merrick had not left aventus since nyra had escaped the jaws of ursus.
a narrow escape; her blood had painted scarlet the nodding heads of wildflowers in a trail that led toward the mountains. not fucking worth it not fucking worth it.
merrick was consumed in a furor of rage that burned through him as if it were a fever. the days dropped away their edges. nightfall was a boon. daytime was a beesting, punctuated by conversations he did not want to have and thoughts he did not wish to entertain.
easthollow and their battle seemed so distant now, though it was not. the bruin-witch was laid low by injuries unhealed and deepened by their almost-execution of the bitch who had snapped his son
my son
into the air — and
a ribcage splintered beneath the rise and fall of the boy's side. wherever he lay, the one-eyed lich had gathered himself, presumably in shifts shared between he and his queen and the healer, and merrick's heart hardened within him each handful of passing hours, against every wolf not of ursus.
he owed donovan nothing, and so when his lover's howl rose commanding, a clash of thunder in an already greygloom sky, merrick only lifted his head. his own heavens here were clear; the ravenlord of ursus and the greendruid that followed would suffice to meet the tiger there, the tiger-man and whatever entourage he had brought with him. a man of pomp. a massively powerful man with a charisma to match the gratuitous feline appetite.
merrick had been his repast — once.
single eye lay upon aventus. his son.
if one were to crack upon merrick's skull and root around with careful fingertips in the grey matter, they would find no semblance of recognizable love. only obsession. only the interim place where lust and violence converged into a thick maroon vein that bound the two halves of his brain together. merrick had no place for love, and therefore felt it not in a way that was sentiently affectionate.
only the nick of electricity sparkling along the stem of his mind, expanding tendrils of sensation into the parts of him that were made for life-taking. his son.
he thought of how avicus had mouthed his words that day. how she had killed the hapless thing with a clench of puppyteeth and rushing blood. how she worshipped the rook-regent in a manner as intense as he. aventus as well; both of them aware of their dam's incredible power, and in supplication to it. as it should be.
my heirs.
them both. avicus, the observer; aventus, the seeker. and merrick felt that same sensation for which he had no name pound into the front of his skull, that horrible wash of not-love that sickened him with worry and filled him with a fel hatred for those outside ursus. all of them.
he owed donovan nothing. merrick paused his limping skulk outside the place where aventus lay in recovery, but his single eye burned in the direction of the border where the tiger sought so brazenly to command him out. lips lifted, smoothly skimming back to reveal the harrowed fangs from tip to gumline.
the russet and ivory of his hackles lifted, and his gunmetal flanks expanded with a great breath beneath the saddling of darkness along his spine. 
merrick would not trust aventus' recovery until the boy uttered it himself; he was consumed with anguish and ravening, clawing abhorrence.
what can be done
a mother's pound of flesh for her first son
it brought him to mind of indra; merrick tensed, but allowed the thought its due. 
indra had never fought for him, never made the world turn to look upon her youth. 
the blackbird knew their son a smokescreen prince and their daughter a bloodstar princess. their worth was proven by her wealth of dedication, and at last the remainder of the jealous shackles fell away from merrick. 
he relaxed, the tension along his spine ebbing if one was watching him, and settled himself down. but still he trained the wartorn tatterings of ear toward the border, thrumming, waiting, glinting with the worry-spurred loathing that was beginning to gallop his pulse along.