There was a twinge of pain from deep within his gut, a stabbing hunger settling where sustenance was absent. How long had it been since he’d been turned away from his sister’s pack? Since he’d last seen those few that he still knew? It was before the tremors started, before the prey had vanished. A large part of him still wanted to return, to try again to right things, even after the failure he’d been awarded for his last attempt. He lingered in the area for that reason, refusing to leave even when the earth itself tried to chase him out; he remained, though a coward he’d turned.

Something akin to the scent of a deer crossed his path, the temptation irresistible. He trailed after it, uncertain if the smell was real or simply a figment of his imagination—a lonesome, hungry mind could be the most convincing, after all, but he’d made himself the fool so often already that the thought of doing it yet again just seemed right. And a fool he was made once more, unable to follow the scent to fruition; he backtracked and searched, altering his course, but there was nothing to find.

Nothing that he was expecting.

Then he caught wind of another wolf—it was familiar and triggered feelings that he couldn’t quite comprehend, but absent enough that he couldn’t exactly place it. Despite this, Alexander followed it, pace increasing right before coming to a sudden, dead stop. Because across the meadow, he saw someone he knew, someone he’d wanted to see again for what felt like a lifetime but she was there for another reason. He followed her gaze, finding the same distortion in the field, and his stomach twisted; while he couldn’t make out what it was, there was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that it wasn’t good. Swallowing hard, he padded forward, his own gaze now trained on the lump and his heart rate increasing with each step.

His pace quickened and then slowed, then ceased entirely as his legs stiffened and refused another step. The mound of earth acquired features he could not ignore, the closer he got. What he could previously assume was just his eyes playing tricks on him with the help of shadows and light turned into a coat of fur, ruddy in colour. What was a distortion of the ground just moments ago took shape into something—someone—he would always recognise; those smaller lumps of mud became ears, limbs, a face. “Indra…?” he whispered, trying simultaneously to convince himself otherwise. But he knew deep down, even before getting a closer look, that it was Indra. Everything matched, every detail undeniable. All that was missing was the steady rise and fall of her sides, her lively stare, her life—

What happened?

Alexander was numb as he approached, not even able to tell that he was moving again until he was suddenly standing before the living sister, eyes locked on the fallen. Closer now he could smell it, the scent of death clinging mercilessly to her body—his friend’s body. “Laurel,” was all he managed to choke out, now staring at her. He wanted to ask what had happened, who had taken her, but knew she wasn’t the one to ask. But was there anyone? Had anyone seen? Why hadn’t anyone helped her? He was absorbed by all these questions, grasping for any reasoning his brain could concoct and supply him with, but none of it was enough. None of it would ever be enough.

The pounding in his chest migrated up to his head without any resistance, deafening and hurtful—but maybe he deserved it, for not being there to protect her, to prevent this. It was as if he’d drifted into a state of unconsciousness, absent in mind and running off of autopilot. He didn’t notice that he was shaking, couldn’t feel the tremble in his legs or the warm wetness seeping from his eyes. Another friend, gone. Another one he couldn’t protect. He sought the only one that still remained, the last one he had—and reached forward to touch her, seeking reassurance that she was still there, she was still alive, and offering what comfort he could provide.

When he gained her attention he was immediately taken aback, the accusatory tone like a slap to the face. When she took a step forward he took a step back, confused and uncertain; what had he done now? Why could he never manage to reach her? Especially now, especially with Indra absent before them, he wanted nothing more than to reach for her; perhaps it was selfishly driven, seeking to comfort her so that he could also comfort himself. Despite everything, despite everything they’d gone through, not a day had gone by when he hadn’t considered Indra a friend—at times, perhaps his only friend, too, as he ruined himself more and more each day.

Maybe that was why Laurel’s words were such a harsh blow. Maybe that was the reasoning for the hurt he felt, mentally and physically, when accused of being the cause of her demise.

