Graham had crossed all the lonely miles, from storm to sun to storm again.
Passage across the sea must be done in man's guise.
The dark island of Skye, of his people, had borne through the mist on the water, an uncanny and calm clear deep surrounding a foundation of rock and stone steeped in such history it dwarfed both wolf and man in him, and wolf and man in the world likewise.
He breathed deep, of the peat-smoke and the heather, of the salt on the wind.
Stepping foot once again on the land of his fathers, he had felt a kind of peace in his soul that only comes with a homecoming.
Now, despite his eagerness to return to his homeland, Graham stood at the foot of the castle, staring up at the sombre grey edifice that stood at the crest of the glen.
Although he had begun with confident assurance of his place here, he now felt his steps faltering as he approached the castle.
If his arrogance, his spoiled behavior - according to his father - had caused his exile, then what right had he to approach the castle and make a case for himself, heir or no?
His confidence, or his arrogance, might just be his downfall.
He was a stranger here.
He couldn't figure it out, not the mystery, nor the koan it seemed. Confidence was needed in a leader, arrogance was not, but where that line was drawn had always seemed indistinct to Graham.
Perhaps it was this lack of wisdom that had led his father to command the exile of his own son.
He had often wondered if there was more to the story, if his father had other, more legitimate motivations. Thoughts to help keep a lonely wolf pup company on lonely nights, because it was easier to think his father had compelling reasons, paternal reasons, to turf his own son out into the solitary cold, than a parent who would exile him for most of his life due to a strict coldness that bordered on cruelty.
Then, Graham had seen the fate of children who were born of man, and had no trouble believing it. However, hope sprang eternal in his breast, that perhaps his father's reasoning was sound, if only he could discover it.
Since his father had passed away, Graham would only learn the truth here, among his clan and his people. Mystery aside, he had come for the crown which he viewed as rightfully his, as long as he proved himself to be a just ruler.
All those years in the rain and the cold, surviving, told him he must have learned compassion, by now.
But an anger stirred deep within his heart, and doubt crept in alongside it, a wolf at the door.
And so, he hesitated, here at the very threshold of his aspirations.
The village, now active behind him in order to make use of the scant daylight, paid him little to no mind. Graham felt somewhat slighted by this; the young prince returned! And no one but Eilidh to mark it.
Then again, it had been years. Perhaps he had been forgotten.
There was a shadow on the stone steps of the castle in the shape of a man, and in an instant Graham realised the reason for the seeming indifference of the townspeople:
news of his arrival had already spread, in the way of all islands and small towns, with the speed of a breath, of a dream.
He looked up at the man standing there, and thought:
I know that face.
"Why come ye here, brother?" asked the man on the staircase.
Graham, stunned for a moment, then found his feet, and climbed the stairs with purpose.
"I heard that Father had passed on," said Graham. "And from a band of Sassenachs, of all things. Where were my people, where was my family, to tell me of my father's demise?"
The man on the staircase was imposing and strong. Black hair curling over his shoulders, his bright green eyes suffused with almost an unreal glow, and a physical body of muscle and sinew all warrior now, with the family claymore on his back.
"And how should we find you, little wolf?" he asked. "By asking the raven, the fox? Where shall we look for you, in your byre, in your hiding-place beneath the stone?"
"Nursery rhymes and fairy tales," said Graham. "You haven't changed within, despite all the changes without, now have you, Artair?"
The man beamed.
"Better a bear - "
" - than a bean sidhe," grinned Graham, and Artair grabbed him, hauling him up into a tight embrace. Graham hugged him in return, and lost himself in the embrace for a moment. Then, Artair released him.
"It's good to see you again," said Artair, smiling warmth into his eyes.
"How long has it been?"
"Too long. Now, come inside, and say hello to those who've missed you."
The warmth of the sun on the flagstones of the castle even in midwinter was something Graham hadn't realised he'd missed. There was an ache in him for it, the soul of him meeting the history of himself, of his pack, and of his clan.
