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+--- Thread: Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. (/showthread.php?tid=39075)
That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Artyom - January 24, 2020
It was in those private moments, alone, that the fear returned for him. As far as he was aware, @Dawn was fine with the sudden way in which their friendship had blossomed into something more - but it was Artyom himself held onto his uncertainty. He fretted quietly of how she might react when the mating season subsided, if she would be left feeling as though he'd taken advantage of her vulnerability. It was not normal for him, this constant worry that piqued his heart rate with each very real concern that refused to release him.
Should the mating succeed, Whitebark would welcome a litter in the Springtime. This, coupled with the paranoia he felt for how the Alphess may decide their coupling was a mistake, made the terror intensify. His only experience with pups came as a yearling, when his parents welcomed his baby sisters into the world, then briefly during his time among the Lost Creek wolves. He'd never been responsible for raising any cubs. All the discussions he had with Ana of their aim to reproduce had been done in confidence; with their families to guide them, they could not fail.
Dawn had given birth once before. He felt safe to assume she'd watched her pups grow, taught them to fend for themselves in the world. Artyom innocently assumed they'd come of age and flew the nest, dispersed to pastures new where they might forge their own destiny. She'd experienced the whole thing from start to finish, and despite the sorrow she held for their absence, he imagined she would be proud of them.
In fatherhood, he would be entirely alone.
He dared not voice such woes to his Alphess, loathe to burden her with further reluctance; it was too late, anyway, to reverse what they'd shared together. Artyom simply trailed her scent that crisp afternoon, eager to stay close by as she likely ventured to the stream to quench her thirst, lost in his grim train of endless thoughts.
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Dawn - January 24, 2020
she trailed the stream edge, searching for some place to sate her thirst. it is not fitting for a leader to be so scarce, surely, not so soon after they've solidified their claim. but her scent gives clear reason; so far, her packmates have respected her solitude, none have sought her ought on that first day.
finally, the banks gently slopes; she descending by the stream's edge and drinks deeply of that clear, cool water. it is far unlike any she's tasted before. she resolves, one day, to find the source. when she is sated, she turns back, retreating along the same trail that has brought her here.
she finds artyom there, bearing an expression that betrays his thoughts. she draws near, pressing muzzle to his cheek, briefly, before withdrawing. "you are worried," she states, softly, for that seems to be the best word to describe the crease of his brows, the glint in his gaze.
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Artyom - January 24, 2020
Artyom hadn't anticipated her finding him first, and his expression shifted fleetingly to one of surprise before he welcomed her to him with a half-hearted smile. He responded to her gesture with one of his own, flicking of his tongue in the direction of her chin - submissive, shy.
He did not want to ruin her brightened mood, sour her with his never ending uncertainties, but it felt wrong to mask them from her too. Artyom pricked a velvet lobe at her observation and, as he turned his head to blink out at the snowy landscape beyond their frozen stream, his expression assumed a thoughtful frown.
"I am," he confirmed, "I... don't know what to expect when this is over." Well, cubs were the likely result, but what of them? A breath leaves him, wearied. Artyom wished he could share in her enthusiasm, feed from her certainty, but this was all unknown territory for him.
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Dawn - January 24, 2020
his hesitance, his concern, it troubles her. it brings to light her own uncertainties; what will come of this, of them? everything felt so right, and yet how quickly did all these things come to pass! she sighs, softly, and moves to stand beside him, shifting so that they stand parallel to one another; both with a view of the creek.
she touches her shoulder to his, considers. she knows what she desires, hopes for. but him—"what do you want, artyom? if you could know anything, be anything, have us be anything - what would it be?" she queries softly, breath condensing in the fast-frozen air as her gaze follows the winding creek.
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Artyom - January 25, 2020
He felt her shift beside him, and for a second he felt panic rise that she might move to depart his company, tired of his plagued thoughts. Artyom tried to be subtle and eyed her sideways, enough to see her instead settle close enough to press her shoulder firm to his in support.
He could've melted at her touch, but managed to remain upright. Leaning into the gesture, and relieved that Dawn hadn't tired of his constant worries, Artyom confessed the answer her question: "I would have you as my mate, Dawn."
