Nova Peak If you must mourn, don't do it alone

Rain beat steadily against the rocky ground and damp tree trunks, matching the tempo of Wylla's paws as she stamped a track around the pack's perimeter. She was loathe to be away from the cavern in the foothills where Mahler lay recovering, but she also couldn't leave Sagtannet leaderless. The borders required reinforcing and it simply wouldn't do to let them fade.

When she hunted, at dawn and dusk, she portioned out her successful kills. A majority share went to Mahler; while a portion went to either the pack's caches or Phaedra directly. She kept only a pittance for herself and had visibly lost a little weight already as a result, but it didn't matter to Wylla. While part of her rebelled against sharing in this fashion, she imagined it was what Mahler would want her to do. Or, at least, the image of him she kept in her head.

She'd done the same this morning with a modestly sized duck, and now her stomach rumbled while she patrolled. With a grimace, Wylla ducked under an overhanging branch and gave her soggy shoulders a shake. She didn't need the food as much as Mahler and Phaedra did, and anyway, winter was coming. Small game was much harder to come by, but winter was the wolf's season. The hunger she felt now would be sated with pronghorn flesh when the pack could hunt them in the snow, where their hooved feet were bound to stumble.

Until then, she had to make do with mouthfuls, redirecting the resources she gathered to where they were needed and eating more generously only when weakness set in, and she found solace in the distraction that patrolling offered. She patrolled a lot these days. Mostly around Mahler's sick bed, but today she meant to re-mark half their claim. Tomorrow, maybe the other half.

Depositing a woodchuck into the cache, Stag caught the remnant scent of Wylla. He nosed around and found a freshly cached duck; no doubt the sylph had come by this morning, and given her offerings to the community cache.

Stag sighed. Anyone with eyes would have seen Wylla was working in overtime, and a new leanness had come to her physique that was hard and -- dare he say it -- unpleasant.

He considered bringing her the duck, after all, it was hers -- but instead, Stag followed after Wylla with the woodchuck he had originally intended for the caches. Once he saw her marching solemnly in the rain by the pack's perimeter, Stag gait sped up and he nosed the meal towards her with unusual firmness. "Eat." The boy half-insisted, half-pled: "you'll be no use to us when you die of starvation." Stag parroted in his best matter-of-fact Wylla voice, a playful glint in his eyes as he waited for Wylla to either chew the chuck, or chew him out for being so insouciant.

The rain was loud, but the drumming of Stag’s paws was louder; she swivelled her right ear to listen first, then turned an almost lazy half-circle. By now, she thought she recognized the gaits of those she spent the most time with. Stag’s was particularly distinct thanks to the sheer length of his legs, the stretch of each stride. She wasn’t surprised at all to see his jade eyes when she locked sights on him.

She was surprised by the sizable groundhog he toted along with him, and predicted his intentions precisely as he announced them aloud. His tone brooked no argument, which impressed Wylla. She liked Stag a great deal, but she thought he could be a little soft sometimes. It benefited him in some ways, like with Phaedra, but she’d worried about his conviction in others. It seemed she had no reason to.

Yes, sir, she said, dipping her head and ears alike in brief deference. Even her tail swept down to wave genially toward the ground, so different from its usual cocked position. He was right. She couldn’t very well work herself to the bone, even though the stubborn part of her insisted that she didn’t need any food. Mahler would scold her. Stag, too, apparently.

Out of nowhere, she asked, your dad led once, right? She knew next to nothing about Stigmata, and had never really bothered to ask. He was dead, and she wasn't too fond of unearthing ghosts. When he wasn’t busy being a tree, I mean, she tacked on with a cheeky grin, bending to rip flesh gratefully at the woodchuck’s belly. She wondered if he would remember.

Clownfeet were loud, even if the rain was coming down in full force. Stag's expression softened as Wylla registered he was present; his ears flattened subserviently and his posture shifted downwards.

Wylla surprised him by dipping her head and ears in turn -- this earned a subtle beat of the boy's tails by his hocks as he watched her seriously, waiting for her to take that first bite as if it would suddenly pack on all the pounds again and cure Wylla of the malaise of sadness and exhaustion that seemed to as of late distill that fiery spark she was known for. He bit his lip as she spoke up, expecting her to argue -- instead she asked after his father.

At first Stag looked visibly crumpled -- then confused -- then suddenly suspicious -- and then, finally, catching onto the joke late, a strange concoction of relieved and reluctantly bemused. Wylla was eating by now, so his initial misgivings faded away. "He did." Stag thought back on their first meeting with a mixture of fondness and irritation (directed at Zarya, of course). "Do you think she is dead yet? That wolf, I mean."

