- Aug 4, 2024
- 111
- 23
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Howlpaw watches from the edge of camp, hidden in the shadow of the bramble wall. It isn't close enough to hear every word, but it doesn't need to. Thrashpaw's body language says enough—shoulders tense, ears pinned, tail lashing like a storm-wracked branch. And then the words come, loud enough to cut through the air, to drive a claw into Howlpaw's chest even though they aren't meant for it.
"I HATE YOU!"
The words ring in its ears, echoing too close. It sees Thrashpaw spin, sees their fangs snap inches from Antlerbreeze's face. Then it sees her run. Howlpaw doesn't move, doesn't breathe. The world narrows to the space Thrashpaw just occupied, to the disturbed earth where her paws last touched the ground. He's leaving. He's leaving, just like Doepath. The thought slams into Howl like a killing blow, cracking something deep inside its chest. It shouldn't care. It shouldn't need anyone. But the rage curling hot and vicious in its stomach knows better. Thrash is a traitor. A coward. A liar, just like all the rest. He's leaving, just like Baying Hound, just like Doepath, just like everyone who ever promised anything. A snarl bubbles in its throat, but it swallows it down. What's the point? No one will hear it, and no one would care if they did. Thrash isn't coming back. He's leaving it behind.
Fine.
Howl turns sharply on its heels and stalks out of camp. No one stops it. No one notices. Of course they don't. It doesn't tell anyone where it's going, because it doesn't know. All it knows is the need to move, to get away before the feeling—before the hurt—has a chance to settle in its bones. Its paws take it west. The path is familiar, etched into its muscles like instinct. The undergrowth thickens as it moves, branches clawing at its pelt, snagging in its fur. It doesn't slow down. The air is damp with the promise of rain, but it doesn't care. It doesn't care about anything except putting distance between itself and the hollowed-out shell of camp, between itself and the truth it doesn't want to acknowledge.
By the time it reaches the familiar burrow of its youth, its paws ache, but the pain is distant, unimportant. The entrance is smaller than it remembers, but it doesn't hesitate before squeezing inside. The earth presses in around it, dirt clinging to its fur, but it welcomes it. Welcomes the faint scent of fox and prey blood and long-gone milk. The walls are close enough to make it feel contained, safe in a way nothing else does. Howl curls in on itself, pressing its forehead against its paws. It doesn't cry. It won't. It won't. The burning in its throat is nothing, just like the twisting in its chest is nothing. Thrash doesn't matter. Thrash is just like everyone else.
Howl is alone.
"I HATE YOU!"
The words ring in its ears, echoing too close. It sees Thrashpaw spin, sees their fangs snap inches from Antlerbreeze's face. Then it sees her run. Howlpaw doesn't move, doesn't breathe. The world narrows to the space Thrashpaw just occupied, to the disturbed earth where her paws last touched the ground. He's leaving. He's leaving, just like Doepath. The thought slams into Howl like a killing blow, cracking something deep inside its chest. It shouldn't care. It shouldn't need anyone. But the rage curling hot and vicious in its stomach knows better. Thrash is a traitor. A coward. A liar, just like all the rest. He's leaving, just like Baying Hound, just like Doepath, just like everyone who ever promised anything. A snarl bubbles in its throat, but it swallows it down. What's the point? No one will hear it, and no one would care if they did. Thrash isn't coming back. He's leaving it behind.
Fine.
Howl turns sharply on its heels and stalks out of camp. No one stops it. No one notices. Of course they don't. It doesn't tell anyone where it's going, because it doesn't know. All it knows is the need to move, to get away before the feeling—before the hurt—has a chance to settle in its bones. Its paws take it west. The path is familiar, etched into its muscles like instinct. The undergrowth thickens as it moves, branches clawing at its pelt, snagging in its fur. It doesn't slow down. The air is damp with the promise of rain, but it doesn't care. It doesn't care about anything except putting distance between itself and the hollowed-out shell of camp, between itself and the truth it doesn't want to acknowledge.
By the time it reaches the familiar burrow of its youth, its paws ache, but the pain is distant, unimportant. The entrance is smaller than it remembers, but it doesn't hesitate before squeezing inside. The earth presses in around it, dirt clinging to its fur, but it welcomes it. Welcomes the faint scent of fox and prey blood and long-gone milk. The walls are close enough to make it feel contained, safe in a way nothing else does. Howl curls in on itself, pressing its forehead against its paws. It doesn't cry. It won't. It won't. The burning in its throat is nothing, just like the twisting in its chest is nothing. Thrash doesn't matter. Thrash is just like everyone else.
Howl is alone.
