Shadows fell deep in the glen as the sun crowned the jagged peaks of Ben Dearg.
The winter's snow had covered the surrounding mountains with a fine dusting, alternating white and grey, and outlined the barren trees below.
In the glen, the grass was still green.
The shadows of Glen Dearg were long, and the days short in deep winter, offering the damp chill of late February. Mist crept into the valley as the people of the clan woke with the sunrise to begin their day.
The Clan MacQueen had a long and storied history, stemming back to the great and fearsome MacDonalds, the Lords of the Isles.
Their motto was Constant and Faithful.
Graham MacQueen was as constant as they come.
He stood at the entrance to the glen, wondering what kind of reception he would find there, after all this time.
He unwrapped the plaid from around his head and took a deep breath, exhaling a plume of steam.
"It's good to be home," he said.
Skye was an island of contrasts.
The mountains ringed round many of the settlements, but there were broad moors here too, and a wild and angry sea.
Yet in the warmth of the coming spring was accompanied by the scent of heather blooming, accented by the peat-fire smoke on the softer winds.
Graham had been exiled as a pup and a young man. He was never certain of his welcome, or how long memory stretched over this land of snow and shadow. Rekindling his right to his father's title would not be an easy task - if the clan would even allow him to return, to live as a part of the pack again.
Ireland's customs had directed his steps, despite his Highland Scottish origins, with their cultural tradition regarding the young wolves expected to eke out a life of their own in the wilderness. Lone and rogue wolves were they, and Graham shuddered and shunned them whenever they hove into view or drew near to him, knowing he had a promising future ahead of himself, if he could only convince his people to take him back, and to show that he had all the qualities of an excellent leader of both pack and extended clan.
What he would find at the end of his long journey was still a mystery to him. There was no telling whether they would welcome him home with open arms, or shun him again as he had shunned the other wolves left lonely.
Clan, pack, family - all essential to wolves and humans alike.
No man is an island, and no wolf thrives alone.
Graham was a little bit of both.
Despite all his confidence - the unkind might call it arrogance - Graham's steps faltered the closer he came to the edge of his village.
The imposing structure of the castle loomed over the glen.
He decided it would be best to stride forward, fearless and proud, to demand the title of chief, as his father before him.
This was when a woman crossed his path, fair and slender, wearing a long white dress tied loosely around her hips with a sash.
She saw him, and started, dropping her basket.
"Is that you, Graham MacQueen?" she burst out, and then clapped a dainty hand over her mouth, gathering up her earasaid plaid and arranging it around herself almost as if to hide from the rest of the village.
"Eilidh?" Graham ventured.
She nodded, her huge clear limpid blue eyes like the fairy pools. She took her hand from her mouth, lips full and redpink like the firm bodies of cherries.
"Well. No finer lass have I seen. You've grown up well."
"As have you!" she stuttered, and then clapped that hand over her mouth again, her long golden-blonde hair falling in a soft sheaf over her shoulder.
"Let me help you," said Graham, his annoyance at the interruption eased by a softer feeling.
"It's just laundry," she said quietly.
"And the sisters I knew, they do laundry now?" he asked, handing her the basket. "What of the fight?"
"We still fight," said Eilidh, now proud and haughty. "Of course we do. But we also must do the needful."
"Such as the laundry."
"Such as the laundry."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Father takes his turn," she informed him. "Today it's my turn, tomorrow it's Fiona's. Then Father's. All must know how to do all. You know. Your late father - "
She gave him a worried look.
"Did you know - you must've known he passed, or why would you be here in front of me, livin' and breathin'? Aye. I'm sorry. He was a good man."
Graham's jaw clicked. He said nothing, but his jaw tightened as he nodded.
"I thank you, Eilidh the Fair," he said, with a slight bow. "But I'm headed to the castle to demand my birthright."
Eilidh turned and looked up at the edifice in the morning light.
"I think you may have a more difficult time in that pursuit than you may know," she murmured.
"Are there contenders?" Graham asked sharply, and then subsided when she shot him a warning look.
Then she shrugged.
"You ken how wolves can be," she said faintly.
