Asher Turner

[Asher]

NAME: Asher Turner.
NICKNAMES: Asher’s most common nickname is the simple abbreviation of Ash; this is one he offers as an alternative to his given name when introducing himself, and one that the pack use affectionately and sporadically. People have been known to refer to him by his last name as well, but that is rare, since it sounds too formal.
RACE: Werewolf; bitten.
OCCUPATION: Pack Member.
GENDER: Male.
SKIN COLOUR: Caucasian, with a natural, subtle tan.
NATIONALITY: English.
AGE: 349 years old, though he looks to be in his mid-twenties, physically.
CLOTHING: Asher isn’t overly fond of clothing that is tight, and as such, his attire tends to hang off him a little, being slightly baggy, but never so that it is more than a fraction too big; he doesn’t purposefully buy clothing that is a size or so too big, since that would be too loose. He is fond of jeans, because they are durable and actually easy to replace, plus they are versatile, when it comes to style, but he does like to wear the odd pair of slacks. He hates sweats, as a rule, and will never be seen wearing those; if he has to train with his weapons (not a priority, given he isn’t a fighter) he will wear slacks; he also hates shorts, and wouldn’t be caught dead in them, quite frankly. When it comes to upper attire, he likes button-down shirts, but he only ever fastens them up to his chest and never all the way, preferring the feel of freedom that comes with leaving them open slightly. Asher isn’t overly fond of t-shirts, but he does wear them, if only because they are so readily available; usually, he wears simpler ones, block colours for example, but sometimes they have faint designs on, and actually, when it comes to stylised shirts, he prefers the more intricate ones, such as shirts with hidden messages or meanings and ones depicting scenes from mythology. He has an old sweater that he cannot bring himself to throw away, and in a few places, it is actually wearing rather thin; this sweater is black in colour, and Asher will wear it on days where he doesn’t plan to really leave the sanctuary of his room, if only because he doesn’t want to wreck the piece of clothing. It seems to hold a significant amount of sentimental value, even though he never says why. In terms of footwear, he is almost always seen in a pair of old, worn black leather boots, at least whenever he can’t get away with wandering around barefoot.
HEIGHT: 5’11.
WEIGHT: 156lbs.
TATTOOS: Asher has a tribal tattoo on the outside of his right calf, in black ink. If it has any meaning, personally or in the symbol, he has never shared either way.

PIERCINGS: None.
JEWELLERY: Asher wears a white gold Eastern design pendant that his mate always wore before her death; given he never takes the necklace off, the chain is actually long enough to fit around his wolf’s neck, and buries nicely in his fur whenever he is transformed.

BODY MODIFICATIONS: Asher has an unmistakeable map of scar tissue around his left side, from savage bites and tears that left him badly wounded after his attack and actually almost claimed his life; the scars are easily seen whenever his shirt is lifted from his body. In addition, perhaps the reason for Asher usually wearing his hair down, he has a scar under his right ear, several inches in length, which reaches the start of his jaw line, becoming fainter at this point. When he has his hair pulled up and back into a ponytail, the scar can be seen, especially up close, and the wound was presumably caused by a slash from a silver blade.

WOLF FORM.

BUILD: Asher looks exactly like a common wolf, by way of proportions, build and even colouring. Not being overly tall, for a werewolf, he has a very graceful, in a way almost feminine, body, long and sleek with soft hair that lays flat against his form. His hind legs are long, all four limbs slim but powerful, giving him a lot of speed and agility in the place of strength and physical prowess, like some werewolves; because he lacks the extra joint in his hind legs, he is restricted to quadruped movement. His paws lack a fifth digit, instead possessing a dewclaw like wild wolves, and as such, he cannot grip or wield anything, or even grab things to throw them. He becomes slimmer around the waist, in front of his hind legs and behind his ribcage, and he has a slightly deep chest to protect his heart and lungs, and a somewhat wide and strong neck to give him strength and durability in a fight for biting and the like. His muzzle is rather short, but exceptionally lupine like the rest of his head, with tall, wide-based ears. To finish off his wolf form, he has a thick, brush-like tail.
HEIGHT: Quadruped; 4’2.
WEIGHT: 207lbs.
HAIR: The majority of Asher’s coat, which covers the entirety of his body in a full, protective and insulating pelt, is white, with a dusky grey layer down his back, in varying shades, streaking down his sides, and lacing up over his head, even ‘bleeding’ down his neck and belly and through his tail. His legs are purely white, while his ears are almost entirely grey, darkening to near-black at the tips.
EYES: Amber, with a trace of orange.
DEFINING MARKS: Down the sides of his muzzle, he has grey markings that could look almost like tear-tracks. His exceptionally lupine proportions and his tail also define his form.