“I didn’t—I—” How could she think that? How could she think he’d done this? He retreated another step, head low and ears pulled back. He didn’t do this, he wasn’t the cause for her death—was he? Wasn’t this what always happened, though? He cared for someone and then they died. It had happened before—multiple times—who was to say this wasn’t the result of it happening again? “No…” he uttered, shaking his head but refusing to look at her. “I didn’t do… this… I—I cared about her, I would never—never hurt her.” Not like this. Never like this. This was awful. This wasn’t something he was capable of. Xan wasn’t a killer, he never had been. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t even fathom it.

“Indra is why I was back—Indra—Indra—” Finding the words were difficult, stumbling repeatedly, still trying to process what happened. Indra wasn’t there anymore, she would never be around again. “Indra told me to fix things and this… no—no. I didn’t do this, I…” He loved her, in his own way. Much like a brother loves his sister, he cared for her as deeply, even if it was only one-sided. She helped him when no one else would or could, she drove him to keep trying—she deserved better than this end.

Even when she screamed, he didn’t dare move. He couldn’t. Cemented to the very spot he stopped in, he stood against her shouts, not moving even when she took a step towards him. A posture that would typically make his blood boil only made him hang his head, ears back and gaze averted. He was not the guilty one here, he would never hurt Indra, and yet—and yet he was the one blamed, the one to receive her anger. And he knew he deserved it. He knew this was just, even if he wasn’t the killer. And for that reason, he couldn’t physically defend himself. He left himself open to whatever she saw fit, knowing damn well he wouldn’t be able to stand against her, no matter the circumstances.

Another scream, and then a lunge. He drew in a breath and closed his eyes, waiting for impact, for the piercing sting of teeth driven deep into his flesh—but all he felt was a weight against his own body, warm breath against his skin. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open and stole a glance at her, relaxing against the contact. And when she whispered into his fur, proclaiming her hatred, his body slumped forward and he uttered a quiet, “I know.” It hurt him to hear her say it, even though he expected it. But he deserved it, he knew he did. There was not a single moment to pass between them that he didn’t cause her grief, not a single moment that would even out the scales after all he put her and her sister through.

Knowing all the pain he caused wasn’t enough to silence him, though. Not when he could still hear Indra’s voice in the back of his head, could still hear her telling him to make things right. That wasn’t something he knew how to do, not something he could figure out. But he had words in his head, in his heart, that screamed to be let out, and he… well, he was weak. “I love you,” he said, his own voice hardly anything more than a whisper. “You can hate me forever. You can blame me for this if it helps you heal. But I… I’m going to keep feeling this way.” If hating him was what would fix things, then so be it. Whatever she needed to get through this, whatever made her feel better—he would swallow his own feelings, for her.

Rigid ran her body, a quietness overtaking her than he wondered if he should embrace or fear. He wanted to reach out to her, and every fiber of his being urged him to do so, but he was stopped by her screams and shouts—don’t touch me! There was an empty space thereafter, a brush of cold air against where she previously stood. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, even though all he wanted was to reach out and pull her back to him. He wanted to invite her closer, to hold her and offer what support he could—he wanted to honour what little belief Indra once had in him, that he might be able to right things.

She snapped again and his own body stiffened, a man turned to stone. “I’m not lying to you,” he insisted, pleading. “There is no one else, there’s no one on the side. There’s only you.” She was the only one he sought after, previous loves lost or abandoned; he couldn’t remember when it began, when he stopped pursuing others, but now it was unavoidable. Like a virus, it lingered, unable to be killed off by any sort of intrusions into the system—perhaps time would ease it away from him but even that he doubted, any willingness to let go absent.

Alexander watched as she moved further away, returning to her sister’s side instead. He took a shaky step towards her and said, “Let me help.” He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her there out in the open any more than he was sure Laurel did—it wasn’t right, she deserved better. “Please, let me help.”

The snapping of her jaws forced him to take a step back, avoiding her grasp; part of him wished she would have attacked, though—he certainly deserved it. But instead, she only shouted—she said she hated him and he didn’t doubt her. He knew he deserved her hatred, that he was a fool to think she might ever forgive him, but that didn’t make not trying any easier. Because at the end of the day, he meant what he said—he truly did love her.

But damage was done, pain caused and lingering. And all he could do was stare after her, ears pinned back and heart hurting, as she dragged Indra away.