"Unfortunately, I do," he said, a grim determination taking hold of him.
"Well, I wish you luck!" she said, all smiles again. She kissed his cheek and ran off, hair like a ribbon in the wind.
His heart clenched at the sight, bringing a strong memory of her unbidden, back when they were children laughing in the sweet sunlight of a heather-gathering, all before.
All of it, before.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Werewolf packs and the human Highland clans operated in a similar fashion. Although it was likely the child of the chief - male or female - would inherit the title, it was not a given. While the concept of a hereditary heir often worked because that child had grown up learning the responsibilities and expected behavior of a chief at their parent's knee, this did not guarantee anything. Clans and packs were egalitarian, and should a ruler prove arrogant or abusive or foolish, they were duly turfed out. An exile - whether a human or a wolf - was always in danger outside of the safety of their clan, where roving bands of thieves or those from enemy clans or packs could easily murder them without fear of retribution.
And it was often in this way that said enemies found the retribution they sought, for injuries real or perceived.
Graham knew this better than any wolf.
His supposed arrogance had led him to life as an exile.
His own father had turned him out into the wilds, saying you have much to learn, little wolf -
and that was the last he had seen or heard of his father, until random chance had brought him into a little stone pub where he could get out of the rain.
The stone pub was tiny, almost more of a lean-to, and he was surprised at its popularity. It was on a barren, grassy hill, beyond which the great open spaces of the Lowlands stretched from horizon to horizon, and then, in the distance, the sea.
Despite the weather, or perhaps because of it, the place was full and merry, with a fire crackling in the corner and two shepherd's dogs panting with their smiles as one man played the chanter. The cacophony of the place was near-deafening.
One of the barmaids had been giving him the eye as he'd nursed his beer, and he was considering broaching the topic of the attached inn, when the door slammed open in the wind and rain, bringing in with it a group of bedraggled travelers.
His barmaid's immediate deference, curtsy, and meek on the house, sirs made Graham sit up and take notice, from where he'd been ensconced in a far corner.
"Messengers from the king," whispered someone nearby.
Graham wondered which king, as this was a strange and desolate place for those serving the human king to find themselves, and any of the wolf lords would most likely not be shown such deference by the humans - if, as he surmised, the barmaid and her associates were human.
The darker problem was that if they had come from the South, they often meant harm to the people, whether wolf or man.
So Graham had honed in on their conversation and listened as well as he could, as the noise of the pub washed over them again.
Three men, all of whom were served beer, all of whom raised a toast to the establishment.
"...a real shame, that," said one of them. "Old Iain MacQueen laid to rest at last."
Graham had felt his bones ache and the very blood rushing within him curve and peak, in a strange symphony between regret, relief, and a lingering fear.
He listened more, just in case they were speaking of some other man, and not his father - but the following mention of the Isle of Skye and the clan seat of the MacQueens was all the confirmation he needed.
He stood, and headed out the door.
"Where on earth are you goin' in this awfu' weather, lad?" asked his barmaid - quite assumptive, he supposed, to think of her as his.
"Some air," he said.
"You'll catch your death out in that and no mistake," she said.
Her concern for him was charming, really. He hadn't encountered concern or care for his sorry hide in many a long year.
"I thank you," he forced himself to smile, "but unless there is some other method in which I can rid myself of the beer I've been drinking, I think I must risk it."
She smiled; a brilliant grin, all teeth.
A beautiful sight, to a wolf.
He loved her, for a moment.
"Say no more," she said, and winked at him.
The timing is unfortunate. It looks like you may have found success here after all.
He nodded, and smiled at her in return, and then found himself outside in the freezing rain. Distant lightning flashed on the faraway hills, and beyond them, the castle, and home.
"I'm sorry," he murmured to the barmaid, an apology she would never hear, and he did feel a pang of regret, as he began to make his way toward the distant darkness of the mountains.
He'd left money on the table, after all.
The clouds rolled in dark, and the rain fell, but there was something calling Graham now, calling him back to his clan and his people.
The wind howled, and the rain battered the earth.
Graham transformed then, and loped off toward his destination.
After all, the weather meant nothing to a wolf.