The Ember of Life

The fog was thick. It obscured the brilliant lunar sphere that hung in the starry sky, stale of any warmth for his chilled bones. It was one of those cool Autumn evenings that slips into Winter without any warning, the kind that stirs the feathers of the geese and tells them to take to the South. The condensation from the low-hanging clouds curled his ruff and clung to it in silvery tears.

He shivered involuntarily, the water droplets sent flying. He was an elderly wolf, his wheaton pelt losing its sandy pigment to time. His bronze eyes maneuvered steadily over the nocturnal world, composed of various shades of blue and black, the usual white illumination of the moon currently hidden. The wolf was old, his skin clinging loosely to his frame, and he had developed a shake from the weakness in his legs, having trouble supporting even his own weight. How he missed the past of his youth, when he could run endlessly, the meaning of exhaustion unbeknownst to him, his paws never failing to carry him for miles on end.

But he did not fear death. When it came he knew he would accept it gratefully. It meant the end to the tirelessness that plagued him; the splintering discomfort in his haunches; the scratching of the pine needles against his fragile toes; the pads wearing away in layers till they were raw, and he could feel every groove and incline of the ground in his sensitive nerves. His high position as beta was gone; now he was mid-rank, and he found retirement was a bit of relief, no longer having to worry about all the tasks and requirements he once dealt with. But alas, his agility had fled and that was diminishing enough. He could not hunt for himself. He was a child once more, reliant upon the pack for every little need.

He hobbled to his paws as he saw their approach, several eerie green lanterns making their way closer and closer to his spot. And there was the first streak of light signifying dawn, a gory scarlet that turned all the world to fire. His packmates jogged up to him good-naturedly, wagging their bushing tails, licking his timeworn muzzle respectfully. The omega, a youngster by the old one’s standards, was three years of age, her pelt still soft like a newborn fawn’s, legs never outgrowing their lank. She dropped a hunk of elk flesh at his awaiting feet, dipped her head kindly and then raised it once more to lap at his leathery ear that drooped with lack of muscle. The right ear was losing its hearing and had long lost its feeling, so he did not even notice the she-wolf’s friendly gesture.

The light male reached down and grappled the meat in his jaws. Flavor was merely a dream to him. He could remember it in the distant recesses of his memory, and so he tasted it; though it was not real taste. The sensory buds had long expired, and now his tongue was a flobbery, senseless thing that would occasionally find itself lolling without purpose. Though he tried to keep the chunk of food positioned in his mouth, every so often his grip would lose it. The teeth that remained in his gums were like dull knives in need of a wet stone, but there was nothing with which to sharpen them. His saliva melted at the food, though he knew he could never swallow the large portion and abandoned it where it lay.

He stood, stretching his aching body. His slowing mind told him he was not hungry, and besides, his stomach would most likely betray him if he ate, erupting in a horrible pain that would force him to settle down, leaning his weight on the side opposite from his belly. He limped over to a shady acorn tree to watch the sun pierce the world with its golden fingertips, favoring the right hind leg that set his teeth on edge when jostled.

Once he leaned himself to the forest floor he began to realize it had been a mistake. The acorns pushed against him, little lumps that slid between the crevices of his ribs and the dip of his chest. But after a while he found they were easily ignorable. The feeling was not comparable to the hollow throbbing that had suddenly started in the back of his scalp. He nestled his head between his forelegs and sighed out his black nose. Relaxing his muscles had managed to ease the feeling a little, and he was able to observe the changing day. The sky had turned to a pale pink as the yolky sun continued its ascent. Next was goldenrod, afterwards pastel blue… This would continued on until sunrise when the process went in reverse. Sunlight streamed upon him, and he basked in its heat, lizard-like in the way the temperature of the air around him changed the temperature of his core.

Movement stirred out of the corner of his blurring vision. The tan omega had returned, the meat parcel clenched in her maw, and again she let it fall next to him, where it rolled to rest against his side. A whimper escalated in her throat, pleading for him to eat. But he knew he could not. Something that came naturally was now an impossible feat. Which meant it was time.

His body seemed to sink into the ground, all the tendons in his limbs releasing their stress. It felt very, very good to let go, allowing the contours of terrain to cradle him gently. His eyelids folded, his tail wrapped itself around his quaking flank, holding the leg in against him. He heard the noises of his pack, moving in around him and howling into the crisp morning air. While he could no longer come on hunting expeditions, he had always made it a point to howl with his family when he could. A low growl resounded in the old one’s throat but the noise fell on deaf ears as it cut itself short before they were done.

The wolves looked down and nosed at him feebly. The last breath of oxygen poured from his throat with a liquidy gurgle and stained the air as a snow white cloud. He was dead. His long life had met its end. Old age was a much kinder fate than injury and disease at least. They sniffed at his hide, rubbed him with their snouts, and then let the carcass be. They would miss him, they knew; but he was a lucky one, surviving the many trials of nature, earning the prize of leaving on his own accord.

The fog was thick, and it sent an involuntary shiver down the wolves’ spines. Nightfall was coming again. The lanterns burned brightly as the pack departed, cruising through the trails, following the scent of the herds. But now the emerald candlelights that had flickered precariously on the hillside no longer hovered there, snuffed out by the turning time, the ever-rotating sun, transforming the sky to a pastel blue, then goldenrod, pale pink, and finally a gory scarlet that turned all the world to fire.