It was but a dull ache now on the side of his face, the physical pain of his loss paling in comparison to the mental repercussions it had. He wanted to blame someone for it, anyone that he could, but not a single name would enter his mind when he tried to do so. Deep down, he knew it was his own fault; he was out of practise, having not been a member of a pack for some time now and having not partaken in a spar for even longer. Not to mention the distraction that was his own mind, filled to the brim with things he should do and paths he should’ve taken—there was little space left over for the strategic thinking required to win. All that existed was his anger, or maybe it was something more, something deeper than rage alone. What drove him to travel to the coast, and then to leave it again without completing the task that’d taken him there in the first place? It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t joy.

It was the fear of loss, and the realisation that he’d been wrong.

As the thought hit him, Alexander came to an immediate stop. He was wrong? In the wrong, that is. He frowned and his tail twitched, his mind trying to work through everything—past and present—in search of more answers. He’d been in the wrong. He’d pushed others away, time and time again—but, in the same breath, he asked them to stay. To not leave him alone, not again, despite his transgressions. Some had agreed, some had humoured him, and what had they gotten in return? Nothing. Nothing at all, because Xan had never changed, not to reflect their sacrifices or even his own feelings. He’d pushed and pushed and pushed until, finally, there was no one left to push away.

Engulfed in thought, he didn’t realise where he was. He didn’t know how close to home, exactly, he’d wandered. And as he tilted his head back and unconsciously loosed a howl from his lips, he didn’t realise that it might just confirm what he feared the most: that he was alone, and that he was to blame.

What should he expect? Anger, disgust, sorrow. What did he expect? What did he want to see, standing face-to-face with someone he once trusted—someone that he still trusted, even after everything, even after he’d surely broken whatever trust she may have once placed in him. He didn’t know and he didn’t care to wonder, not when she was there—now—and staring back at him. Her eyes lacked any warmth, a hardened gaze turned upon him and he, well… he knew he deserved it. He was ready for it, even. For the yelling, the screaming—even the attack, should it be taken that far—but there was nothing.

No words. No shouting. No jaws around his throat.

Perhaps that was what made it even worse.

As her posture fell, so did his own—and as tears slicked down her face, his expression fell and he swore he felt his chest tighten beyond what was congruent with life. “Indra?” he croaked, uncertain, able to say nothing more. Something told him to shut up, what sliver of a conscious he had, and that was the end for him. Between the mindset he’d already driven himself into and seeing her as broken as she was, he couldn’t prevent what happened next: when the walls he’d built so long ago finally came crumbling down, each piece of life having chipped away at them until there was hardly anything left to hide behind. Without even realising it—without knowing why—his own face grew wet with tears. Tears that he, if allowed, would try to hide in her scruff.

When she pulled back, it was all too soon. She left him exposed, standing before her with the weight of life itself on his shoulders. Would she listen? Did he want her to know his demons, to know what he wished even he did not? He shrunk back and averted his gaze before pinching his eyes shut, willing it all away—but it would not leave because he could not forget, just as he could no longer shoulder the burden on his own for a moment longer.

“Indra, I—” This is a bad idea. “I…” Don’t do it. “Bad things happened, Indra. I…” Stop. Shut up. Don’t say anything. He stopped and tried to compose himself, but there were no more footings to grasp at—he was done. “I don’t want to leave anymore, I—I want you to know.” Know what? Where was he supposed to begin, when the start of it all was so long ago and everything in between was… it just was.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, redirecting. “I’m sorry for everything—everything I did to you, to Laurel, to the kids… I didn’t want… I didn’t—” His ears fell flat against his broken crown and his head hung, defeated. He just wanted to start over.

It didn’t? Did none of it matter? He drew in a shaky breath and held it, trying to settle himself, but it was of little use. He couldn’t drag back in what had been set free; the walls that once held it all back were no more, even the barest of foundations worn away into nothingness. But she was sorry, too. And he wanted to ask why and for what but he couldn’t form the words, couldn’t get them out. He never blamed her, nor Laurel, only ever himself; everything that had happened was due to his actions, his indecisiveness, his inability to do what needed to be done.

She had nothing to be sorry for.

It was simple enough to say but even those words wouldn’t leave his mouth—it wasn’t the time for them and this, surprisingly, he seemed to realise. There were other demons to fight and other stories to be told; it wasn’t the time for his to be shared, not when something was weighing her down. He owed it to her, to put someone other than himself first for once.

“What happened...?” he was finally able to ask, now watching her carefully. Would she share with him—did he deserve to sit with her and share woes? He wasn’t so sure but… he was willing to at least try.

