Warrior
Sword of the Morning
575 Posts
Ooc — mixedhearts
Historian
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It was easy to blame himself. He hadn't been there. For so long, he'd been so far away — and then, when he was needed most, he was just a step too far. Just a minute too slow.
He was lagging further and further behind.
The panther had been searching, desperately, since Seelie was taken. It went against all the promises he'd made to himself of sticking close, never leaving again — but what was a man to do in these conditions? He could not simply wait at home and hope that someone else found his daughter. So he searched, and he felt guilty for doing so. And so he roved back toward home every few days, and he felt guilty for doing so. It ate at him like it had for months, and once again, the panther found himself driven by nothing so much as his burning need to reunite his family.
Dutch was a shell of a man, striding through the grouse thicket. Weak sunlight filtered through the trees and made his coat look pale; the frayed ends of his dying pelt caught the light and showcased just how much weight he'd lost. How much his skin hung from his once-powerful frame. He would be ashamed if he could see himself — but, even if there'd been a convenient mirror nearby, Dutch might not have noticed. He lived outside of his body, these days. He lived always a few steps ahead, around the corner, atop the next hill.
Or perhaps he did not live at all. Perhaps he wouldn't, until his daughter was found.
He was lagging further and further behind.
The panther had been searching, desperately, since Seelie was taken. It went against all the promises he'd made to himself of sticking close, never leaving again — but what was a man to do in these conditions? He could not simply wait at home and hope that someone else found his daughter. So he searched, and he felt guilty for doing so. And so he roved back toward home every few days, and he felt guilty for doing so. It ate at him like it had for months, and once again, the panther found himself driven by nothing so much as his burning need to reunite his family.
Dutch was a shell of a man, striding through the grouse thicket. Weak sunlight filtered through the trees and made his coat look pale; the frayed ends of his dying pelt caught the light and showcased just how much weight he'd lost. How much his skin hung from his once-powerful frame. He would be ashamed if he could see himself — but, even if there'd been a convenient mirror nearby, Dutch might not have noticed. He lived outside of his body, these days. He lived always a few steps ahead, around the corner, atop the next hill.
Or perhaps he did not live at all. Perhaps he wouldn't, until his daughter was found.
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