Neverwinter Forest there was a thousand storms in his eyes

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Ondine kept growing round as the weeks wound on and though Kjalarr's time around Lusca had been short his mental math, rough though it was, put him a week, perhaps two, until she gave birth. Gods, he wasn't ready. It had been a pressing weight upon his mind and it would continue to be so. Little did he realize that his fear and worry for his children would never ebb. They would come into the world (too soon) and his fear of how wrong he could raise them wouldn't stop it. He didn't know the first thing about raising kids. He didn't know the first thing about being a father. Yet...did anyone? Had Scimitar? Had Ragnar? Though the thoughts of his unborn children within his mate's womb consumed much of his thoughts so did his still grieving family and his responsibilities and duties as Alpha male. The latter were the easiest and Kjalarr worked through his mourning process when he threw himself into work and duty. So, to calm his raging thoughts he patrolled and he hunted for Ondine and the caches, and he tended to his leadership duties. When he was busy he wasn't thinking about other things and it was a welcomed relief most days.

Kjalarr had been forthcoming with his concerns to Ondine and though she had attempted to assuage him the viking was skeptical of anyone's council regarding his ability of being a father. He supposed, at the end of the day, that he would figure it out. Or he wouldn't. But he had no choice but to try because they were his children and though they scared him (ha) he ...loved them. It was a bizarre thing: to love something that he couldn't even see yet. Yet...yet he did. He felt a love for the babes within Ondine's womb though he did not yet know them. A fierce protectiveness and Kjalarr knew he would have to allow that to drive him. Perhaps some of this unchecked and unbidden protectiveness for his children had spilled onto his little brother. It was tricky and Kjalarr knew he would have to be careful with his affection and protectiveness over @Cypress so that it did not seem like he was attempting to be a father figure (because he was not).

It was his young brother Kjalarr sought now, not quite sure where to search for the young and grieving Frostfur. Thus, he sort of wandered aimlessly around Neverwinter Forest, not wishing to summon the boy from anything he might have been doing because this wasn't formal and Kjalarr only sought to check in on him, see how he was holding up.

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NOTE: In Cypress’ personal timeline, this takes place directly after this thread.

Tagging for reference!

Cypress would never remember how he’d made it back to Neverwinter Forest.

The emotional turmoil he’d experienced within the last few hours was literally crushing — gangly legs crumpled as he crossed through the familiar evergreen boughs, and heedless of the canopy of stars and the brilliant moon, Cypress gasped raggedly and shattered the slumbering silence with a cry of raw desperation:

“@Allure! @Shrike! @Kjalarr!”

Early this morning, like every other morning, Cypress had awoken with the belief that his parents, littermate, and best friend were dead — but he knew now. Rannoch was alive — he just didn’t want to stick around. Someday, perhaps, Cypress would come to understand his brother’s reasoning; after all, he didn’t want to live in his parents’ sepulcher anymore than Rannoch did. Right now, though, the orphaned raven was overwhelmed and overwrought — and the indignation at being left behind again engulfed any compassion or empathy he was capable of. Between engaging in earnest physical combat, learning that his brother was miraculously alive, and relinquishing his grip on his emotions for the first time since his parents’ death — only to have everything ripped away from him again — Cypress was very near the edge of true madness.

Blood pooled in his mouth from the wound that bisected the leftmost corner of his muzzle like a half-etched jagged Glasgow grin; he spat it away, feeling sick, but tongued at the torn flesh reflexively as he lay panting. Aside from that wound and a few small cuts that littered his gums and the bridge of his muzzle, he was basically unharmed. Tears dampened his velveteen cheeks, but Cypress had cried himself out long ago — his eyes were dry. The sudden feeling that the world was closing in on him, some growing sense of claustrophobia, shoved the boy to his feet as he charged through the forest proper looking for one of the wolves who still had the power to bind his whirring wings and keep him safe. He knew immediately that it was Kjalarr he wanted — he didn’t know what to do about Rannoch. Loyalty toward his littermate and toward their worried sister warred within his breast: should he tell Allure the truth, or lie on the deserter’s behalf? It would be unfair to involve Shrike, but Kjalarr, like Cypress, was a brother and not a friend. For reasons the boy couldn’t fully define, he knew the berserker was the safest choice to go to for this particular piece of advice.