PACK.
PACK: Cole’s Pack.
POSITION: Pack Member.
TERRITORY: Cole’s side of Los Angeles.

HAIR.[/i]
LENGTH: Asher’s hair, if left unfastened, actually reaches more or less down to his shoulders, with a few subtle, natural layers up the sides of his face, the shortest just tickling below his cheekbones.
STYLE: His hair is never immaculate, in terms of neatness, but neither is it overly messy; he rakes his fingers through it if he is feeling lazy, but usually combs or loosely, quickly brushes it through so he can easily fasten it back into a casual, short sort of ponytail to keep it out of his face, something that he only does if he is cooking or playing the piano, otherwise he leaves it alone. If he doesn’t tie it back, it usually just hangs around his face and neck, respectively.
COLOUR: Dark brown; practically black.

FACIAL HAIR.[/i]
LENGTH: Minimal, practically stubble, though he sometimes does let it grow a little bit, but never more than a couple of centimetres for definition. It all depends on his mood; sometimes he shaves it all off completely.
STYLE: Simple, purely for definition, and perhaps to eradicate the overly-youthful appearance he has.

EYES.[/i]
COLOUR: Brown.
ODDITIES: Being a werewolf, Asher’s eyes will betray the inner animal by glowing, flashing or edging with amber-orange whenever he is feeling powerful or sudden emotions, such as shock, agony or rage. He can also will his eyes to change colour, if he wishes to tease at the animal within, taunt an opponent, or intimidate an unwelcome party.

PERSONALITY: Asher is a relatively young werewolf, even though he is in his third century of life, someone who is rather emotional, but doesn’t let every little thing rise to the surface to overwhelm him and show others how he is feeling beneath a quiet exterior. Over time, willingly or otherwise, he has learned how to cage his feelings inside so they do not colour his behaviour inappropriately. He isn’t all that open to voicing his opinions unless something really does not sit right with him, wherein he will step in and, as politely as possible, object or attempt to correct a statement or idea. Being somewhat shy and reserved, especially after a significant loss in his life, he is averse to displeasing others, and if he does sense he has offended or been unintentionally rude towards a member of the pack, he will always do his best to make it up to them however he can, and as quickly as possible, even if it is something as simple as lending a hand with a chore or a task, like cooking breakfast. Cooking actually helps to calm him, so if he can help anyone in any way by slaving over the oven for any space of time, then he is more than happy to do so.

Before his beloved mate passed away, Asher was a much more open individual, quick to laugh and join in with anything that promised to be fun or entertaining, but after he lost her, part of him slipped away. It seemed to drain his energy, leaving him less likely to laugh and tussle with the others; before she died, he would have been much more willing to play-fight, or take part in a prank or two. Nowadays, however, he simply watches from the sidelines, unenthusiastic about joining in, as if doing so would somehow betray her memory, or leave her behind; Asher is constantly mourning her, and he feels that being in any way frivolous or jovial would be completely inappropriate for that bereavement. Maria was such a huge part of his life, and she became more than a mate; Asher always felt that she completed him, filled a gap he hadn’t been able to diagnose before he met her, and so, when she was killed, so was a piece of him. Part of him simply died, and now, while it is much easier for him to acknowledge that loss, he knows he will never be able to repair the damage that was done when his mate passed away. Asher holds onto her memory tightly, fiercely, and refuses to let go; he feels it would be insulting to his late mate, and the idea of doing her wrong even after her passing is almost literally painful to him.

Polite and courteous even while constantly grieving, something that is easily recognised by anyone else he encounters if they take a moment to detect the signs, Asher is never one to say no to a friend’s request. While he does find it hard to speak to people he doesn’t know, making it difficult for him to make new friends even inside the pack, he is intensely loyal, something that stemmed from the pack’s generosity in taking him in after he was discovered wandering alone. He feels indebted to them, and would go out of his way to assist them, and though he isn’t good with words, he would willingly sit with anyone who was upset in any way, just to provide companionship, as others did for him in the past. There is one wolf in the pack that he connects with much more openly and easily than anyone else, and he can often be found hovering close to her, sitting with her in the library and quietly reading a book, or cooking her breakfast and then sitting beside her at the counter in the kitchen or a table in the dining room. After Maria died so suddenly, Asher became completely cut off from the pack, never leaving his room, not even eating, but Tina Evans succeeded, somehow, where all others failed, and managed to keep him from slipping away entirely; something the female did or said reminded him that he had to keep living, and Asher feels so completely devoted to Tina now as a result that he would always defer to her judgement, seeks out her advice, and considers her his closest friend in the pack without exception.

