01-08-2017, 05:37 PM
Side note: I am blizzard snowed in drinking so I sorry for this mess.
Tradition is as tradition was. From the start, you had deferred to Eight. As soon as your lupine heart had encroached on the Valley, you, the now-king, had been low-stalked and steady. You had, in fact, approached upon the birth of the triplets. Perhaps that was why you felt so strongly towards Kilter. You had breached upon his very birth - the moment the young grullo’s feet had touched earth, his eyes opened, his lungs yawning breath for the very first time. It was you, Ruan, who Kilter had first breached eyes upon. Not his mother, not his siblings, and not his father. It was you.
And each time therein, you called him king, and he shirked it off. He was no king, not to you, not to anyone. In fact, it could be true to say that you had done more for the Valley than he. You were the one amidst the fields, conversing to new recruits. You were the one watching after the little prince - slinking through the trees, keen eyes peering towards the small telekinetic.
And now? Now did you still watch him? The world had changed so much. The lands, the gifts, the magic, the traits, the seasons. Everything - everyone - was different. Did that include you, Ruan? Were you different now? Eight could not say - he had no magic to wield, he could not tell whether being a king, ruling a land, living the years, had changed you little to none - or so much altogether. You had lived through things that Eight did not know (now, he was as mortal as any) - and Eight had been gone (so truely, was he living through anything that you did not?).
You shame was palpable - the old magician read it on your face, saw it in the tensing of your muscle, the twitch of your face - you felt responsible. But should you have? You were not his father - you were not of his blood - and in fact, you owed Eight little to nothing, the king and you had never truly had a relationship outside of the bond of Kilter. And yet still, you seemed wracked with the burden that this was your fault. But was it Eight who should have shouldered that blame? Kilter was of his loins, and yet the magician had failed him time and time again.
Your words lay bold and stark in the silence between - heavy like the falling snow. The snow that could be the very demise of the little wolf child. Dead. It would be an easy thing for the small boy to fall prey to the winter. The cold, the scarce food, the wolves he once ran with he could now be running from.
“Dead.” Eight lets the word roll in his mouth, feeling the shame of it. Dead, because of him. Because for once, his lack of paternal emotion had ended in death. “ I don’t know.” He was at a loss for words - the words that so bluntly fell from your mouth, you - the one who truly cared for the boy, could face the possibility more than Eight.
“Thank you, Ruan.” His words were crisp - back to the shelled and hardened man he always had been, always would be. “ If you do hear from him - see him - anything. Please let me know.” He looks away again, the horizon heavy with an impending storm. “Perhaps it is for the best. He was always quite off.” He looks towards you again - “Thank you, again.”
And perhaps that was the end of it. Perhaps Kilter had been claimed by the howling winter and darkened forest.
Tradition is as tradition was. From the start, you had deferred to Eight. As soon as your lupine heart had encroached on the Valley, you, the now-king, had been low-stalked and steady. You had, in fact, approached upon the birth of the triplets. Perhaps that was why you felt so strongly towards Kilter. You had breached upon his very birth - the moment the young grullo’s feet had touched earth, his eyes opened, his lungs yawning breath for the very first time. It was you, Ruan, who Kilter had first breached eyes upon. Not his mother, not his siblings, and not his father. It was you.
And each time therein, you called him king, and he shirked it off. He was no king, not to you, not to anyone. In fact, it could be true to say that you had done more for the Valley than he. You were the one amidst the fields, conversing to new recruits. You were the one watching after the little prince - slinking through the trees, keen eyes peering towards the small telekinetic.
And now? Now did you still watch him? The world had changed so much. The lands, the gifts, the magic, the traits, the seasons. Everything - everyone - was different. Did that include you, Ruan? Were you different now? Eight could not say - he had no magic to wield, he could not tell whether being a king, ruling a land, living the years, had changed you little to none - or so much altogether. You had lived through things that Eight did not know (now, he was as mortal as any) - and Eight had been gone (so truely, was he living through anything that you did not?).
You shame was palpable - the old magician read it on your face, saw it in the tensing of your muscle, the twitch of your face - you felt responsible. But should you have? You were not his father - you were not of his blood - and in fact, you owed Eight little to nothing, the king and you had never truly had a relationship outside of the bond of Kilter. And yet still, you seemed wracked with the burden that this was your fault. But was it Eight who should have shouldered that blame? Kilter was of his loins, and yet the magician had failed him time and time again.
Your words lay bold and stark in the silence between - heavy like the falling snow. The snow that could be the very demise of the little wolf child. Dead. It would be an easy thing for the small boy to fall prey to the winter. The cold, the scarce food, the wolves he once ran with he could now be running from.
“Dead.” Eight lets the word roll in his mouth, feeling the shame of it. Dead, because of him. Because for once, his lack of paternal emotion had ended in death. “ I don’t know.” He was at a loss for words - the words that so bluntly fell from your mouth, you - the one who truly cared for the boy, could face the possibility more than Eight.
“Thank you, Ruan.” His words were crisp - back to the shelled and hardened man he always had been, always would be. “ If you do hear from him - see him - anything. Please let me know.” He looks away again, the horizon heavy with an impending storm. “Perhaps it is for the best. He was always quite off.” He looks towards you again - “Thank you, again.”
And perhaps that was the end of it. Perhaps Kilter had been claimed by the howling winter and darkened forest.