“Kjalarr!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “Please!”

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Cypress’ raw and desperate call stopped Kjalarr’s blood cold and his steps faltered to a cease, his head snapping around in wild search for his younger brother, his hackles bristling with unease as his weight shifted with the urge to actively seek out his brother whom he assumed to be in danger. So long as he drew breath he swore that none would hurt Cypress, turning his eyes to the grey sky for a moment uttering a wordless prayer to Odinn before his gaze snapped back to the ground as the dark Frostfur barged through the trees. Immediately, the poignant scent of blood hit Kjalarr like a wall and his lip curled back over his teeth as he searched wildly behind Cypress for any sign of pursuit and when he saw none he turned icy Caribbean gaze to his brother, noting the wound across his mouth in a partial Glasgow grin.

“Cypress!” The boy’s name as it tore itself from the viking’s lips was slightly breathless, raw with unbidden worry as the northman’s legs carried him towards the night dappled boy. “What has happened? Who did that to you?” The viking demanded fussing over him, wishing that he’d had his mother’s talent for healing. Alas, Kjalarr was not crafted for saving lives: only for ending them. He was a Berserker under the rule of Odin and Thor, and though he knew the wealth in Freyja and Frigga’s healing knowledge their talents evaded him.

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“Rannoch,” Cypress whispered hoarsely, dragging in huge gulps of air that left him lightheaded and reeling. “I thought he was dead — I thought I was dreaming — ” the raven stammered out, infinitely grateful for the berserker’s solid, stalwart presence. He latched onto his brother’s reassuring nearness with fierce desperation, tortured yellow eyes grasping in a stricken, glassy way for Caribbean blue. “I thought I was dreaming so I tried to kill him — because he was supposed to be dead — but it was really Rannoch.” The logic was faulty and disjointed, but Cypress could hardly be blamed for it. He tacked on hastily, “I’m not hurt,” despite the blood that wept freely from the corner of his mouth, and pushed through to what he felt was really important: “I told Rannoch about Mama and Paw and he said he had to get out of the valley — and I thought he — and then he said to tell everyone he was dead — but I — and he said I could come with him, and I wanted to — it hurts to be here, it hurts to be anywhere — but I told him, I said, ‘Please don’t go away, Noch,’ — but — he just — and — ”

Feeling utterly defeated and empty, his eyes and stomach having expelled all they were capable of, Cypress huddled miserably on the ground at Kjalarr’s feet. “I told him he was a coward and I told him that I would die, too — and that it would be his fault,” he whispered brokenly. “Why’d I say that?” Wild yellow eyes panned upward, past Kjalarr’s face, toward the stars and the moon. It was the first time Cypress felt like the elements themselves were condemning him for his actions, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he tucked his tail firmly up against his abdomen. For now, the storm had quieted, leaving only despondency in its wake. “What’ll I tell Allure?” mumbled the boy. “I can’t lie to her, but Rannoch — he asked me to keep his secret. We always kept each other’s secrets. Kjalarr, what do I do?”

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“Rannoch?” Kjalarr repeated, unable to help the incredulity that colored the sharp intake of breath though he did not doubt Cypress’ words as true. The explanation that soon followed, broken as Cypress hurried to get it out and cut himself off through out, painting a rough and incomplete picture for Kjalarr whom almost asked his younger brother to slow down, to start and the beginning and not to leave things out but Kjalarr did not, struggling to make sense of it through what little Cypress told him. Curiosity was not a thing easily stifled from Kjalarr who deigned to know it in full now that Cypress had left a feeble crumb trail for him to follow. Despite this, the dots did not all connect and a pressing question spilled from betwixt Kjalarr’s lips: “Why did he want you to tell everyone he’s dead?” No matter how he tried Kjalarr could not make sense of it and he looked to Cypress severely, expression grim, unable to help but wonder if the dark Frostfur would tell him.