WEAKNESSES: Being a werewolf, Asher has the trademark weakness to silver; the metal would nauseate or sicken him in proximity, burn him upon contact, and can poison his body if introduced into his system and not removed in a timely fashion. If silver were to infect his heart, brain or lungs, death would be inevitable and completely unavoidable. Asher’s inability to let go of Maria, even so long after her death, could be classed as a weakness, leaving him in what many would call a permanent state of grief, and though he can and does smile or laugh, albeit quietly, he finds it difficult to associate with those of a happy-go-lucky mindset, which causes a kind of distancing between himself and many others in the pack, no matter how unintentional it might be. Because of the way they took him in, Asher is intensely loyal and devoted to the pack as a whole, and would fight for them, even though he is far from combat-worthy, having never been the strongest or most capable opponent, even in wolf form. Even with his blanket devotion, Asher would fight most fiercely and even blindly for Tina, and his bond with her could easily be abused by anyone who chose to use it as a weapon against him.

Physically, Asher’s turning left him with scar tissue not only on the surface, but below, through his left side; any physical exertion is likely to leave him winded ‘before his time’, and as a result, the male werewolf cannot go long before he has to excuse himself or stop whatever it is he is doing, and sit down or even lie down, depending on the extent of the exercise before the physical reminders of damage done in his youth. It is likely that over time and with dedication and hard work, he could overcome the effects of the old injuries, or at least learn to ignore them, but honestly Asher has never tried, and as such, has never been able to do so.

ABILITIES: Just as he has the typical weakness from being a werewolf, Asher is blessed with the standard benefits: heightened senses, agility, grace, balance, speed, strength, endurance, pain threshold, awareness and healing factor; the ability to leap to, from and across great distances; and of course, the wolf form that he can adopt whenever he so chooses, without physical penalty. Because of his age, Asher can now overcome and to a degree ignore the call of the moon during the three-night peak of the lunar cycle, remaining in human form if that is his wish and able to subdue his bestial impulses.

Unrelated to his lycanthropic abilities, Asher is quite a capable cook, able to whip up a variety of dishes, though solely on the savoury scale. He actually finds cooking somewhat therapeutic and sometimes likes nothing more than to make dinner for others. The most soothing hobby at his disposal, however, is the pianoforte; over the years, Asher has become quite skilled, and can often be found in solitude at the grand piano in the hotel, playing whatever pieces jump into his memory, or learning something new, poring over sheet music, which he can obviously read easily. Because of Maria and her origins, Asher is fully fluent in Swahili as well as English, which was of course his first and dominant language.

WEAPONS: Asher owns an ornate sword, and a single Ruger P95 handgun, if only out of necessity. He is not a warrior by any means, and usually stays at home whenever fighters are needed, given he is not a fighter, and prefers to stay in the sanctuary of the hotel.

PRIZED POSSESSIONS: Asher is extremely possessive of the aforementioned, seemingly nondescript sweater, as well as the pendant that he is never seen without.

HOME(S): The Hyperion with the rest of the pack.


Continued below…

[Asher]

HISTORY: Asher Turner was the youngest son of five children born to a reasonably middle-class family in the United Kingdom, in a small village on the outskirts of York. Life wasn’t overly easy for the Turners, growing up, but Asher, like his siblings, was well aware that there were many who were much less fortunate than himself and the rest of his family. While they didn’t have all the food or money they could hope for, their father’s business as a tailor, and a popular one at that, ensured that they lived comfortably enough. Asher, being the youngest of the children, was always looked after; babied, to a degree, and slightly spoiled, but much to his siblings’ relief, it never made him arrogant or in any way bratty, and he adored his family, almost clingy around them, looking up to his brothers and sisters, and beyond them, his parents, almost worshipping them. In his eyes, they could never do any wrong, and this was a mindset that continued well into his teenage years.

