Many had gone and his co-leader was no more. Blackfeather was no longer what it once was, it hadn’t been in a long time, and he understood that—he’d need to be blind to not see what had been happening for years now. No matter, he lingered just as he always had, standing guard over the woods as the ghost that could not be freed—

—but, he was free. No one kept him there, there was not a chain binding him to the forest. It was by choice that he remained and, several mornings ago, it was his decision that allowed him to venture out into the world for the first time in what felt like ages. He did not go suddenly, however, as he made certain to alert @Astara to his leaving; he would be back, he explained to her, but he needed some time to readjust to, essentially, a new world. Then, shortly after, he pulled himself from the grasp of the shadows and headed north.

For two days and three nights he travelled, navigating paths that, once upon a time, he’d braved a million times before. It was on the third morning that he arrived at the valley, surprised to find that the scent of a pack was not there; he found traces here and there, of his son and of others he did not know, but nothing was recent. Had they been there, perhaps, but he knew not how long it’d been.

The vast emptiness made things easier, somehow.

Kove made his way down the valley’s entrance way, the memories woven into his muscles guiding him far better than they had anywhere else; Bearclaw was his home away from home, the place that had both built and destroyed him. It was where his wife had thought best for them to settle, where his children had been born... but it was also where everything had fallen apart.

It was where he had let down his family for the first time, where he should have abandoned his name at, for the fall of his marriage and their kingdom was, truly, the demise of his entire being—the entire ground on which the morals of his family’s name was built.

He was hardly an Apaata since then, and he knew it.

The valley knew it.

The spirits knew it.

And so he meandered through the valley, blinded by the images of the past, being led by memories alone.

He meandered much in the same way that an old dog does his backyard, slow and easygoing; in many ways, the valley was still his to roam, every inch of it having seen his face more times than he cared to count. It was his home, truly, even when the shadows the Blackfeather kept such a tight grip on him.

He was home.

But he was not alone.

Kove had followed the river in one direction for a short while before turning and travelling in the opposite way, heading away from the forest and towards the waterfall; it was there behind that roaring fall that he’d spent much of his time towards the end, and it was there that he wished to visit and reminisce within the confines of. Life was a terribly fickle thing, though, often throwing wrenches into places where they did not belong, stopping up the gears and preventing any further rotations. Life liked to break things, he realised, and nothing was to be left untouched by its terrible ways. Life caused love and pain, joy and sadness—but perhaps equally the worst and best thing that it could ever do was bring back the ghosts of one’s past.

And it was his turn to experience that.

A breath of air became trapped within his throat and his legs stiffened immediately, nearly causing him to stumble. He tried to release the breath, to free it, but soon found that he might have been better off keeping hold of it, as the breaths that followed were short and quick. He blinked one, twice, thrice—yet, she didn’t go away. She stayed there along the river, seemingly amazed by it, just as she had been in the beginning so long ago.

So long ago and yet...

Was she younger now? Perhaps it only looked that way, for the years had touched him in a way that they could not her. She was gone from this world, after all. She had left years ago but, just as was the heart, the mind could be difficult. His eyes saw right then and there that she stood just steps away, that she was well within the range of his grasp.

She wasn’t gone. Somehow, Desna had been mistaken—her mother lived.

“Scarlett...?” he finally choked out, unable to tell now just what was real and what was not. She was there—she was standing right there. He refused to believe that his eyes might be fooling him—he didn’t want to believe. Scarlett was there, alive and home, and he would accept nothing else as truth.

He took a step towards her, then froze.

But would she disappear if he reached out to her? Would she leave him again? His legs trembled, be it old age, fear, or a bit of both—or maybe it was anticipation. Burning eagerness to be reunited with her, a need for this—for her—to be real.

Just this once, even if it was to be the last time, he wanted her to be real.

The same kindness he once saw, that had first drawn him in, was flashed his way again for the first time in years. For a second his heart stopped, then stuttered back to a start as he made every attempt possible to rein himself in.

What had happened to the man that could so expertly compose himself, even in situations most dire? Why, he had become but a distant memory.