Kjalarr’s ears smoothed back against the crown of his skull as Cypress spoke and let an inquiry hang between them. “When we are angry, when we are hurt we say things we don’t mean to say,” Kjalarr spoke from experience. Of destroying all ties to his family the viking was something of an unintentional expert. “We shouldn’t let our anger and grief rule us. They are good servants but horrible masters. When we say things without thought…they are words we can never take back.” From that point there was only going forth, but he felt he needed to address something else, here. “Cypress, your worth is not tied to Rannoch,” Kjalarr told him gently, not wanting Cypress to use Rannoch as a crutch when his brother was no longer around to lean on. “This may not be what you want to hear but you are you’re own man. Do not think that you linger in his shadow, and that without him you will die. You will find your own way.” If Kjalarr could do it then so, too, could Cypress.

“The right thing to do would be to tell Allure the truth even if it means betraying Rannoch. He should have never asked you to lie for him,” Kjalarr’s salmon pink tongue drew across his jowls. “Do not make the same mistakes that I have made, Cypress. If you were to lie to Allure and she found out it would cause a rift between you. Sometimes those rifts cannot be repaired and you have to live with that. You have to carry that.” Living as Kjalarr did, disconnected from most of his biological family was a heavy burden to bear and it was a desolate, lonely path to walk in life. Kjalarr didn’t want that for Cypress. "If Rannoch ever returns he must face the consequences on his own and you should not shoulder the blame for him."

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Tagging for knowledge purposes, Rachel! ♥

The orphaned prince listened raptly as Kjalarr attempted to talk some sense into him. Having bled out the initial wildness and desperation of his panic, Cypress went back and tried to smooth his story into clear, understandable lines. “It was Rannoch,” he insisted quietly. Kjalarr had spoken out of incredulity and not skepticism, but Cypress went back and started over for his own benefit as much as his brother’s. Rannoch was alive. “I went to find my parents. I don’t know why,” the boy said in a low murmur. “I saw him from far away and I thought I was dreaming, but he knew my name. He asked if it was me — he said, ‘Cypress, is that you?’ — and I kind of went crazy. I wanted to — I wanted to kill him.” He shook his head, utterly at odds with his own psyche. “He beat me like he always used to and I told him about Mama and — and Paw — ” his voice cracked painfully “ — and he told me he’d been kidnapped and hadn’t seen Lucy for a really long time. He said it was his fault that everyone was dead.”

The withered eidolon drew a long, shuddering sigh. “I don’t know why he wanted me to tell everyone he was dead,” he said honestly, “but probably because then everyone would stop looking for him and nobody else would get hurt. He said he couldn’t face them. He said he couldn’t hurt anybody anymore — and I — I told him he already did.” Shame colored his tone and remained within the defeated set of his shoulders where he lay motionless and cowed upon the frigid earth. “You’re not angry, are you?” he asked of the berserker. “Not at me — and not at Rannoch?” The upward inflection was hopeful. Cypress, for all his anger and hurt and confusion, didn’t want any repercussions heaped upon his brother’s head if the grayscale Frostfur should ever return to the evergreens. “If you have to be mad at someone, it should be me,” he informed his Caribbean-eyed brother, “because I’m the oldest and I have to look out for him.” His voice hitched painfully, jerking unevenly so that his thin sides fluttered wildly for a moment. It was an odd sensation — he felt like he was going to cry, but he had no tears left.

The tight ache in Cypress’ chest did not ease, even when he straightened into a sitting position. “October’s gone,” he remarked quietly, “and Kendra. Kjalarr, when you decided to be — well, you — instead of Jorunn, did you feel stronger?” Jorunn was an unknown quantity to Cypress, who had always known Kjalarr by his current moniker. He accepted his fate simply, revealing the generally agreeable nature that still lurked beneath the dark veneer fashioned of his grief and rage: “I’ll tell @Allure the truth, then. How come you know so much, Kjalarr? Sometimes I feel like I’ll never know enough.”

