COWBOY ROMANCE: Justin (Western Contemporary Alpha Male Bride Romance) (The Steele Brothers Book 1) (17 page)

Bear Shifter Romance

Enchanted by the Bear

My name, for what that is worth, is Aurelius. I am, at this moment, sitting at my writing-desk in a far-flung corner of the Russian empire. Just last century, it was the governorship of Smolensk. Kingdoms crumble, empires tear themselves apart. Somehow, I still persist.

I suppose I should clarify this for you, the reader.  My life is almost infinitely-long, because I live between two worlds. I spend half the year in the form of a bear.

Well, yes. Once you have recovered from the shock of that, perhaps we can proceed? Very well.

It is an ancient curse set upon my family in the mists of time. The reason for the curse long-forgotten, my ancestors have finally passed on after perhaps a thousand years. That brings me to the other problem: indefinitely-long life. As I am the only man living to experience such a thing, I cannot make a study of it, but it seems shape-shifting as I know it makes you close to immortal. Not quite immortal, as my ancestors are dead, but problematically close. That is the central problem of my life. We will come to that.

You may ask why I write this account. It is so I do not forget.  After the hibernation and transition between shapes, the memory is cloudy, almost gone. Even one's own appearance is forgotten.

To this end, I should describe myself.  Last time I looked (for mirrors are a rare commodity), the glass showed me a tall man with muscled shoulders and a fine-boned, patrician face. Long pale hair, which I have never tonsured and large golden eyes. I must admit I am rather pleased with the image I saw, although in all piety I should not admit that. 

Now that you (and I) have a record of my looks, let us address the matter at hand.

Hibernation.

I would tell you of it if I could. The thought of hibernation occurs to me now, as it is linked inextricably to the essence of my story.
Kyrila
.

It was winter when I saw her.

Golden. She outshone the russet and oranges of the deepest autumn. Her hair, her eyes.
Such eyes
. You are not as I am, and would only dimly appreciate the intensity of feeling, as you are without the clarity of perception of a bear. Still, you may imagine it.

It all began with her
.
I did not know then where it would end. I do not know, even now.

I only know that I must set it down, for she is the most precious thing. My story, once so secondary to me, now bears a primary importance. It is also her story.

***

“Brother Luca?”

I turn slowly, my mind returning to the present.  The prior of the monastery is standing at the door. I smile at him. He is a friend.

He walks in wearily, and sits by me, lays his hand on mine. I can see he has not been sleeping well; his eyes are set in deep wrinkles, his face rumpled.

“Prior?” I ask.

“I am concerned about you, my brother.”

“About me?” My voice rises in mild surprise.

“You are not yourself. All day you spend writing. I have not seen you for weeks.”

It is true. I have been elsewher
e.  Sometimes here in the library writing.  Sometimes in truth I have been in the woods with her. That is another story. We will come to that.

Now, I smile at the prior. I believe he sees the signs of sadness in my face. He pats my hand.

“Tell me. Whatever it is. You can trust me, brother,” he says.

“Thank you.” I mean it.

He is the closest thing I have to a friend, always opening the monastery door with no questions asked about my absences. And he is learned. We have spent hours in lively debate. Like me, he has been to the East, to the Holy Land. We have much to discuss.

“I miss our talks.” He seems to read my thoughts.

“I too, Prior.” I smile, my eyes still weary.

“My door is always open.”

“Thank you.” I bow my head. “There is much I would like to tell you.”

“My ears are open, whenever you wish to speak.”

With that, his hand pats mine, and he is standing, wincing as he settled a hand against his back. He throws a last smile to me and leaves.

I watch the door after he has gone. So much I would like to tell him. And it is all of her. Kiryla.

***

As I sit here, musing and writing, my mind takes me back to the first day I saw her…

Her hair hung loose, and spread out around her pale shoulders like cloth of gold, her eyes golden mirrors, brighter than all the coins of Byzantium. A rounded body with full breasts, soft as Oriental silk. She was then, and is still, profoundly beautiful.  I feel a stab of desire, a physical ache, even as I think of her. And my heart aches worse.

I stood in bear form when I saw her, engaged in collecting nuts and readying myself for hibernation. 

I heard singing.

Music truly comes to life for a creature. The senses mix and you can
see
a song. This song danced purple, like the night skies above Damascus.  It wove its way through the forest like a spell. I sat up on my legs, and listened closer. The song stopped.

I waited for a moment, then shrugged. Even as a bear, I am essentially Epicurean. I turned back to the nut-tree and sampled more of its goods.

Another huge advantage of a creature-form is that you can
feel
a presence without needing to turn round. I felt that. Turned to face it.

She appeared tiny in form, standing below the nut tree. 
Why is she not afraid
? People fear bears, especially tall male bears, when alone in the forest.

She remained unafraid. In fact, she stood perfectly still.

I wondered what she might have been thinking and what had happened in her life to make her so unafraid. I can feel much more than a person’s presence if they allow it. It’s possible to feel their memories, their entire life. I had longed for the chance to know her story.

Her eyes finally met mine. The blank surprise in my head became a throbbing buzz, and I heard her voice.

Hello, it said, pleasantly. I'm Kyrila. Who are you? What are you doing today?

I can tell you, nothing can describe what I felt. I sat down on my haunches, astounded. I had never experienced such a thing. And I have lived, perhaps, four hundred years.

I...
I stammered.