Historically, he wasn’t good in these situations. He’d spent so much time keeping everything pent up inside, unable and unwilling to let anyone in; even in a glimpse revealed too much, making him vulnerable and weak. He had always believed that he wasn’t supposed to show anything, he wasn’t supposed to let anyone in, but now he was beginning to realise just how wrong he had been. He wanted to tell her everything just as much as he wanted her to tell him—he wanted to be there for her, support her, the same way that he wanted for himself. He reached out to her in an effort to communicate this, when another sob shook her, gentle in the way he sought to touch his muzzle to her own. It’s okay, he tried to say, but his voice betrayed him and left him soundless. It’ll be okay.

But she would not share and he, bare as he’d made himself to her, was visibly hurt. “What happened?” he tried again. “I want… I want to know—I want to help.” But could he? Could he really help her, when he could not even help himself? And was what troubled her so even something he was capable of helping her with? That small, nagging voice in the back of his mind told him no, you can’t, and he could think of no reason why he shouldn’t believe it—but whether or not he could didn’t matter, because he was at least ready to try. He wanted to help, to be there for her, to make up for all the things he’d done. He didn’t want to repeat history anymore, he just wanted to make things right—

—all he wanted was to be better, to give away the same trust and support that he’d sought for himself for so long. He wanted to be there for someone other than himself.

As she reined in her own emotions, closing herself off from his prying eyes, he tried his damnedest to do the same. Only, it wasn’t as easy for him. When there was already something there to hide behind and to continuously shove stuff into the shadows of as if he were a child cramming his toys beneath the bed was easy—but this, rebuilding something to hide himself away in, was difficult. Difficult beyond belief actually, to the point where he questioned the possibility of it; he couldn’t do it, not now nor ever, if he continued down the same tightrope he was currently perched precariously atop. And in how it made him vulnerable, it also made him blind; blind to the lies hidden in her words, sheltered by the incorrect truth.

He was easy to fool, believing her words to be the true reasoning behind her distress, and he felt for her. After all, he’d left his own children behind, too, hadn’t he? But he didn’t want her thinking that way—so he spun his own lies.

“Merrick knows why you had to leave,” he explained, easing into his own story with a softened voice. “I talked to him before I left to find you and Laurel—he understood, he wasn’t mad at you.” Which was not entirely a lie, as he simply hadn’t cared enough to be upset—but that addition did not need to be shared. “We can look for him and bring him home,” he offered, hopeful. He could help her, make her feel better. Whatever she wanted to do, whatever she needed to get done, he could help. But as swiftly as came the sudden burst of hope, there it went again—

—Lucas… he’s dead.

Xan had never known his children to Laurel well, she hadn’t allowed him to see them. All he had to remember them by were the names she’d given them and the few glances he’d been able to steal while they were out. And yet, learning of one’s passing was not nearly as easy of news to hear as he would have expected: Lucas had been his son, after all, even if they’d hardly known one another. And to find out that he was gone, that they would never have a chance to get to know one another, hurt more than he ever would have guessed—and perhaps that is what it means to be a parent.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say at first. Sorry he hadn’t really known the boy, sorry he’d never tried to change that when he had the chance—sorry he hadn’t been there for her or Laurel after he’d passed. “I’m… sorry, Indra. I’m so sorry.” Now more than ever, he wanted his family back together.

When the doubt flickered across her face he saw it—he actually saw it, so focused on her that it was hard not to. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone before he could think of anything to say that might ease her mind. Whether or not Merrick truly understood, he had never thought to ask at the time. All he knew was that the boy did not care or, if he did, it was expressed in a backward sort of way. Would telling her that be beneficial to her, though? Would knowing that her son didn’t care make it easier for her to move past it? The only answer he could come up with was no; he would not tell her the full truth, not then, not unless the young male suddenly returned.

But had she seen through his little lie? He suspected that she had as her tone shifted, bringing him to pull his ears back—he was hurt, and by something so simple as a mere tone of voice. “I want to make things better,” he tried, desperately grasping for the way things were just moments ago. “For you, for Laurel and the kids—for Lucas.” Lucas. Truthfully, he was hardly even a stranger, they’d never known anything of one another. But there was still something there, a feeling in the pit of his stomach that reared its head each time he thought of the child as being dead. He was too late to change anything there, too late to make anything better, but there were still others. Lucas’ siblings and half-siblings, Laurel, Indra… they were all still alive, they hadn’t gone anywhere.

Perhaps he had time.

Marten, his remaining child. For him, he had to do right—for himself, too, he had to change. He could not continue down the path he was currently on, a path destined for the repetition of self-destruction. He had to fix himself, he had to find his son, and he had to fix everything else. Everything that there was, everything that he had ever brought ruin to.

Laurel—

Laurel. He looked to her sister, troubled but willing. “Okay,” he said, voice hardly above a whisper. Okay. Find Marten. Makes things right with Marten. Find Laurel and—and… and… what? He wanted to ask her, to find out what he was supposed to do, to fix everything—but it wasn’t her job to tell him, was it? It wasn’t her responsibility to guide him, not for this. This was something he would have to do on his own, and so he nodded partially to himself, continuing the rest of their time with a suffocating silence as that dawned on him.