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The calm explanation came and Kjalarr was silent, contemplative as Cypress filled in the blanks his rapid speech had left in it’s wake the first time. “It’s not his fault that they are dead, it’s not anyone’s fault.” Kjalarr stressed to Cypress, breaking his silence to interrupt his younger brother. He understood the weight of that guilt, he felt it every day with Whittier and Caiaphas and his drew his tongue against the inside of his teeth as he contemplated his own advice knowing that it would never be true unless he, too, took it. “We can not blame ourselves for the dead. Once you do you find ways to blame yourself for every death and it is a terrible burden to carry even if you had nothing to do with it.” He had not drowned Whittier or Caiaphas and without the comfortableness to believe they went to Valhalla as he did with Ragnar their deaths felt unresolved to Kjalarr. “You were not wrong. He hurt you and by asking you to lie he would hurt Allure and aunt Kaskara.” On Cypress’ words to Rannoch in regards to not wanting to hurt anyone else Kjalarr would not disagree. It was the truth even if it hurt Rannoch in return. The truth rarely felt good, but he had come to believe that the truth would eventually be respected when the sting of it vanished.

“I am not mad at you Cypress, and it is not my place to be angry at Rannoch.” He disagreed with the young boy’s choices but it was not his place. He made his decision and the consequences would be his to deal with whether Kjalarr ever had a hand in them or not. That was simply the way of the world. “You have to look out for yourself first and foremost Cypress. Despite how it was when you are younger you are not responsible for Rannoch or his actions. You’ll learn that in time.” Yet, Kjalarr understood. He had once sought to look out for Floki — still did to a lesser extent. The protectiveness he felt over his twin would never cease, he knew.

Cypress’ question drew Kjalarr’s ears forward, his marred muzzle lifting towards the grey sky for a moment as he drew in a chilled breath and let it out slowly. It was a heavy question and not one he had ever considered. Had he became stronger? He had felt the young boy he’d been as Jorunn was long dead, snuffed out the day the bear had tried to take his life and the sea almost succeeded. Kjalarr had done what he did best: he adapted. He grew and he changed and he accepted his father’s culture and Gods even if he remained untrained. “I had a dream, of a legend that looks like me without my markings, with scars upon his muzzle — like mine — the left side of his face and his throat mangled and marred and a missing eye. He spoke ‘Kjalarr’ to me in his guttural tongue. This continued for several nights. From that moment I became Kjalarr. Whether I feel stronger or not is…subjective, I guess. I simply know that I am no longer Jorunn and all that my biological family expects him to be. Jorunn died a long time ago even though I did not.” Whether he offered Cypress any insight or cleared anything up for his younger brother was unknown, but Kjalarr spoke the truth of his name.

“I don’t know everything Cypress. I only know what I have learned from my own mistakes, from my failures and my successes. You will learn plenty in your life, but we never know everything. Never have all the answers. You will always make mistakes but you learn from them and try to be better. That’s all you can do.” Kjalarr offered his brother with a gentle nudge to his cheek, attempting to comfort and silently communicate that he was there and he wasn’t going anywhere.

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Getting tired; time for my post quality to tank!

For a long moment, Cypress was utterly silent, digesting all that Kjalarr had told him. He was dimly grateful for the berserker’s reassurance, and his tail wriggled feebly upon the earth at the gentle nudge to his cheek. “I guess you’re right,” he said finally, drawing a deep breath that still quivered at the edges. He blew it out in a sigh too heavy for his young shoulders. “I’ll try to remember,” he offered, though he couldn’t make any concrete promises regarding Rannoch. There was too much history between the boys for Cypress to easily accept that he was not responsible for the turquoise-eyed wayfarer. “Kjalarr,” he said hesitantly, his tall ears slicking back against his skull with a timorous air, “I’m still Cypress — I’m always going to be, probably — but we’re family now, and — I mean, you and me, we’re brothers — so will you give me a name like yours?” He peered hopefully up at the Caribbean-eyed alpha, utterly comfortable with their relationship. Kjalarr was old enough that he was in no position to replace Rannoch, but he had made a concerted effort not to replace Scimitar either. “It’s just,” he said, his voice husky with emotion, “I feel so lonely. I don’t want to make Allure sadder, and Shrike isn’t my family like you are, and I don’t want to — I don’t want to be around my cousins, or Aunt Kaskara. Do you think my Uncle Kieran is — is dead? Like Mama and Paw?” He shook his head, dismissing the thought, and soldiered on. “I don’t understand what the language is that your name is made of but — but if there’s room for me…” He didn’t really know what he was trying to say. Something about Kjalarr’s pregnant mate made Cypress uneasy, but he was too shell-shocked to really articulate it. “I mean — having you around makes me feel less like I’m all alone,” he said in a very small voice. “So I wanted a name like yours, so everyone would know we were brothers. If that’s okay.” Nervously he licked his lips.