I was profoundly in shock. And I do believe the word is
shy
. My dealings with women have been distant, entirely non-instructive.

I...It's winter. I managed.

What did I say that for? Ludicrous. 

She smiled. A silvery laugh echoed back to me.

It is, isn't it? She said with her mind. Well, Mr. Bear, have a good winter. I hope to see you in springtime next year.

Then she turned away.

Goodbye
, I managed.

Goodbye.

She disappeared into the forest.

I was left, alone.

What happened? 

I still do not know, even now. That question has instead birthed more questions. Now that whatever had happened has changed my life, unutterably and unalterably.
What will I do?
Sometimes, it seems, there are no answers.

However, I know more now than I had then.

***

Evening settled darkness over the cottage, the constant flames in the grate perseverant in the winter air.

Mother sat by the fire. Kiryla had never noticed before how old and weary she had become.

“Mother?”

The older woman looked up, blinking.

“Kiryla. Daughter. Come, sit by me.”

Her hands, which clasped Kiryla's wrist, looked painfully-thin and felt icy cold. Nevertheless, she smiled at Kiryla.

“Your father is out at the barns. We have time to talk a moment.”

Kyrila rolled her eyes in sympathy. As he aged, her father became more short-tempered and difficult.
Anger at his own infirmity makes him unreasoning
.

His infirmity meant that he could not farm.  Too old to guide a plow, till fields, gather seed, or herd stock, he labored beneath the yoke of his own resentment now.

At seventeen, Kiryla faced the slow ruin of her family.

She sighed. She could marry some strapping, boorish farmer, who would till the land and abuse her and take over the farm.

But she could not.  She would not do that, would not allow life to crush the spark inside her. It spoke to the stars, sometimes, and under heaven she refused to let that go. But her mother was dying.

“Mother?” Kiryla interrupted her mother's flow of talk. “You need something for your chest. You are unwell.”

              “My daughter, you see what others try to hide.” Her mother's smile eased the lines in her face and warmed Kiryla’s heart.

Kiryla swallowed. That is just part of it. If you knew what I feel and see, you would be as wary as I am about it.

“As it happens,” her mother continued, “I would like something to ease the pains. Could you visit Alena for me?”

Alena
. The wise woman. Kyrila lived in awe of Alena, but had also come to love her. She proved the only person who understood the things that happen to Kiryla.  And the older woman shone as an example of the gift that she and Kiryla had. She was what it can look like, what it can become, when treated with respect.

She looked at her mother, gold eyes shining. She loved her visits there.

“Of course,” Kiryla said, voice soft.

***

My next memories lie in winter. In them, I am in my cave, and most fully in my bear form…

Around me, the forest slumbered, utterly silent. And I felt tired, so tired. My blood had slowed to almost-stagnant, my head hazy, my mind swimming. The time approached for the long sleep to descend.

Despite all of this, my senses dwelled on her—Kiryla. My mind, my heart, my body… all saw only her. Her full, warm figure, her exquisite golden eyes. 

Only a week had passed since I saw her, and I could think of nothing else.

However, I could do nothing to address this longing. Even if I were not a bear, and she were here with me, and willing, my body remained as weak as a newborn. The onset of hibernation weakens me so much. 

I scarcely permitted my longing, pouring a thousand scorns on it.
Why would she love me? Would she even talk to me if she met me again in human form?
  I wanted so much to find out.

I would return here, come spring, I vowed. But,
will I remember anything?

The day before sleep came to claim me, I marked a “K” out on the floor with twigs. It served as a reminder. 

The following day, I entered the darkness of the long sleep, and I could only see her. When the sleep came to claim me, I drifted into it smiling.

***

Alena.

She stood by the darkened fireplace, pearly skin reflecting the dusk light. She seemed impossibly tall, her robes falling like sculpted ice. Her eyes closed, she seemed regal. Like the statues Kiryla had seen in holy parades. But pagan.

Kiryla watched her sink into herself, seeking inner clarity.

Opposite her, Kiryla breathed as she had been taught, using each breath to focus the mind. Her energy focused in with Alena who supported her in her own ritual.

Alena stood with her eyes closed. Her expression lax and tranquil, she showed evidence of being in communion with Spirit.  She breathed out suddenly and raised her arms above her head.

Kiryla felt the energy in the room lift, moving skywards and straining for the clouds. The air pulsed and throbbed.

Then Alena brought down her arms.

A rush, a crackle, and something like lightning passed through the room. The fire, which had been dead, sprung to life.

Everything laid very, very silent. The crackling life of the fire whispered in the room, hungrily consuming dry logs, the only noise in the house.

Across the crackle of the flames, Alena opened her eyes. The light played over their dark, reflective surface.  She wore an enigmatic smile.

“Right.” Her voice sounded flat, pragmatic. “Is it your turn?”

Kiryla felt her heart swell and clench at once. “I...”

“Maybe not today,” her teacher demurred. “When you feel ready. It will not come, otherwise.”

“I...thank you,” Kiryla breathed out.

She loved this most about her teacher. There was no pushing, no pressure, in her lessons. She allowed each thing to happen of its own accord.

They sat a moment, coming back to that place and time.

“You will go home soon?” Alena asked quietly
.

“I… Yes.” Kiryla blinked. Sunset approached. The light outside was a dusky mauve. “I really should.”

Alena looked out of the window, her eyes unfocused. A long pause.