- Dec 18, 2022
- 534
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- 43
──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── He'd flinched every time the sprig of lavender brushed burned skin, despite irrefutable, agonizing proof that Bearflight could feel no pain. His son, his firstborn child too tender to become the formidable warrior Wolfsong and Sunstar hoped for— and now will never come to be anything, spirit untouched by time and unchanging in the stars. He will never teach a bright-eyed apprentice, will never find his heart quickening while watching butterflies make their moorland pilgrimage, will never find them in his stomach for love of another or the birth of his children. Free of the chaos and uncertainty plaguing life, but bereft of its gifts.
Maybe he never would have taken a mate, maybe he wouldn't have kits, but that would have been Bearflight's choice. Perhaps his name wouldn't be Bearflight at all, and he'd have earned it alongside his siblings instead of writhing in the dirt, choking on his last breaths while his father bade him a swift escape. Conjecture, all of it. Fantasy. Bearflight cannot make such decisions anymore— because his ðir chose, and he chose wrong.
A greater coward than his own father, whose abandoned dignity saved and did no harm, but the harm Wolfsong has wrought fills his lungs with ash and the lavender desperately concealing burned flesh.
The bright splay of purple across a motionless side captures Wolfsong's stare. He is afraid to look upon his own son, afraid to confront his own failures, and he knows he will find no comfort at his mate's side, where is not permitted.
He forces his gaze to shift, to study his son, to groom his limp head as he did when Bearflight was no taller than his leg. He counts each toe on each paw, which once flexed at his belly while he suckled.
There are no flowers for your grave. I can give you nothing I have not ruined.
Maybe he never would have taken a mate, maybe he wouldn't have kits, but that would have been Bearflight's choice. Perhaps his name wouldn't be Bearflight at all, and he'd have earned it alongside his siblings instead of writhing in the dirt, choking on his last breaths while his father bade him a swift escape. Conjecture, all of it. Fantasy. Bearflight cannot make such decisions anymore— because his ðir chose, and he chose wrong.
A greater coward than his own father, whose abandoned dignity saved and did no harm, but the harm Wolfsong has wrought fills his lungs with ash and the lavender desperately concealing burned flesh.
The bright splay of purple across a motionless side captures Wolfsong's stare. He is afraid to look upon his own son, afraid to confront his own failures, and he knows he will find no comfort at his mate's side, where is not permitted.
He forces his gaze to shift, to study his son, to groom his limp head as he did when Bearflight was no taller than his leg. He counts each toe on each paw, which once flexed at his belly while he suckled.
There are no flowers for your grave. I can give you nothing I have not ruined.
-
— ★★★☆☆ WOUNDS: You're (mostly) in safe paws. You'll know if he's less experienced if he asks for your permission to try a treatment. No wound can scare him away from knowledge.
— ★★★☆☆ INFECTION: He can prevent most infections. If you feel feverish, let him know; he'll hum thoughtfully over herbs and sniff your wound before saying, "With your blessing..." -
— ★☆☆☆☆ ACHES & PAINS: If you complain to him of pain, he'll ask where. If it's a headache, you'll likely feel a bit better. For anything else, "Try this, if you'd like, and tell me how you feel."
— ★☆☆☆☆ BROKEN BONES: At best. he can ask you to remain lying down in the den. He may try to distract you with conversation while he considers what herb to feed you. -
— ★★★★★ TRAVELING HERBS: Going somewhere? No worries; Wolfsong knows just what you need to stay hale and healthy during your journey. The rest is up to you.
— ★★★☆☆ KITTING: Thanks to Starlingheart and his own pregnancy, he's better prepared for the arrival of kits, but any complications will need a little faith and a lot of luck. -
— ★☆☆☆☆ POISONS: It's best if you avoid eating anything unfamiliar to you— it's probably just as unfamiliar to Wolfsong. The best he can do is offer you yarrow and sit with you.
— ★★☆☆☆ ILLNESS: If it's white or greencough, you'll likely recover. Otherwise, prepare for odd concoctions and the usual request that you consent to a little trial-and-error.