Hm, she mumbled through a mouthful. She supposed that Stigmata was a sore subject for Stag, and pressing that particular button might be a regrettable affair. She couldn't relate, which made giving the execute order on that a little easier. I obviously didn't know him, she said, swallowing a bit of gristle and lapping blood from her lips but if he was a man worth his stones, I bet he'd be really, really proud of who his son is becoming.

In case it touched a nerve — because for all she knew, Stigmata might have been a major piece of shit like so many other dads across the world — she latched quickly onto the topic of Zarya. I'd be shocked if she's alive, said Wylla, chortling. Wolves that stupid have no business breathing. It's remarkable how many of them make it to adulthood at all. Then again, pups were kept under watchful eyes for much of their first year. Maybe it was just a case of going overly wild and losing all those budding brain cells the minute the reins were loosened. Not unlike her first child, she thought with a grimace she sought to hide.

How long do you think she'd have lasted in the pack if not for us? she wondered. Her wager was less than a month. If not Stag and Wylla, then surely someone else would've found her contemptible stupidity and inconsistent attitude insufferable.

A dart of agony and discomfiture lanced his heart; he loved his father, and he loved Wylla -- but the thought of his father being proud of him (and the thought of that heavy compliment) had his guts in a twist and his eyes more than just misty. He looked away while Wylla ate, trying to temper the rise of emotion that baldly clawed at his throat.

"Thanks," was all the boy managed, eyes downcast. Happy to hear the subject change, Stag thought after lighter topics -- like Zarya, probably dead somewhere with crows picking out her eyes. Or that's how Stag envisioned it, given she had a penchant for flirting with danger. "Dunno, maybe a day or so. I bet Mahler would have caught her eventually." Soft-hearted as he was, he was inclined to agree with Wylla. Wolves that stupid truly had no business walking among them. "It makes me think of all the wolves, that come and go. Stay with us a bit and then leave us forever." His throat was doing that bothersome constricting thing again. "Why? Why are people like that?" Wylla had never left. He had never left (ok he did totally get snapped up by the checker this week, mea culpa). Mahler hadn't gone anywhere.. But everyone else treated him (and Sagtannet by extension) like he was just an inconvenient set of revolving doors - spin and out, in and out, over and over and over.

I dunno if he would have, she disagreed. Mahler had an extremely unfortunate habit of only seeing what he wanted to see in others. While Wylla was just as guilty of bias, she suspected that Zarya would've continued to play Mahler like a fiddle, dancing through the ranks without regard for anything, and she suspected her fellow Eisen would've let her. Maybe she wasn't giving him enough credit, but she already felt like he let a lot of things slide that she wouldn't, just because of his big, dumb heart.

She listened while Stag grappled with the fact that most of their kind were fickle, grimacing. She had the same opinion about wolves in general. She hadn't lived in a proper pack structure for most of her life—Grimnismal and Swiftcurrent were but brief flickers next to the time she'd spent either in Keokuk Glade or alone—but even she understood loyalty, and despaired at how rare it seemed to be.

Some wolves are just shitty, she said, again thinking of Tiercel and swallowing the burning sensation that clawed suddenly up from her belly. No, she didn't truly think that of her firstborn, but she had left, too. Gone with the wind and got herself in trouble and pointed the finger back at the mother she'd left behind. Some want power and can't get it easily here. Some just don't jive with the pack. But, for the most part, they're just shitty wolves with shitty morals who don't think twice about anyone but themselves. She lumped the majority of Sagtannet's dispersals into that category.

She gave Stag a reflective once over before saying, as abruptly as she'd brought up his father, I think you'd make a good leader, Stag. You know the value of loyalty.

Wylla countered Stag's assessment of Mahler; for a moment the boy was quiet, looking at the pine needles on the ground. It was not his nature to analyze his leaders -- but even he recognized their proud General was still a human wolf, bound by the same flaws that dogged them all.

Some wolves are just shitty. Indeed; Stag nodded in agreement there. He didn't realize Wylla was thinking of her daughter (sidenote: could you imagine a Stag/Tiercel thread? She'd stick him, boil him, mash him, and then she'd step on his carapace just for the thrilling noise it made when it broke). Stag didn't even know Wylla had a daughter besides Phaedra (who came out perfectly, in his eyes).

Certainly there was a theme - most wolves didn't think about anyone but themselves. Stag's gums twisted in a visible line of conflicted sadness. He didn't know what it was like, not thinking about other people. How had wolves been born that way? What made them tick so differently than he?