Tradition in the Turner household was something that was held very dear, and every Christmas, the children would go out with their father to find a tree and when it was returned to the household, they would aid their mother in decorating it with homemade trinkets and ornaments. Christmas Eve would see the family staying up just gone midnight so the children could all open one gift, and then they would tuck themselves up in bed and sleep soundly. When morning came, they would all race downstairs and go through the motions of a traditional but enjoyable day; they would go to church after opening their presents and eating a breakfast at the table, and the afternoon before the wonderful dinner was always spent in the garden and the fields beyond, playing wildly imaginative games; even Asher’s oldest brother, Sebastian, would join in the adventures, well on his way to adulthood and of course, marriage, and from there, a life outside the Turner household. Every year was the same, and every Christmas night would see Asher and his siblings going out beyond the boundaries of the family garden and field to the dense trees, to explore and see what the snow would do to the woods. By the time Asher was eighteen, his siblings had settled into their own endeavours and families, his oldest brother married and expecting his first child of his own, his sisters engaged and his other brother, Jonathan, still living at home but considering leaving the village altogether for greener pastures.

So it was that Asher and Jonathan went out by themselves that Christmas; the family had gathered, but the elder Turners had remained inside where it was warm and comfortable, leaving the two younger males to wander alone, with a single lantern between them. The snowfall had been thick, and the two young men left deep footprints behind them, wading into the secretive, white-splashed woodland. Snow had managed to penetrate the heavy canopy of branches, bare though they mostly were save for the odd hardy type of tree, and the brothers amused themselves almost childishly by setting the lantern down on a flattened rock and hurling the snow at one another, managing to cover one another and work themselves into a boyish sort of excitement, so much so that, before long, they began to race and chase one another, Jonathan pursuing Asher. The younger brother, taller but leaner, used his superior speed to rush ahead of his older sibling, darting through the trees and trying to contain his laughter lest it betray his position.

Pausing to catch his breath was probably the only real mistake he made; doubling over, hands on his knees, while he panted and glanced behind him, he was oblivious to the crunching of icy undergrowth underfoot, and only became aware of something being amiss when he heard something unnatural on the air. A growl. Turning his head and trying to steady his panting, Asher scanned the darkness, wishing he hadn’t left the lantern so far behind, unable to see anything beyond the odd glimpse of light from the distance, beyond the trees way ahead of him. When two points of light moved, he knew he’d raced too far ahead, too far from home, and beginning to back-pedal, he provoked an instinctive response in the predator that lurked in the shadows. With an unearthly snarl, it surged from the darkness, revealing its monstrous size and with a cry of surprise and fear, Asher turned to run, stumbling, the tree he’d tripped on the roots of saving him from having his back ripped open by huge claws; splinters scattered as the talons shredded the bark and with an enraged roar, the beast thundered after him through the woods, weaving too fast through and over obstacles.

Seeing the lantern’s light bobbing ahead, Asher released a breathless cry for help, one that was cut brutally short by a crushing weight slamming into his back and throwing him to the ground. Trying to scramble through the soil and snow, Asher was powerless to stop the vicious fangs sinking and tearing into his side, drawing hot, thick blood that spread and sprayed over the ground. His strength rapidly fading, the young man tried to kick and swing at the ferocious muzzle, but ultimately, the agony won out, and he lost consciousness.

When Asher came to once again, surprised to even be alive, the pain was much less than he remembered, and yet, when he asked how long he had been unconscious, he was rendered speechless upon hearing that it had only been two days. Surely he should have been crippled by the pain of his devastating injuries, if not killed, and yet, he could sit up in his bed and eat broth without too much difficulty, though rising from the familiar mattress proved too trying, too exhausting. Asking about the attack, Asher was only rewarded with mumbled responses that he was safe now, that the animal was gone. No one would tell him how he’d been saved, or why he wasn’t dying; nobody would explain why he hadn’t seen a single surgeon of any kind come into the house, and whenever someone came to watch over him, his attempts to make conversation were met with awkward silence. Asher didn’t understand what was going on, and frustration was starting to build.

Many days after the attack, his father finally suggested a walk to clear his head, to stretch his legs, and the youngest Turner eagerly took hold of the opportunity, quickly coming to understand that talking was not part of the ‘deal’. They walked in silence, far beyond the limits of his own adventures and exploration from his earlier childhood; they travelled for hours, in fact, and when his father calmly asked him to stop and wait for him, saying that he wouldn’t be long, subsequently heading off, Asher did as he was told, ever the dutiful son. Time passed. His father didn’t return. And yet he continued to wait, assuring himself that his father would come back; he had promised. As the moon rose, chasing the daylight away and leaving the landscape in a slumbering darkness, Asher realised with a shudder that nobody was coming back. He didn’t know where he was, and worse yet, he was alone. The only sounds were those of the wildlife, and all too quickly, memories of the attack rushed back to him, and he found himself on the move, walking quickly and with a definite desperation, wanting to find civilisation, some way back to his family. Surely this had been an accident; his father had become confused, and was lost himself.

