Hushed Willows Quixote

Months. This word struck him— at first he didn't know why— and Warbone was left with a numb and hollow feeling resonating inside his chest. The regrowth around him had alluded to how much time had passed, but his concept of time had been skewered for at least half the time he had been gone, and the confirmation that the Ostrega's had arrived months ago sent his mind spinning. It did not help that Stark said Octavia was dead.

Warbone looked genuinely shocked, even with only one eye to emote with. He had stiffened visibly, and there was a palpable stress emitting from his body. The recoil from the news ebbed slowly, and he did not seek to ask the man anything about the situation. She was gone— not disappeared— Dead. He went through the five stages of grief in that instant, and then it all passed like a breeze, with Warbone resuming a slightly sadder nonchalance. He didn't know if he had loved her or not, but he was simply not the kind for grieving. Life was the terrible thing that it was and he could not stop the big wheel from turning.

Stark continued, unwittingly burying several more daggers into the now completely disoriented colossus, and he was almost grateful for Tambourine's distractingly large burp. He looked down, and stared for a long moment at the boy. A weak and suddenly very tired smile flitted across his lips, then the bronze male lifted his head at Stark. "Even though my wolves no longer remain, I would resume my position," he said, apparently unwilling to do any bush-beating. "We do not know one another, but I built this and you have maintained it. I believe I deserve what I made, and that you deserve what you have raised. If you can agree with that, we can be partners. If you cannot, then you will be challenged by me each time you set foot outside the Keep. I came back only for these willows and the wolves who seek to be harbored by them. I will always do right by this place."