Those two words struck him harder than anything else that followed, the impact knocking the wind right out of him. It was foolish to believe that she might still be alive, this he knew, yet his heart still found ways to alter his mind—still, after so many years now, he could not control that awful organ. He visibly sunk in upon himself, gaze downcast and eyes... his eyes lacked something nameless. Scarlett was not there, she did not live any longer. This he had been told some time ago and this he knew to be reality but, in spite of his best efforts, he could not deny the wish he held that it might be anything but. That she might live, that the past years had never been anything more than a nightmare dreamt on a stormy night.

Would life not be the most amazing thing if thought alone could alter all that which was known and true?

A true wonder, indeed.

“I did know her... a long time ago,” he said once he was able to find his voice. Visually, his entire being shifted as he found his compose and settled his outer appearance, the agony and distress displace by neutrality—how typical. “She was my wife in a faraway life,” he further explained, eyes drifting past the girl. It was there within the walls of the valley that they’d once lived, and it was there where he’d then allowed everything to fall apart. That which he’d done could not be undone, his mistakes having forced him into a chapter of life that was most unpleasant, dreadful, and downright soul-crushing.

But these things he did not—could not—share. Not with her nor anyone else, for the burden created was his own to bear.

“Who are your parents?” he asked thereafter, wondering which child might connect them. Was it Alexander, perhaps? The appearance, as similar as she was to Scarlett, could lead one to believe that—but she was too kind, too outgoing, to be molded from half of his son. So one of his daughters, perhaps, but which? Or, perhaps, she wasn’t related to him at all. There was always the chance that this child came from a child of another, that Scarlett had brought more life into the world with another man after they parted ways. Perhaps... ah, maybe it might be better if he didn’t know.

The child appeared shocked, to say the least. It made sense for her to be—perhaps he, too, would be shocked upon meeting the former husband of his grandmother, especially had he been unknown. At the same time, however, Kove could not fully understand the feeling, for he’d known both of his grandparents just as well as anyone should, just as she should. But he did not blame her parents for this lack of knowledge—how could he, when it was by his own doings that he was not in their lives? It was his fault and his fault alone, of course.

“Yes, she was my wife,” he said again, further certifying the claim. It’d been so long since he’d last claimed any sort of connection to her, so long since he’d last admitted he cared. Kove had, in his old age, learned more than the arrogance of his youth ever would have allowed, and said lessons had a way of coming forth, as of late.

Ah, Desna. Of course the child would be hers, as she resembled the late Scarlett just as much as a young Desna. He smiled at the thought and then at her, admiring the pride that seemed to radiate from her being at the mention of her mother’s accomplishments. “She told me about Easthollow before, a long time ago,” he told her. “Valette, your mother. Though... Desna was the name that your grandmother and I gave her.” A name he knew she no longer answered to, but it was the name first attached to her soul all the same. But with it came the memories of the past, events that he wished he could change—events that seemed to repeat themselves, too, but now it was the newer generation living through it. “I am sorry that your father left you,” was his next comment, the sincerity not lost within his tone. “That was a terrible thing for him to do.”

Pot, meet kettle.

Kove glanced past her then in an attempt to recollect himself before letting out a breath he’d not known himself to be holding. “I suppose this all means that you’re my granddaughter,” were the next words to leave his mouth, though he struggled to believe them. This girl, the daughter of his daughter... how odd it was but how true it had to be. “Has your mother ever mentioned me? I would assume she hasn’t.” And whose fault was that? He knew, truly and fully, that it was he alone that held the blame.

Like any grandfather, he could do little more than smile at her surprise; her emotions were painted across her face with such ease, he was almost jealous. Ah, to be young and capable of such things again… some days he missed it but, for the most part, he was glad to have learned to better restrain himself, to keep his innermost thoughts and feelings where they belonged. “It was,” he told her, nodding. “I do not recall why she changed her name. Perhaps she never told me.” He assumed it was to feel closer to her mother, given the similarities between the names. But he had never asked—he’d never had the chance to, honestly—and she had never volunteered to tell him.

Why would she have, when their meetings were always so tense and without good terms to end on?

