pre-OOM post: Swan on a plane
The Swan King normally flies business class.
Not that he lets the airline know who he is; it would not mean a thing to them, and incite laughter in half of them, and a distant sort of pity in the rest. These people would call swanmanes 'were-swans' and lump them in with pard, pack and rodere, when really, they are something else entirely.
In this little city hopper going from Atlanta to St. Louis, there is a nominal business class; it's a few rows of clean seating, divided from miserable humanity by a curtain.
Miserable humanity, and two young werewolves -- the Swan King can clearly feel their presence, somewhere behind him, excited by some meat or flesh near them.
St. Louis -- not exactly the hub of the world, is it? So, why should there be a bigger plane if this small one is enough, and it brings him where he, unfortunately, needs to be. After Kaspar, the swanmanes of St. Louis are a mess. Pretty much everything is a mess in St. Louis, and the Swan King finds himself spending much more time there than he'd really like to.
He'd really like to spend his time at his family's beach house in Maine, alone, free to shift when he wants and take wing into cool northerly skies, never minding all those demands and wishes and hopes and desires everybody hangs on him.
Swan King of his generation. Born to it. Going about his duty as he should, taking care of his people all through the land, even in, god help him, St. Louis. Especially in St. Louis. Why has he to be there again when he could be in Boston, Seattle, San Francisco or New Orleans -- or anywhere within a civilised time zone? The Swan King really would like an answer to that, from the universe, or maybe just from the powers that deal with shape shifters.
Shape shifters, yes -- were-animals, no. Swanmanes are no more 'were-swans' than selkies are 'were-seals': - they are creatures of legend greeted, in the old times, with hope or awe, the stuff that enchanted fairy-tales are made of. They don't end up as horror movies, but as operas and ballets.
Nobody asks the Swan King what he'd really like, who he really is, whom he loves and what he secretly hopes for. Nobody has ever asked Donovan Reece what he wants, and while the easy lifestyle he has inherited as his birthright from his father's family suits him just fine, it would have been great to have had a chance to find out who Donovan Reece is.
Donovan doesn't know. He is still young, and there are so many things he doesn't know; and knowing about himself somehow isn't important. When his mother's mother first set eye on his birthmark, it had become unimportant whether Donovan would become a lawyer or a doctor or a good-for nothing artist, whether he'd be straight or gay or into a bit of kink, whether he'd be a family man or playboy or even religiously austere. With one glance, the swanmane had known her newborn king, and his fate was sealed.
Donovan sighs. It seems his fate has decreed he should be in St. Louis yet again, world capital (it seems) of deeply disturbed weres and of that woman.
Donovan pushes up the blind on the tiny bull's eye right beside his seat, and peers out, recognising the Tennessee river and the outskirts of Huntsville down below. There is a soft wind blowing from the south, as he can tell by the movement of the clouds, and for a moment, an intense longing fills him, to be out there not in here, to fly on his own wings, with no clothes and laptop and credit cards to carry, no keys, no tickets, no business cards.
Just feathers and wind.
Back there, the little wolves in steerage, they might snicker and call him 'prey' and feel as big strong predators, and dream of fighting their way up, spilling blood and killing and becoming alpha and screwing a lupa right there in front of all to see.
But they will never know that -- the freedom of flight. They will never know what makes being the Swan King ultimately worth it for Donovan Reece, after all.-
Not that he lets the airline know who he is; it would not mean a thing to them, and incite laughter in half of them, and a distant sort of pity in the rest. These people would call swanmanes 'were-swans' and lump them in with pard, pack and rodere, when really, they are something else entirely.
In this little city hopper going from Atlanta to St. Louis, there is a nominal business class; it's a few rows of clean seating, divided from miserable humanity by a curtain.
Miserable humanity, and two young werewolves -- the Swan King can clearly feel their presence, somewhere behind him, excited by some meat or flesh near them.
St. Louis -- not exactly the hub of the world, is it? So, why should there be a bigger plane if this small one is enough, and it brings him where he, unfortunately, needs to be. After Kaspar, the swanmanes of St. Louis are a mess. Pretty much everything is a mess in St. Louis, and the Swan King finds himself spending much more time there than he'd really like to.
He'd really like to spend his time at his family's beach house in Maine, alone, free to shift when he wants and take wing into cool northerly skies, never minding all those demands and wishes and hopes and desires everybody hangs on him.
Swan King of his generation. Born to it. Going about his duty as he should, taking care of his people all through the land, even in, god help him, St. Louis. Especially in St. Louis. Why has he to be there again when he could be in Boston, Seattle, San Francisco or New Orleans -- or anywhere within a civilised time zone? The Swan King really would like an answer to that, from the universe, or maybe just from the powers that deal with shape shifters.
Shape shifters, yes -- were-animals, no. Swanmanes are no more 'were-swans' than selkies are 'were-seals': - they are creatures of legend greeted, in the old times, with hope or awe, the stuff that enchanted fairy-tales are made of. They don't end up as horror movies, but as operas and ballets.
Nobody asks the Swan King what he'd really like, who he really is, whom he loves and what he secretly hopes for. Nobody has ever asked Donovan Reece what he wants, and while the easy lifestyle he has inherited as his birthright from his father's family suits him just fine, it would have been great to have had a chance to find out who Donovan Reece is.
Donovan doesn't know. He is still young, and there are so many things he doesn't know; and knowing about himself somehow isn't important. When his mother's mother first set eye on his birthmark, it had become unimportant whether Donovan would become a lawyer or a doctor or a good-for nothing artist, whether he'd be straight or gay or into a bit of kink, whether he'd be a family man or playboy or even religiously austere. With one glance, the swanmane had known her newborn king, and his fate was sealed.
Donovan sighs. It seems his fate has decreed he should be in St. Louis yet again, world capital (it seems) of deeply disturbed weres and of that woman.
Donovan pushes up the blind on the tiny bull's eye right beside his seat, and peers out, recognising the Tennessee river and the outskirts of Huntsville down below. There is a soft wind blowing from the south, as he can tell by the movement of the clouds, and for a moment, an intense longing fills him, to be out there not in here, to fly on his own wings, with no clothes and laptop and credit cards to carry, no keys, no tickets, no business cards.
Just feathers and wind.
Back there, the little wolves in steerage, they might snicker and call him 'prey' and feel as big strong predators, and dream of fighting their way up, spilling blood and killing and becoming alpha and screwing a lupa right there in front of all to see.
But they will never know that -- the freedom of flight. They will never know what makes being the Swan King ultimately worth it for Donovan Reece, after all.-