It was a moment later that he sought her face, his gaze tentative. It'd been barely a week since they first met, and already they'd dived headfirst into some form of lifelong commitment. How could she be so certain, when he harboured such anxieties? "I know this is sudden. I know you may not even want or be ready for... for that sort of step. It's huge. It's terrifying. But here we are." His ears tilted back, and his brow softened.
She was beautiful. Ambitious, independent, a free spirit. And he could learn to love her, wholly and with everything he could muster... but now it was his turn to be fearful of her rejection. "I would like for this litter to be born to stability. To a structure they can learn from, and we can learn too," he continued, clearly thinking too far ahead but too afraid to let the topic fester in his mind for much longer. "Forgive me," the ranger told her with an awkward hint of laughter, "I am too forward."
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Dawn - January 25, 2020
she blinks, but does not shift. it is forward, certainly, but was not seeking him out when her heat had first started forward too? if anything, his forthcomingness is appreciated, though the thought gives her pause. in truth, she'd not long considered what was to come after this.
she meets his gaze as he seeks hers, gaze steady. tongue moves briefly over her lip, though as he elaborates, it makes sense. it is what she wants, truly. in youth, she'd longed after the open future, the kind with no constraints, no promises, just adventure and adaptability. but then had come the end of her first mateship, the death of her father, the fire, the missing, the wandering; the never remaining any place long. and above all, the overarching grief, guilt, loss.
"no," she begins, "you're right. stability—I want that too." she wants it then, this, but he doesn't know. and he must.
her gaze drops, and she moves to sit back on her haunches. "but first, I need to tell you something." her brow furrows, she chews on her lip. she wants to accept, to talk about only the future - but he needs to know all of the truth, all of her failings. "when I was young—a yearling, I think—I met a man who came from the sea. his name was aditya, and we grew close. I loved him, with whatever I thought that word meant at the time. we became mates, and for a time, things were good."
her gaze shifts to the dirt, then. "but as time went on, things became strained. I was young, and didn't want to be bound by love, by pups, by a future all laid out from me; he was older, and wanted all that. eventually, we—we slept with other people. we grew to hate each other." a pause, the shame comes back. her shoulders hunch as she remembers the fight, the pain. "we were separated when a fire burned down out territory. he fled back to the coast, I tried to find the missing. last spring, we met again."
"I don't know why I went back to him. maybe he was a symbol of all that I'd lost, a reminder of the family I'd had. my first heat came, we settled down in a nearby pack, and I had two children—Stone, and Brook." a tiny curve of her muzzle, then. it had been hard, at first; but those perfect days, touched with love and simple happiness, were when she'd been truly at her happiest. "he was distant. but one day—the children were two months old, then—he vanished. I found his blood, fur outside the territory, and his scent led away. Stone and Brook, they were gone too. for weeks I searched, but it was if they'd disappeared entirely. I was their mother, their protector, and I lost them." she draws in rattling breath, turning away. tears sting, she squeezes shut her gaze and twists away. she tenses, turns back to him.
"I need you to know. all I've done, and failed to do, before you make that offer. and if—if you want to step away, I won't fault you."
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Artyom - January 25, 2020
Artyom felt the dread settle in the pit of his belly like a stone, unsure what to expect from the sterling huntrees as she prepared her answer. He found himself gnaw on the inside of a cheek until it felt raw, until he tasted the metallic tang of his own blood.
Instead of an acceptance or rejection, there came the words of something he hadn't been expecting: a confession. He'd been safe to assume she'd been involved with another in some way, considering the suggestion of last year's offspring she only briefly shared with him before. It had made him curious before, her mention of her cubs, but that quiet wonder quickly disappeared - replaced with sympathy that showed in the mahogany of his eyes.
They'd been only babes when she lost them, far younger that he hoped, and his heart sank. Dawn's previous relationship experience differed entirely from his own, which had left him reeling for another connection when it was over. He looked at her, gaze soft and sympathy clear on his face, and his gilded ears pressed firm to his nape as he saw the emotion well in her lashline.
She turned her muzzle away, shameful of the tears, perhaps, and Artyom waited until she returned to him once more. He reached for her, his nose tracing the velvet of her cheek reassuring before he planted the most tender of kisses at the corner of an eye. "Destiny has a funny way of bringing wolves together, мой сладкий," he assured her. Her choices, her experiences, every single one of them had the potential to shape and mould - until one could find exactly where they were meant to be.