As she spoke of her own father, he could not help but inwardly note just how mature she seemed to be. Life had not been the kindest to her by taking a parent away but, despite that, she remained the same. His ears did perk, however, at the mention of a male’s name. “Is Greyback your mother’s husband?” he asked, curious; no matter how strained their relationship was, Kove could never rid himself of paternal feelings felt towards her. She was one of his first daughters, his little boss of the valley—he could not even force himself to forget that. Yet, he knew the feelings were not mutual, given their previous reunions, and said assumption was further confirmed by the child’s lack of knowledge in regards to his existence. “It’s alright,” he assured her, taking notice to the way her posture changed. “I hadn’t expected her to tell you about me. Your mother and I… we have never been on the best of terms.” He would not lie to her and spin some tale—she deserved to know the truth, even if the past that came with it plagued him.

Suddenly, there came an onslaught of questions, one right after the other. As she spoke, she began to move, and he followed after whilst thinking it all over. “You definitely were not adopted,” he began with. “You are identical to your grandmother. It’s like talking to a ghost.” Only, the ache in his chest had started to fade, replaced by something akin to joy; Scarlett lived on, though not with him, and now within a younger body. “I lived south of here, within a forest that I had promised to protect,” he admitted, careful to keep the pack’s name from slipping; he wasn’t sure what she knew of Blackfeather Woods, and wished not to risk startling her. “I… I was not with your grandmother when she passed, I’m afraid. We parted ways before that.” There were days when he wished he would have been there, believing that things might have been different if that were the case. Perhaps she would still be alive and maybe they would have found a way to resolve things—but he had not been present, his time stolen away by those he’d promised to protect, even when they refused him the same treatment.

Whilst her father may not be present, she at least had someone there to watch out for her when her mother could not. Although he doubted there would come a day when he was to meet this Greyback fellow, he had a positive view of him already; it said a lot about a man when they treated the children of their wife’s past lover’s kindly.

Despite her patience, nothing came of it. Kove did not continue to speak in regards to the subject, choosing to leave it alone for now instead; he had never been particularly fond of his past actions or of how he’d not had the opportunity to play a key role in the lives of his daughters. Everything that led up to him having such a strained relationship with his daughter was better left unspoken, as far as he was concerned. And so, his attention veered right off towards her comment, at which he couldn’t help but chuckle, too. “I suppose it does,” he agreed. “How my family thinks and lives, we are as connected to the spirits of our ancestors and lost loved ones as we can be. I guess I have a tendency to forget that not everyone is so accustomed to that way of thinking. For us, it is not scary to be close to the spirits and able to connect with them.” In Blackfeather, driven by the Dark Brotherhood, many sought to summon the dead and speak to them—perhaps even manipulate them against their wills. With the northerners, however, one would not dare to disgrace their ancestors in such a way. Over time, being influenced by those that surrounded him, he had lost touch with that part of his heritage—but now that he was away from them, he was free to embrace his family’s values without worry of persecution.

“I imagine it is,” he responded with a frown. “My absence and, later, my anger damaged what bond we could have had.” He remembered his anger, his pain, that drove such vile words from his mouth during one of her visit—-back when she had delivered the news of Scarlett’s passing. He had not been the least bit kind and, when they should have come together as a family to mourn their loss, he’d only driven them further apart. Although, maybe there was room for change now. “I’m glad, too. I don’t believe we ever would have met, had you not,” he admitted, though the fact that they had met brought the ghost of a smile back to his face—which faltered at her next question.

“I left when I should have stayed,” he answered—it was the simplest way Kove could think to explain it. “I came from a land far from here. When I was younger, my family and I believed that my sister had passed away. We were heartbroken—it’s hard to lose someone that you were born alongside, and I hope you never experience that pain.” It was a pain that could not be remedied, and one that he still felt for little Eska, who was not able to return as Sakari had. “News travelled back to me that she had shown up alive and I felt obligated to make the journey away to confirm it for myself. But, in doing so, I’d left your grandmother alone to lead a pack and pregnant. I don’t think she ever forgave me for that.” At the time, he’d been so caught up in the unbelievable happening that he just couldn’t think straight—every inch of his mind had shouted at him to go north, to see his little sister with his own two eyes. But now that he’s older… he would do anything to go back and change history.

