night was over two weeks late, but to the wolfess' great relief, was born whole, and beautiful, if slightly too large for her birth canal. The cub smiled as it entered the world, going into her grandmother's waiting paws, for her grandmother was the midwife and healer of this sector of the large city, and it was much of her knowledge that had saved the laboring wolfess on the bed.
"Che Bellissima . . ." The elder wolfess cooed to the cub in her arms, her first grandcub, the blessing that only she could know passing in front of her. She handed the cub to Mahtim, the Slavic mother of the little cub.
"Yes . . . how beautiful. . ." Mahtim gasped, the rise and fall of her now-emptied belly apparent, the blood of her labors now ebbing, slowing in its already sluggish flow.
The midwife washed her paws and arms, and called Micheali in. Michaeli was her son, and the proud father of this newborn. He looked nervous, his ears twitching forth and back, the cut from his last encounter with his wife just now growing fur back. "Mahtim? Are you all right?" The reddish-brown wolf moved with a grace that most of the city-goers could not match, a hard grace learned of the fighting arts his father had taught him. His long deep-red hair fell to his tail, and his sheepish, drooping ears let all present know he was ready to dodge if Mahtim came at him again. To his great surprise, and to his greater relief, Mahtim beckoned him to the bedside.
"I'm fine. . . come look at your daughter." Michaeli smiled as his wife, mate, and soul beckoned him, and he sped to her side with the soft whimpering yip of a cub greeting and old friend. He looked to the cub, and growled softly.
"How dare you do such things to your mother, little one?" He teased. "Little dire wolfess. . . come here so papa can scold you!" With this, Mahtim handed her little cub to her father, who scolded her, while at the same time, crossing words with actions as he stroked the tuft of hair on her head, toyed with her ears, the useless little flaps that would not open to sound until a week or so later. Her eyes were sealed shut as well, but those would open by morning, letting all know what their hue would be. Micheali assumed, looking at his mother, the tall midwife wolfess who seemed to have granted much of her beauty to the cub, that they would be a bright gold. He was to be surprised.
In a few hours time, after both mother and child had been moved to clean linen and napped, the cubling was brought out to meet her grandfather. The large lupine was easily eight feet tall, and he weighed heavily for his height, his profession making it a necessity. Giovan D'Sagitrus made some of the finest swords ever to be forged, including his own hanging on the wall of the sparsely furnished room. He sat at a scrubbed wooden table, the work of Michaeli's paws. His son was a cabinet-maker and carpenter by trade, and Giovan could not fault the boy. He was absolute shit with metal. He chuckled as the tiny bundle was handed to him, perhaps half the length of his arm. He enveloped the little wolfess in his arms, speaking to her softly in his native tongue of Italian. He looked to his mate, now cooking a special soup for Mahtim over the fire, her midnight fur shining in the light, looking like the beaten golden amber of her eyes had been dusted all over her, giving her an unearthly glow. "Oro." He intoned, his deep voice resonating through the stone walls of the cottage. "She looks like you. Do you intend to leave us, sweet golden one?" He tutted, and looked down to the bundle. The cub had awakened, and sneezed against his fur. To his surprise, the orbs that looked up from the cub's head were not those of her mother, father, or grandmother. They were his own. He stood, and shook his head. "I'll return shortly." Oro shook her head.
"In THIS? She'll catch her death." She moved from the fire, and laid a hand on her much taller husband's arm.
"No, she won't. You see it on her, just as I do. Look at those paws, that muzzle. Those eyes. Those are my eyes, Oro. You know as well as I the cold will never pose a threat to her. One look at her will tell all her great pride: She is Dire. Like me." The behemoth looked down to his mate, and stroked her cheek with a paw that could have shorn her head in one stroke, a mere flick of the wrist's difference. "Oro, my love. You know the tradition as well as I. You objected when I took Niko, and you fought me when I took Michaeli. They are Dire, and so is she. By the law of the land and my blood, they must be taken out tonight." Oro blinked, and nodded.
"That doesn't mean I like it any better." The wolfess nodded, and turned back to her cooking. Giovan could kick himself for the coldness of his mate's turned back. . . but would be soothed in the coldness of the sleep furs for the next week. His mate did not understand. How could she? She was not Dire.
