It was hard. He grew up where everything he could remember was fine. It was like that for his mother, too. She was fed, her father was there. She had pack mates. A woman fed her. What more could she want? There was love somewhere but it didn't quite reach him. It was meant for someone but not quite him. Laurel wasn't meant to be the one that nursed from her, alone, in the spring time of her adulthood. Sahalie had done the same to her own wet-mother but she hadn't understood until that moment what it meant to be reduced, by someone who was not even capable of understanding what a mother was, to a mere milk sack. Why did Laurel ache for more? Why was a milk sack meant to be more? Laurel felt stupid for wanting more. There was no reason. Nothing in his life hinted there might be something.....
More....
They moved away from the shivering trees. But Laurel wanted to go back, as soon as he was able to. There were other mysteries. He knew where his nurse came from, and her mate. His father was not here. But he had died here. His mother had died here. And not much was known about them, very little was known about any of them but still he wondered with a morbid fascination why it was here that they died, out of any place that they visit. This land felt like a hungry monster, a cougar that preyed on the weak, waiting for thankless, stupid creatures to let their weakness slip. Was his father that stupid? Was his mother that week? Laurel did not understand why he thought so highly of himself but thought little of those that raised him or the genes that produced him.
Where did he come from?
The fog was thick here but the trees were thin. There were smells of a lot of wolves, but at least no boundaries near here. His "mother" said she was born to a lot of fog. This seemed like a fuck ton of fog. The answers might begin here. Or they would just confuse him til he gave up.