He was lost in these thoughts when Wylla spoke again, bringing to light her opinion he'd make a leader. Uh, what? His ears flicked to her in mute surprise, followed by the slow climb of his gaze to hers as if to affirm his ears were working properly.

When Stag thought of leaders, he thought of people -- wolves -- like Wylla. Like Mahler. Like Takiyok, and Stigmata. Wolves hardened by experience. Wolves intelligent, with foresight and great ability to provide for their pack.

Conversely, when he thought of Stag, he thought of fat, round edges. Of emotional weakness. Of poor judgment calls.

How did he fit in with their order? How did Wylla think he could be equal among them? He did not for one minute want to question Wylla's judgment. She could tell him to walk off a cliff, and he probably would -- but did that mean his judgment of himself was incorrect? And, if so, didn't that prove he wasn't good at the leader stuff? "I.. Um." Hmm. "I don't think I would be a good leader. Not like you." There was no hiding the flush of respectful awe in Stag's voice. "I'm not as smart as you.. or Mahler. And sometimes, I think I make bad decisions and it can hurt the people around me."

It was pretty cheeky coming from Wylla, who up until recently, had been an astoundingly selfish wolf. One could say she still very much was. She didn't see it that way, of course. One never could see their own flaws with clear eyes, and she was better than most at pulling wool over her own. She did it day in and day out and never once thought of the effect she could have on others. In that way, she was very selfish indeed.

Her lips stretched slowly into a wry grin as Stag blundered his way through a reaction. She almost barked out a laugh when he said he wouldn't be a good leader like her. He might've been the only wolf in all of Wylla's history to think that she was a good leader. Her brothers, maybe, but they were probably biased. Mahler had followed her once, but few others had shown her much respect in that position. A tolerable leader, maybe. Not a good one. But Wylla, of course, thought she was an excellent one.

We all make bad decisions, she said, and nearly launched into an explanation of how all of Mahler's recent decisions were bad ones. She caught her tongue between her teeth and reminded herself that to Stag, Mahler was as a father, and heavy criticism of the fool man wouldn't go over well. We all just do the best we can to do what's right for the pack. You have a good head on your shoulders and you care about others, and you would have us to guide you. I can't think of anyone who would grow more admirably to the role than you.

If you're interested, that is.

On the contrary, Stag believed there was no better leader than Wylla. His first true impression of her -- that day she had chased Zarya out from the woods -- was still very fresh in his mind. That wolf was the leader Stag wished to emulate: strong, self-assured, and incredibly confident.

He was studying the ground, the visible tell of nervousness apparent by the way he gently bit at his lower lip. To be elevated to leader status -- among Wylla and Mahler -- Stag was nowhere near their equal. How could he possibly be worthy? He felt a dark shade of imposter syndrome pull through him. Certainly, he was so far from their order he may as well be a pillbug and they the hawk. "How do I know if I am ready?" For the briefest moment Stag's gaze lifted and searched Wylla's own, before pulling away in submission and worry.

You don't. There'd never been a magical moment where Wylla decided she was ready to be a competent leader. She would soon prove that she was anything but, even now that she was four years old rather than two. She'd just always known that following the commands of others had never sat well with her, probably as a result of being raised with just her mother and her brother for six months of her life, and had jumped into it feet first.

Think about it, she urged him, and when you decide, you need only let us know. She felt reasonably sure that Mahler would not disagree with her desire to raise Stag up in the pack. If anything, she thought her fellow Eisen would be proud of him. The woodchuck's remains lay between them, stripped of its best pieces. Do you want the rest, or should we cache it? It wouldn't keep very long without its hide intact, but it was still a morsel someone could snack on.

Can start wrapping up here!

I'll fade here, and you're probably going to get a Stag tag shortly since I am so EFFING behind you crazy writers lol

The answer may have been far from reassuring, but Wylla's blunt honesty somehow was. Stag gave the response heavy consideration: he would likely never grow to be as confident as his father, or even his mother -- both of who he did believe embodied different important leadership qualities.

And then there was Wylla -- Stag only hoped one day he might hold a candle to the brilliant sunflare that was her own sparking light.

"Cache it." The boy replied, still mulling over Wylla's offer. It came with great responsibility -- one he was not confident he could adequately shoulder. Rising alongside the Eisen, Stag kept her offer at the front of his mind for the days to come -- but in the end, it was the furthest thing from his mind the morning he and Wylla departed Sagtannet.