When morning came, Asher was no closer to finding his way back to his village than he had been hours before, and now he was exhausted and hungry, feeling dejected and abandoned. During the night, his mind had been running constantly, coming to the inevitable conclusion that he really had been abandoned, something that hurt more than he wanted to admit. He had to care for himself now, but with no money or possessions, that quickly proved to be difficult. When he found a road, no one would stop to help him, taking him for some wanderer who would only bring trouble, and soon, darkness started to creep in again. But this time was different; Asher could feel it, inside of himself, an ache that quickly became excruciating, buckling him at the side of the road. Before he could realise what was happening, he lost his senses completely, and the next time he achieved awareness, he was lying in the corner of a field, aching and feeling sick to his stomach, chilled to the bone, and worse yet, in an obvious state of undress. The true shock sank in when he realised he was spattered with blood, and yet, he wasn’t wounded, the injuries around his side still closed and unchanged. But beyond him, sprawled across the field, were bodies, remains strewn in every direction, spurring Asher to scramble up and over the fence into the trees beyond where he proceeded to empty his stomach until there was nothing but bile to spit up.

He had so many questions, and no one to answer them, and to make things all the more unbearable, what followed was two nights where he again lost his senses and woke to find himself surrounded by gory evidence of carnage. Stealing whatever clothes he could from an unknown garden and fleeing as far as fast as his aching legs would carry him, Asher finally collapsed in confusion and tears, not understanding what was happening to him, wanting nothing more than to make it stop. For hours, he sat there, curled up into himself, thinking he was completely hidden from the world, not wanting to be found, terrified that he would hurt someone. He knew, even without the facts, that he had killed all those animals, and that something had to be done. He had to be stopped, but how could that happen when he didn’t even know what was happening to him? He just wanted to be left alone.

Asher didn’t get his wish.

Only realising he had company when movement stirred off to the side, Asher reacted to an instinct that flared so suddenly, he didn’t even feel it coming, and he tried to surge backwards, colliding with a tree and actually winding himself, stopping him from turning and running before he saw what it was that emerged. Or rather who. A female, alone at first, was cautiously approaching him, and yet he could see her curiosity, muted though it was; he could practically sense it. And yet, instead of taking advantage of his condition, she approached slowly, speaking to him in a soothing, quiet voice, assuring him she meant him no harm, that she just wanted to talk to him, that her name was Maria and that he didn’t need to fear her. Something about her made him trust her words, and it was that inexplicable ‘something’ that led him to meet not only Maria Hart, but Cole Stanton and Dia Mantenega and their pack. They were, as they explained, patiently and with carefully-chosen words, werewolves, just like the creature that had bitten him, and yet they went on to tell him they were different. He had been attacked by a rogue, and evidently a bloodthirsty one, from the look of his healing wounds. They went on to promise him the answers and help that he was looking for, and it didn’t take Asher long to realise he really had found what he had been unconsciously hunting for. This pack was just what he needed, and their generosity and kindness helped him to understand everything that had been so confused.

As time passed, he developed an undeniable and ultimately unbreakable bond with the female who had first approached him. Maria Hart was a warm, loving and adventurous female whose lust for life helped him to embrace his new nature; she taught him the finer points of lycanthropy, told him all her stories and about how she had been born into this world; she laid it all out for him, never holding back, never lying or glossing details, and it didn’t take long for Asher to realise he was falling in love with Maria. Every day spent with her only cemented what he had already started to come to terms with, and each lesson she gave him, each hour she spent at his side, only caused him to fall even harder.

Ultimately, impulsiveness caused him to act, and when he kissed her, he was absolutely terrified that it would be unrequited, pulling back with such a look on his face, as if he expected she might slap him for his cheek. All his fears were unfounded; Maria initiated their second kiss, holding to him passionately, and before long, they were established as bonded mates, spending every waking minute together, madly in love and obviously so. Wherever Maria would go, Asher was sure to follow, and nobody could make him laugh and embrace life as much as his mate. Her love for music and song even pushed him to learn the piano, introduced to the instrument by the Alpha male himself, who taught him the basics and from there, Asher’s gift for the pianoforte blossomed. Many hours of their lives were spent at the piano, coming up with short songs and pieces of music that were just for them. Asher had never loved life more, and he had Maria to thank; she had given him everything he thought he’d never have.