The night was cold, bitter, and clear. The snow crunched under Giovan's paws as he trudged through the snow, his gleaming fur sparkling with ice and oils both. He held the newborn tightly to his chest, keeping her warm and safe until what had to be done was done. He schlepped on through the woods, his feet knowing the way all too well, until he came to a small statue of a wolfess, clad only in a robe, her marble arms opened as though to an oncoming nonexistant lover. He smiled, looking on this spectacle gleaming in the moonlight, seemingly rising from the snow, her sapphire-laden eyes glinting warmly under the starlight. He sat at the wolfess' sculpted feet, cradling his first grandcub to him, before doing what he had to do. He stood, sighing gently, and unwrapped the swaddling around the cub. He then laid her at the foot of the statue, listening to the peircing whimpers as the cub cried from the cold. He knelt, and softly murmured to the sudden wind that whipped around him, tearing into his fur. "Mother of wolves. . . Mother of my race . . . I commend unto you this cub, unnamed and pure, the female first fruits of my daughter's loins." He watched as the cub squirmed helplessly at the base of the statue, her wails almost not reaching him over the wind's roar. "Take her into your arms, and let her know she is yours alone until you see fit to give her to another." He stood, and took the cub, holding it to the heavens. "She is Dire, the blood runs true." He was nearly yelling now, to hear himself over the whipping wind. "She is Wolf, the hunter of hunters." He spun, and held the cub in his arms, near the breast of the statue. "She is yours, Mother of the Lup'Dyr. I give her to you!" There was no great flash of light, no cataclysmic crack of thunder, but the wind suddenly stopped, turning soft and gentle. He looked to the heavens and howled, knowing beyond all that the cub was now safe. The cub shivered against his fur, burrowing into him, into the cage that housed powerful lungs that could send a howl echoing for miles on end. As he opened his eyes, he saw a star streak across the sky in a blaze of light, across the constellation Draco. He nodded, and looked to the cub in his arms, wrapping her in the swaddling once more. "Yes, Thuban shall be a part of your name my granddaughter, but there is no doubt who you are. You . . . are Rukbat."
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"Cub of the archer's star. . . cub of the centaur, cub of Michaeli and Mahtim D'Sagitrus! Let it be known that on this most blessed day, the cub Rukbat was born!" The notice read, and Giovan never tired of reading or hearing it. Those were grand words for such a young cub, but he was proud of his ability to give them to her. He was swordsmith to the king, and had been granted the privilege of posting a short notice for the crier to utter as he made his rounds. His grandcub was born under the sign of the Archer and Centaur, but her leading star was that of the dragon. Interesting, that, he pondered as he pounded another length of steel into submission. Also interesting that a child of only one-quarter dire blood should be so large. . . it troubled him to think of the hard times coming up for Rukbat, with her blood and all, but he paid it little mind. A month had passed since her naming, and already Mahtim was bustling about again, being the seamstress she was. Michaeli could be heard humming over his wooden arts, and Oro blessed the air with song. Better to call her Laetitia, which meant joy. For she had brought joy to the entire family, her winning infant looks, and piteous murrs and whines winning over even the toughest of the D'Sagitrus clan. But, the Mother knew what the Mother knew, and she had named the child Rukbat. He looked to the sword he was forging, and dipped it, steaming, into the water laced with wine. The steel shone like a star in the dim light of the forge, and the blade was watermarked from his learned technique of folding the metal infinitesimally. He smiled, and set his hammer aside, fitting it to a hilt, then hanging it to cool completely. Yes. . . the king would be well-pleased with that. After all. . . Giovan had never failed to please him before. He smiled as he remembered the presentation of the cub to the sovereign.
"This is she you have named Rukbat?" The king had asked, looking upon the swordsmith with a smile that was serious, but kind.
"Aye, Milord." The gargantuan wolf bowed to the sovereign.
"And this is she whom you call Dire?" The wolf's eyes narrowed, a glint appearing in them.
"Aye, Milord." The king gestured the lupine over, his snowy fur making an almost-inaudible wisping noise. Giovan smiled, and handed his grandcub to the lord of the land.
"She IS dire." The king laughed, and stood. "Ah, yes, Giovan, she is one of us. . ." The King stood, his piercing cerulean eyes so like the statue in the woods. "She is Dire. . . Come. Let us toast your son's achievement."
He walked to a lavish room, in which yards and yards of silk and velvet in the kingdom's colors of blue and white had been draped. In the center of this room stood an immense bassinet, and in this, slept the crown prince of the realm. Giovan knelt, and felt a paw roughly the size of his clap him on the back of the head. "Giovan. You are this cub's subject, not his slave." The King intoned, and chuckled. He then pulled back the snowy-white blankets to reveal his own cub, the crown prince of Fidospiritu and surrounding, the one called 'the gift of the conqueror.' Donato Vincenterini. As the king laid Rukbat next to his son and pulled up the covers, he smiled, watching the two cubs nuzzle into each other.
"Perhaps they know something we do not, my king?" Giovan chuckled.
"Perhaps."