5. Grace

Chapter 5

Grace

-Don’t fear the Reaper- Pierce-

I’ve not visited the cemetery in years, and as we step onto the grounds, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. The air is heavy with the scent of earth and freshly cut grass, mingling with the faint aroma of flowers left as offerings. The rolling hills stretch out before us, adorned with headstones of various shapes and sizes, marking the final resting places of countless souls. It’s a solemn sight, yet somehow serene in its own way.

We make our way through the graveyard; the gravel crunching beneath our feet with each step. The headstones seem to multiply, stretching as far as the eye can see, a testament to the passage of time and the memories etched in stone.

As we venture towards the back, the atmosphere changes subtly. Here, the graves are older, the markers weathered with age, bearing the names of families that have been in the area for centuries. An old stone wall, worn smooth by time, encloses the oldest part of the cemetery, adding a sense of history and reverence to the scene.

In the far back, nestled under the protective embrace of a towering weeping willow tree, stands the grave of my ancestors. It’s a sacred place, steeped in tradition and legacy. My great-great-grandfather planted that tree when our family first arrived in Wolf Creek, and its graceful branches sway gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows over the hallowed ground.

My guys walk beside me, close enough to offer support, yet giving me the space I need to navigate this emotional journey on my own. Ahead, the pastor stands solemnly at the head of my grandmother’s casket, a symbol of comfort and guidance in this time of grief. Around us, dozens of elders from the pack and the town gather, their somber presence a testament to the impact my grandmother had on our community. They stand in silent reverence, paying their final respects to a woman who touched so many lives with her kindness and wisdom.

The pastor’s voice seems to blend into the background, a steady drone that barely registers in my ears. I try to focus on his words, but they slip through my grasp like grains of sand, scattered and elusive. Only fragments manage to pierce through the fog of grief enveloping me.

He speaks of the elder that was a pillar of this community and her many contributions. For the wolves that aren’t mentioned, she was the guardian of the mate finding pool. She served both communities as one of the elders who served as a midwife, bringing countless lives into this world.

Midway through the ceremony, movement catches my eye, drawing my attention away from the pastor’s monotone. A tall figure, reminiscent of my ex, lingers in the shadows of the woods beyond the stone wall.

“Griff...” I murmur, reaching out instinctively to my mate, feeling a sense of unease prickling at the edges of my consciousness.

Griffin shifts closer, his presence reassuring as Ethan wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer. I mention the figure in the woods, hoping for acknowledgment amidst the chaos of my emotions.

Ethan’s grip tightens, his lips brushing against my throat in a silent promise of protection. Griffin nods, a silent signal that he’s understood. Two pack members silently slip away, disappearing into the maze of headstones, giving chase to the mysterious intruder.

Snuggled in Ethan’s embrace, my head resting against his chest, I find a fleeting moment of solace amidst the turmoil. The pastor’s speech draws to a close. The mechanical squeak of the casket lowering machine jolting me back to the present moment.

“She’s in a better place,” my wolf whispers, her rare words to soothe my wounded soul. A battle rages within me, between the desire to surrender to my human grief, to curl up and weep until there’s nothing left. Then there’s the primal urge to seek solace in the presence of my pack, to draw strength from my mates. In that moment, surrounded by their comforting embrace, I find myself leaning towards the latter, seeking refuge in the strength of our family.

As soon as Grams is lowered into the ground, the somber atmosphere thickens, and the first tears fall. I stand at a respectful distance, watching as per tradition. The males of the family step forward to help scoop shovels full of dirt into the open grave.

“Come...” Ethan’s gentle nudge breaks through the haze of grief, urging me to join him at the side of the grave. His presence is a comforting anchor during the sorrow. He guides my hands to the shovel, enveloping me in his embrace as together we scoop the dirt and pour it into the grave.

“The pack buries their own...” My wolf’s voice echoes in my mind, a reminder of our primal instincts and traditions. I nod in acknowledgment, finding comfort in her presence as I lean into Ethan, finding strength in his support with each shovel of earth we move.

With each scoop, the crushing weight that had settled on my chest lifts, replaced by a sense of purpose and peace. I glance around at my other mates, each of them engaged in the solemn task of filling the grave. Even Ambrose, with his own burdens, has arrived and joined the effort. Watching him work, my determination to find his lost mate strengthens. No one should walk alone through life’s trials.

Eventually, Ethan releases me, allowing me to move to Barrett and take my son back into my arms. Without hesitation, Barrett shifts his focus to helping fill in the hole, his actions speaking louder than words.

Stepping back, I observe the scene before me, feeling a strange detachment settle over me. It’s like an out-of-body experience, watching the men work together in harmony. But then, a voice within me speaks, reminding me of our wolf's instincts.

“It’s not odd,” my wolf whispers, her words bringing clarity to the moment. “Wolves don’t hold affection for a corpse. We love our family in life and remember them in death. To cry over them diminishes their memory. Pain is not how our loved ones want to be remembered.”

Her words resonate with a truth that cuts through the grief. Grams wouldn’t want me to mourn over her. Her body may be gone, but her spirit lives on through the memories and lessons she imparted. She lives on in me, in my children, and in generations to come.