"I, too, took a mate when I was young," he told her, keen to show that she was not alone in the world of loving and losing, "not by choice - we were betrothed as cubs- but it did not matter. I loved her with everything I had. Her name was Ana."
Dear, sweet, perfect Ana. Artyom believed that if there were one wolf to do only good in their lifetime, it would be her. Only her. "Infection ravaged a wound from a hunt, and no salve or poultice could save her. I was devastated," his turn then, to turn his face away. He glanced out over their territory's namesake, at the ice and snow and frosted tree trunks beyond. "I left my home because life without her there felt impossible, and her last want in this life was for me to be happy. I knew I would never find it there."
His life from then had revolved around fulfilling Ana's dying wish, and it had come in small pockets since his departure from Timiryazevskaya. It was something he hoped Whitebark could provide on a permanent basis.
"Your past is your past, Dawn," he rolled a golden shoulder, "it will always be part of who we are, and there's no point in wishing we could change it. It happened, and it mattered, but... yours was never going to make me care any less for you." His gaze returned to her and he exhaled gently. "I believe that I was meant to find you, that you belong in my future."
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Dawn - January 25, 2020
she expects disgust, pity, questions; not the answer he gives. quiet sympathy, acceptance of who she was and what she'd done; the grief lingered, but stilled, softened. she holds still at his touch, pressing her own muzzle lightly to his when given the opportunity.
then comes his own story; she listens as he had. and so they had both loved, and lost; both once-mates, once-loved. when he turns away, she presses for a long moment her muzzle to his nape. for all you have lost, I'm sorry. his words are a balm to a still-open wound she had not been aware was still bleeding.
she holds his gaze; there comes gratitude, sympathy, a deep sense of connection. they are akin in their lose, and she has revealed what she will always believe her most grievous mistake and still, he remains at her side. and something else, new and steadfast and quiet. "and you in mine," she answers, tenderly. she knows not what will come, but knows enough then to know what she wants. "yes, artyom. be my mate. I don't know what the future'll bring, but I want you in it."
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Artyom - January 25, 2020
The exchange was an emotional one, though he was glad to have aired his feelings for Ana for a time. She would be forever dear to him, sweet Anastasia, принцесса of his heart - but he could love Dawn in a way unique only to them.
Artyom smiled again for her, brighter this time, as she voiced agreement to be his partner. His tail gave a slow sleep, relief seeping from his bones as he regarded her with a fond sheen to his gaze. "I can't promise it will be easy," he told her, "but I can promise you loyalty. I can promise that I will never hurt you, and I will put my all into being a father."
Of this, the ranger felt certain. This development had come for them hard and fast, but they had the luxury of time on their side to grow together. He hoped that by the day of Dawn's whelping, they would have gained a better sense of who they were as a couple.
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Dawn - January 26, 2020
he speaks, and she sighs—it is simple happiness, gratitude. "thank you," she offers, softly. "that is all I want," she leans lightly against him, her head coming to rest on the soft curve of his neck. this had come quickly, more so than she'd thought possible. their future is not clear; but truly, even when it had seemed so in her life, it almost never turned out as she'd thought it would. and so, in a way, she was glad for the unknown that stretched before them, the simple knowledge that here, now, she was content.
"things are seldom easy," she murmurs, tiredness pressing down her eyelids, "but with you, I am happy. with you, things will be good." of this, now she is certain.
RE: That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter. - Artyom - January 27, 2020
She thanked him, unnecessarily, though he chose to accept the sentiment and let it warm him. Kindness was what he would aim to build his mateship with Dawn on and he supposed with that came gratitude, so Artyom offered a content sweep of his tail.
Shifting just enough to accommodate his new mate's more physical gesture, the ranger allowed her to lean her slight frame against his shoulder and turned his head to welcome her close to him. The tip of his raven nose found her silver crown and he exhaled softly into the fur, delivering a nuzzle before he maneuvered to bring her down to the ground alongside him where she could sink against him and better relax.
Teeth gently went to work, preening the sterling tufts of fur at the base of a lobe and caressing her silken cheek, eager to resume his courtship of her following the serious nature of their discussion.