Graham and Artair had been fast friends as children, running around with Eilidh, getting into the usual tussles. Artair had pretensions to becoming the seanachaidh, or official bard, of the Clan MacQueen. Much like Graham's own position, the title of seanachaidh was often hereditary, but whether earned or inherited, it involved much learning and memorising, which Graham had always dismissed as altogether too studious. Graham preferred sparring and swordfights, playing at mock battle strategy, and warring with Eilidh, who, along with her sister Fiona, was warlike.
And here was Artair, sweet and sensitive, shy and studious, a thin strip of a thing, now looking all the brawn of the warrior, rather than the piper whom the warring clans would leave alone, even on the field of battle, for the simple respect he was due as a non-combatant providing the background music to the fight.
"And have you become a soldier, then, in my time away?" enquired Graham, as they walked the castle hallway together, passing scullery maids and servants on their way to do this or that, as Graham attempted to catch the eye of one or two, but they steadfastly stared at the floor - or if they happened to be caught looking, however briefly, they turned their gaze earthwards.
Graham was extremely puzzled by this behaviour, as in his father's time, all those who served in the castle were treated as equals and had free run of the house, could speak to anyone without fear of retribution, and made the castle a rather merry place to spend a lifetime, whether prince or pauper.
He wondered what had happened in his absence, and what had changed.
Artair, however, just laughed as he always had, and said:
"Now, you know that exercise of the body is just as important as exercise of the mind," he said. "Neither should atrophy, as one takes care of the other. And you, Graham! You are looking - "
He gave him an evaluating look from the corner of his eye, and Graham could read the dismay there.
"Yes, I have had some lean years," admitted Graham.
Why did none of you find me? Why did you and Eilidh stay here, all this time, and never once come looking? And the others? There were so many, once. Where were they, in my time of suffering?
Artair paused, as if he had read the runes of Graham's expression and divined the meaning there.
"We did not come, because we could not," he said, almost under his breath. "But we cannot speak freely of it here. I will explain later. For now - "
And he grinned, open and guileless, at a chambermaid in passing.
They finally came to a large set of double doors.
The throne room.
Graham remembered when his mother - God rest her soul - had commented upon the unnecessary extravagance of a throne room.
"We're wolves, Iain," she'd said, her golden crown on her brow, her golden hair in waves falling down her back, her beautiful white scalloped dress outlining her slight figure. "What do we need with such things? Better to have a warm pillow by the fireside, as dogs do."
"Wolves are not dogs, my love," sniffed Iain.
She laughed.
"We are, we are," she said, her voice light and airy, her laughter like soft bells, as he scooped her up in his strong arms and carried her to one of the thrones, where he set her to sit, as a queen.
Then he bowed deeply to her, in some complicated fashion that involved leaning over a bent knee, the edge of his kilt brushing the carpet.
"My queen," he'd said.
She'd just laughed again, as if he were ridiculous.
It was evident she loved him, by the shining of her eyes.
"What is it your little friend says, Graham?" she asked him, as Iain stood up again in one fluid motion. "The one named Bear - yes, Artair? Better a bear than a bean sidhe!"
And she laughed again.
"And better a wolf than a dog!" his father announced, and sat beside her on his own throne. "Come here, my son, and be a prince with us."
"I like dogs," said Graham stubbornly. "And I don't want to be a prince, Father. I want to be..."
His mother, his beautiful mother, had leaned down with a soft and gentle smile, and asked:
"What do you want to be, dear heart?"
Graham just stared at her, transfixed for a moment.
It would be a memory he retained all his life, the way she'd looked at him in that moment, her blue eyes lit from behind with love.
"I don't know, Mum," he said. "But I want to be able to choose."
"Oh, well," said his father, "that's all well and good for everyone else, but our family are the chiefs of the clan. It's our responsibility and our birthright."
"But not one to abuse," his mother interjected.
"Yes. A fair and honest ruler, a decent one. Remember that."
"But what if I don't want - "
"Believe me, son. One day you will."
And he pulled Graham's mother into his arms and kissed her soundly, and she laughed, and all was well with the world, even if Graham still wasn't certain he wanted these gifts he had been given.
Warm, and sunlit, and perfect.
But for a Highland clan, and a werewolf pack, these moments were precious simply for the reason they were so few and far between.
Like the storms and the weather, everything changed in an instant - like a lightning strike from a stormy sky.