-Later that night-

We arrive back home, and immediately, the sight of cars gathered at the pack house catches my attention. “What’s going on?” I ask, the weight of Deacon in my arms grounding me amidst the flurry of activity.

“Traditionally, we honor the dead with a feast,” Griffin explains, his voice carrying a solemn tone as he joins us by the car.

I nod, absorbing his words as my gaze shifts to Shamus and Lorcan emerging from the guest house. Lorcan balances a food tray in his hands, guided by his brother towards the pack house. The sense of community woven into our traditions brings a bittersweet comfort, even during sorrow.

“I should go cook something to bring with us,” I suggest, already turning towards the house, but Barrett’s firm grip on my arm stops me in my tracks.

“Oh no, Gracie,” he whispers, his presence reassuring as he links his arm with mine, leading me towards the pack house. “As the one who lost a loved one, the pack takes care of your family for a night to ease your burden and grief. Wolves are pack animals. To have your pack with you for a night will make your wolf feel better.”

“We thrive on community,” Nicolai adds, his words resonating with the truth of our nature as he moves to assist his mother with the girls.

“Pack politics aside,” Ambrose interjects, stepping out of his truck with a tray in hand. “One thing that unites packs is birth and death.” His smile holds warmth as he reaches out to touch Deacon’s cheek, a gesture of affection and comfort amidst the solemnity of the occasion.

I trudge through the throngs of pack mates, the air thick with the scent of earth and pine, the sound of soft murmurs and gentle footsteps enveloping me. Each step feels heavy, burdened by the weight of my grief. But as I move, hands reach out to touch my bare skin, their warmth seeping into me, offering solace amidst the storm raging inside.

Each touch is a balm to my wounded soul, a reminder of the support that surrounds me. My son in my arms is soothing and reminds me that my grams lives on through him. He rests his head on my chest, seeking reassurance in our shared bond.

My eyes scan the faces of my pack mates as we make our way through the room, their expressions a mix of empathy and understanding. But it’s the sight of my mates’ parents waiting for me at the front of the pack house that brings a lump to my throat.

Moving slowly, I approach them, feeling a sense of anticipation mingled with trepidation. As I draw near, both moms envelop me in a tight embrace, their arms a sanctuary against the pain that threatens to consume me.

Their touch is like a healing balm, easing the ache in my heart and bringing a sense of peace to my troubled mind. I breathe in the scent of home, of warmth and safety, feeling as though I could stay in their embrace forever.

“It’s the pack bond,” Agnes murmurs, her voice a soothing melody in the tumult of emotions swirling inside me. She presses a kiss on each of my cheeks before passing me to Nicolai’s mom, who does the same. “As past Lunas, we can help far more than the guys can.”

Their words resonate within me, a reminder of the strength that lies in our shared connection. And as they hold me close, their arms a shield against the world, I know that together, we can weather any storm that comes our way.

My daughters come bounding towards me as I step into the familiar embrace of our pack house, their playful energy a stark contrast to the heaviness weighing on my heart. They lay at my feet, their puppies wide-eyed and eager, their little tails wagging slowly. Despite their innocence, they seem to sense the somber mood lingering among us.

“They don’t understand human grief,” Agnes murmurs softly, her voice a comforting presence amidst the turmoil. “Wolves celebrate life. We celebrate the life they lived. We also celebrate what they left behind, their legacy in the people they leave behind.”

I feel her fingers run through my long hair, a soothing gesture that offers a moment of respite from the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. Around us, my men move with purpose, navigating the interior of the pack house with a quiet determination. They greet our friends and neighbors, accepting condolences on my behalf, their presence a reassuring presence in the face of tragedy.

The scent of freshly prepared food fills the air as several women from the kitchen staff bring in trays of food and drinks, setting them out on the table with practiced efficiency. Each dish is a testament to the love and care poured into its creation, a reminder of the bonds that bind us together as a pack.

As my mates help guide our pack mates to the tables, encouraging them to take their fill. I stand in silence, enveloped in the arms of my mates’ mothers. Barrett’s mom stands off to the side, her gaze watchful yet distant, a silent observer.

I accept hugs from every single pack member, feeling the warmth of their embrace enveloping me like a protective cocoon. Each person in line presses a cheek to mine, their breath mingling with mine. I hear the rumble of their wolves, a deep, comforting sound that resonates within me. With each hug, the connection with my pack strengthens, grounding me in the shared bond we all hold dear.

As the elders in the pack share stories of my grandmother, the air fills with the soft cadence of their voices, weaving a tapestry of memories and anecdotes. I listen intently, finding solace in the tales that paint a vivid picture of her life. Some stories elicit laughter, like the time my grandmother pranked the pack by dying sheep a color that wolves can’t see. She exploited their colorblindness to play a mischievous trick. The memory of the Easter hunt that year, with its challenges and laughter, brings a smile to my lips even amidst the somber occasion.

Hearing these stories from my grandmother’s youth soothes the pain of her loss, easing the ache in my heart with each shared memory. In that moment, surrounded by my pack, it becomes clear to me that my grandmother’s spirit lives on not only in me but also in my children and in the cherished recollections of her antics. As the stories continue to flow, I find comfort knowing that her legacy endures, woven into the very fabric of our pack’s history.