A Lion Sleeps

Chapter One – Winter's Call

A lion sleeps in the heart of every brave man. – Turkish Proverb

Outside my window, past the devastatingly beautiful forest with the fresh green pines and firs, you can see a glimpse of the mountain. It you look hard enough, you can almost make out the other, smaller mountain that lay slightly to the side and behind it; almost, but not quite. I have stared out this very window, stood in this exact position, so many times that I could draw you a perfect picture of it from memory. I most likely wouldn't even have to call the image from my thoughts; it is so ingrained in my retinas that I see it practically every second of every day. My dreams often featured the picturesque mountain scene, as well.

Just staring into the wide unknown – well, unknown to everybody except me – causes the shiver to travel down my spine and spread to the tips of my ears, fingers, and toes. My body begins shaking, and before it can consume me, I throw the window open and launch myself downwards, landing softly and easily on a snow bank. I don't even give it enough time to leave footprints before I am sprinting forward, winding between the trees and revelling in the crisp, cold, fresh air.

When I am about a mile in, I can no longer stop the shudders from trapping my body in the gap between my two forms. The change takes place quickly, and painlessly, as it always has. One moment I am standing on two legs and shaking slightly, the next I am standing on four paws, clawing into the dirt. I can feel my tail moving back and forth, giving me time to once again get used to it. A river is nearby – it is cold, but not yet cold enough to completely freeze the water. I head towards it, wanting to get a glimpse at the body I know all too well.

Staring back at me, as always after the change, is not the face of a teenage girl. It is the face of a large, wild cat more commonly seen in the plains of Africa. Everywhere my hair is a soft, short shade of gold, except for the vague stripes which are the colour of rich chocolate – the same colour my hair is in my natural form. My eyes are searching for any changes in the familiar image – a pair of deep, brown, bottomless pools – and, once again, they find none. I am always the same, every time.

My image – neither my human form nor my lion form – hasn't changed in almost a century.

A century ago, there were hundreds of my kind; maybe even thousands. We roamed the earth as both humans and lions, searching for our next meal and protecting our kind. I was part of the Atlantic Pride; we had control over the western states of America – Washington, Oregon, California, and sometimes our territory would run farther and overlap with Idaho, Nevada. There would be fights over territory – we were all battling to control the most amount of land. Most of us were even, though, and the borders would stay the same for centuries.

It wasn't until a hunting party from the Central Pride were spotted that we began hiding. It wasn't an official rule to not allow humans to spot us, but we all were careful, just in case. And the humans acted just as we thought they might act; they rebelled, hunted us down and slaughtered us. If we were in our human forms, they would dispose of us – if we were lions at the time of the kill, they would take our furs and eat our meat. They didn't understand that we were people, just like them – with the minor exception that we had a special ability.

I've always hated that word – 'special'. What makes us so special? We can shift into an entirely different being? We can be diagnosed with personality disorder? When we find our soul mate, we know right away?

Maybe; I don't know. I wouldn't call us 'special', just different. Everybody's different. Nobody is ever the same.

My body hasn't changed ever since; during the last fight between humans and us lions, I witnessed as my parents were cut to pieces. I was six. My parents told me to run – to run, and never look back. So I did. I was alone for almost a hundred years, before the police took me in. They tried to locate my family – which consisted of people I had completely made up – and then decided to send me into foster care. I was pretending to be 'fifteen', which was about the youngest I could pass for with my appearance. The first family I was sent to 'adored' me, and so they adopted me. Charlie and Renee Swan.

They lived on one of the most western points of my pride's territory – Forks, Washington. The ocean was but a mere twenty minute drive away; if you wanted to see it, all you had to do was head down to First Beach down at La Push.

"Bella!" I heard the distant call of Renee – I could never call her mother, no matter how much she wants me to – back towards the house. They had gotten used to me taking frequent hikes out in the woods, though they didn't quite understand my affinity for it. They were fine with it, just as long as I was inside before it got dark, and I made it to all of my meals. I always came back when they called – just like a dog.

I grimaced at my reflection, swatting the clear image away with my paw in disgust – I hated what I was. If my parents and I had been normal, they wouldn't be dead. Perhaps I wouldn't have stopped aging, though. They had been caught by the humans before they could finish teaching me about all of our legends. I knew what imprinting was – the automatic reaction our body goes through when we see our soul mate – but I didn't know what it felt like. I was eager to find my mate; maybe finding them would give me something to do, instead of wallowing in boredom.

"Bella!" It was Charlie's voice this time; I sighed, looking towards where I knew the mountains would be, before turning and running back towards the house, shifting midstride.

So, this is another story in my 'strange imprint' universe. Hope you like it!

The banner for this story is posted on my blog: www(dot)xlarac(dot)blogspot(dot)com

Review, and remember me.