Maria’s well-known love for music, dancing and adventure was what eventually led to disaster, though no one would ever blame the female for what happened that night, least of all Asher himself. When Maria enthusiastically suggested an outing to a festival that was happening in the pack’s territory, many of their number eagerly jumped on board, excited at the prospect of laughter and music out under the stars, and so, the group headed out with the Alphas’ blessing, quickly settling into an evening of enjoyment and high spirits. They laughed, teased and danced amongst humans and rogue werewolves, without a care in the world, but it was on the way home that, quite simply, tragedy struck.

Nobody sensed the approach, or the fact that they were boxed in; realisation only came when the ambush was launched, and what followed was a brutal, bloody fight. The vampires had followed the werewolves all night, watched them from a distance while they enjoyed themselves in a crowd, and waited for them to head home where they could be surrounded and caught unawares. Asher had been taught only basic self-defence by other members of the pack, and his sole focus during the surprise attack and subsequent fight was Maria; protecting his mate. The werewolves were outnumbered, but by no means outclassed, yet the fighters among them had quickly been singled out to be overwhelmed by superior numbers, distracting them from the more vulnerable members, and it was this tactic that really led to one of the true, crippling turning points in Asher’s life. His opponent revealed a silver knife, arching it through the air and catching Asher across the side of his neck, downing him in shock at the pain of the metal that burned the wound, blood streaming down from the torn flesh, but his own body and state was completely forgotten when he heard his mate’s voice, a shout, a cry cut cruelly short in a choked gasp, and as the male wolf scrambled up from the ground, he felt all the breath escape his body at the sight of the vampire’s silver blade stabbed up to the hilt in Maria’s chest, the scent of blood so thick on the air that Asher lost every single scrap of control he’d worked years to obtain. Unable to stop himself, he transformed and tore the vampire away from his stricken mate, slamming him to the ground and literally ripping him to pieces before he erupted in an ashy cloud. His blind rage kept him from going to his mate before her attacker was destroyed, so when he stumbled to her side, once again in human form, he saw the life fade from her eyes; felt her body go still, and his pack mates, bruised and battered, simply stood, in shock and mourning, as Asher held Maria’s body and sobbed, trying to plead for her to stay, that she couldn’t leave him.

Maria’s body was buried close to the pack’s home of the time, but it wasn’t long after their loss that the Alphas and Betas decided it was for the best that they leave the area, move on and find a new home, and Asher was silent, unresponsive, too consumed by his agonising grief to argue. Wearing Maria’s favourite pendant around his neck and keeping some of her other prized belongings, including the sweater she could often be found wearing, Asher moved with everyone else, and when they reached Los Angeles, and their new residence, an old hotel called The Hyperion, the mourning male proceeded to shut himself in his room, though he never locked the door. What followed was, literally, weeks of solitude, where he would only eat when absolutely necessary, not wanting to move or think, even live. He spoke to no one, responded to nothing, simply sat or lay on his bed, and remembered. Remembered Maria. Remembered losing her; failing her.

In the end, it was not an Alpha or Beta who managed to get through to him, but one of the females born into the pack by the name of Tina Evans. All she did was bring him tea, tea with honey, and sit with him, not urging him to talk, even telling him he didn’t have to drink what she had brought for him. But the silence broke all the same; Asher asked her why it hurt so much, he couldn’t deal with the pain and in a way, was asking how to make it stop. Tina didn’t lie to him, didn’t go too far with her response, simply told him it hurt so much because he had loved Maria so much. Something about the way she treated him in that moment, how she looked him in the eyes and said those simple words with so much truth and simplicity, woke Asher. He started to venture out from his room again, began to eat once more, regaining the weight he’d lost over his intense grieving period.

Over the years that followed, losing Maria never got easier, but Asher’s ability to deal with it, live with it, built up, and though he is always grieving, visibly so, something that the others in the pack have come to respect and understand, he lives on for her. Asher knows he will never again be as lively and fun-loving as he once was, as enthusiastic and excitable as Maria encouraged and helped him to be, but he has come to recognize that he can keep living, even though he will never stop missing his mate. The memory of Maria keeps him from shutting down completely, that and the compassionate support of the pack around him. So long as he has these things, Asher knows he can go from day to day; for now, he can hope for nothing more.