Their views were similar, it appeared, though not identical. Whilst she looked to stones for guidance, his family sought the words and ideology of their ancestors; they were connected to their ancestors as deeply as a mother to her child. When one died, they were honoured, and their soul assisted until a new place in the world was found for it. When children were born, they were bestowed with the names of those that had come and gone long before them, and oftentimes treated with the same degree of respect as their namesakes. “An embodiment of life lost…” he repeated, thoughtful. “It sounds as if those stones are special to your family.” The concept itself was special and worthy of appreciation, he noted.

Unsurprisingly, she responded to his telling of the past with questions and remarks of her own—along with the addition of insight into her mother’s life, though that bit brought the traces of a frown to his lips. “I don’t believe she understood,” he said. “Scarlett hadn’t had the greatest life growing up. Her family was not kind to her and she hadn’t been given the opportunity to develop any true, strong relationships with her siblings. They were cruel to her, all because of the way she looked.” Which, back then, he hadn’t fully understood. It’d taken time for him to realise just how awful her childhood had been and to respect her views as a result of it, but that respect came too late and his ignorance at the time was harsh.

“Some women can do what your mother was forced to,” the man continued. “But some cannot. Scarlett’s heart was bigger than any wolf I’ve met, even to this day. She was kind, she was trusting, but she was not equipped to lead a pack alone, and especially not during her pregnancy. She needed the support that I was supposed to provide but… I wasn’t there, and our numbers were few.” Under normal circumstances, with a large family and pack backing them, perhaps she would have been fine; this he wanted to believe, even with the knowledge that an army wouldn’t have made a difference. It was his presence that she’d wanted, and he had let her down.

The child’s thoughts mimicked his own: it was a cruel hand that she’d been dealt, worsened by those that should have cared for her. “I never understood why they were cruel to her,” he admitted. “But, where I come from, pelts as pale as ours are not unusual. Even those that are darker were never treated as anything less than family, though.” No matter the colour of their coats, each wolf connected by blood was family and deserved to be treated as such; to regard them as anything less was criminal, a mindset that had caused his detest for those he’d never met to grow and fester so long ago.

As she spoke, she pointed out things that he’d never truly put much thought into; the notion may have crossed his mind before, but nothing had ever come of it. “You may be right,” he responded. A lack of understanding was not unlikely, after all—although, a part of him hoped that, that hadn’t been the case. To think that something as simple as a lack of understanding had caused such pain, such a ripple effect, was just cruel.

Kove offered her a smile, which didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think I will always carry the weight of our separation, anyways,” he told her. “Whether I am entirely to blame or not... it’s not easy to let go of something like that.” He’d convinced himself that it was his fault. For several years now, he’d viewed the failure of his marriage as a direct result of his impulsive actions; in some aspects of like, that had pushed him to better himself but, overall, it served more as an anchor than anything else. “But,” the man began again. “I’m glad you exist. Your mother has raised a fine, intelligent young lady.” She was capable of seeing things in a light that he could not. She rationalised and formed various possibilities, whereas he, being a stubborn old man, could only stick to a singular outcome. She saw beyond that, beyond what many children could, and established her thoughts in an impressive way. Desna, he imagined, had to be proud of the daughter she’d raised—he was certainly proud to know that he was the grandfather to such a bright mind.

There can’t be light without dark.

Kove pondered the thought for a long moment and was silent as he did so. It was fitting, he’d admit, and made sense; was it not the darkness around something that made it seem that much brighter? Even in Blackfeather Woods, where the sun hardly broke through the canopies, there was light in the form of glowing worms and plants, and even in wolves like himself. Perhaps, even if something seemed terrible, there might be some good to it—for if light truly cannot exist without the dark, then should there not be a touch of each in one another?

Gradually, a smile started to appear and he nodded. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “Thank you.” For her comment and her own wisdom—and maybe even just for having been born. He was grateful for having met her when he did, or else who knows what might have become of him. “I hope this journey ends with a bit of light to it,” he added, partially to himself. Kove fell silent again thereafter as he trailed alongside his granddaughter, the page turned and a new chapter in life begun.