Luna of Rogues

Part 19 - Picking up the Pieces

Well hello again everyone! How are we all? Doing ritualistic dances of joy on Brandon's grave? Because that's what I've been up to for the last few days. Well enough of me, on with the story, cause that's what you're all here for anyway.

The next hours were a blissful blur. I had to have stitches, according to the medics. The rip in my stomach and a few other minor places. While that took place, I was sentenced to the infirmary, which had been set up in the command room.

Many of the injured from the last few days hadn't been properly treated, and I insisted on waiting until the most critical had been seen. That drained away even more time, until Fion eventually decided that I was losing too much blood. By the time the medics stopped fussing, I had received stitches, pain meds, a blood transfusion and an IV.

Now, I had been confined to my bed under the eaves. Leo, Ollie and Fion were crowded around, equally exhausted and overjoyed. Maggie had been along briefly, until the kitchen called her back to make lunch.

As soon as the four of us were left alone, Leo leant over to hug me gently, careful not to touch my many bruises and scratches. He sat down on the end of my bed. Fion was slumped on her own mattress, wearing a tired smile. She was dealing with the broken mate bond as best she could. It would be a rough couple of days physically, but mentally, all I could feel was relief.

There was a distinct behaviour pattern I was beginning to notice. Whenever around males, Fion was twice as skittish. She would flinch at fast movements, watch them warily, and breathe that little bit faster. Brandon had left a permanent scar, I realised. It would never heal completely. And all those things were happening right then.

Because Ollie — who had taken one look at Rhys's mess of blankets and decided it would be safer not to interfere — was sharing half of her bed. He was the chirpiest of us and had found the energy to organise the fractured rogues. Under his guidance, a team had been dispatched to bring in the dead, and several search parties were scouring the forest for Rhys.

Amidst all the blood and confusion, my memories of directly after Brandon's death weren't the clearest. The others had clarified things, claiming that the 'Ferals' had left quietly. And that was all well and good for us — they were out of our way. We didn't know that they had gone to join a much larger Feral force, who were preparing to descend on the packs. Ah, ignorance is bliss.

Although we had won, there was still so much to do. Dead to be buried, a castle to be repaired and properly fortified (I didn't want a repeat of our shambles of a siege), and most importantly, there was a party to organise.

"Last Haven Pack, huh?" Leo asked me teasingly. "I suppose you'll go back to just being rogues now, won't you?"

Rogue, by definition, meant a criminal werewolf. Not just all wolves who aren't in packs, as most people believed. We weren't lone wolves, obviously. Rogues tend to band together, but never quite to this scale. We weren't really a pack either, because we weren't 'official'. So where did that leave us?

"I don't know..." the words came slowly. "We're not entirely rogues. Most of the wolves here have never raided in their lives. I guess we could be a rogue pack ... but I'm not sure the packs would like the sound of that."

They might decide to destroy us, was the part I left out. The packs could be very touchy about these things. A rogue pack wouldn't follow their stupid laws or observe their stupid traditions. That made us dangerous to them.

"Who cares what the flockies want?" Ollie piped up. "We've never let them tell us what to do before. So I vote we become Last Haven Pack."

"Great idea, Ollie!" Fion exclaimed, although he hadn't exactly suggested it. "We'll have a vote."