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Kjalarr’s ears cupped forth, attentive when Cypress spoke about them being family, that they were brothers and then asked for a Viking name. “I don’t know, I didn’t know Kieran well enough to be able to say.” The what little Kjalarr could recall of the man from his childhood memories was that he appeared to be a capable fighter but so had Ragnar and his father had fallen like all men do. Even his Gods were not invincible. Even Gods could bleed and die. Kjalarr did not want Cypress to assume Kieran, too, was dead but he didn’t want to give any sort of false hope, either. The world was too harsh and unforgiving to run around thinking that everyone that was gone was still alive out there. Perhaps he was and perhaps he wasn’t. It was likely that they would never know. “You’ll never be alone Cypress, I promise.” He would not leave Cypress to face the cruelties of the world alone. Already so many had left Cypress, either by will or against it but they left all the same. Kjalarr did not deign to follow (he’d never been a very good follower anyway).

Despite the severity of their conversation Kjalarr managed a genuine smile for his younger brother. “The language is called Norse. It is the native tongue of my father, Ragnar.” Kjalarr explained giving pause to draw his tongue against his jowls, his tail swaying gently against his hocks. “I know some of the language, as much as I could learn at any rate.” Before he had left Moonspear and Thistle had left the Wilds all together having never met him at the Bay where he had asked her too. He supposed his mother’s failure to arrive was a pretty big statement on where she stood with him. “From this day on I will call you Torgeir. It means Spear of Thor. Thor is the god of thunder, commander of storms; whose mighty anvil Mjolnir strikes in his forge the sound is thunder and the sparks each strike creates are lightning. He is strong and brave: just like you.” Kjalarr named Cypress feeling a warmth blossom in his chest for the lost boy, a deep rooted affection.

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[speeds up Cypress’ grieving process slightly]

“You’ll never be alone, Cypress, I promise.”

Cypress offered his brother a lopsided grin. The ruined left corner of his mouth, tipped perpetually downward, seemed a mordant parody of the right — and perhaps this was a reflection of the growing duality in the young wolf, who both appreciated the sentiment and disbelieved it. He said nothing, but a telltale flicker of doubt snuffed out the light in his eerie yellow eyes; for all that he trusted Kjalarr, there was a burgeoning certainty in the hollow raven that he would always end up alone. That things were somehow meant to be this way. It made him keenly aware of one truth: keep what you have while you have it.

“Torgeir,” Cypress repeated reverently. He was a natural linguist and found that the foreign syllables rolled easily off his unpracticed tongue. “Will you teach me what you know?” he breathed, latching onto the novelty of the wild, gods-touched North with the desperation of a drowning man and the eager alacrity of his vanquished youth. He was still distraught about the loved ones he’d lost, but for the first time since his parents’ deaths, he allowed himself to be distracted. Surrendering wholly to his grief and fury had been exhausting — and terrifying — but he had limped through the eleventh hour to stand at this precipice:

Leap now, or languish!

Torgeir leapt. Cypress leapt. His renaming was not like Kjalarr’s; it was never meant to replace an identity that no longer fit. He became Torgeir to save what could be saved and to excise the necrotic tissue of his perceived failures. “I’m not brave,” he admitted, but he rose proudly anyway, butting the bridge of his blood-encrusted muzzle against the underside of Kjalarr’s chin in affectionate acceptance and homage. In a short time, Kjalarr had become mentor, alpha, and confidant — and the boy felt no shame as he commented, “Spear of Thor — that’s like me,” in reflection. “My paw was like Thor, and Noch was just like him — and you’re like them — but I’m not. I’m different.” It wasn’t that Cypress lacked leadership qualities; he simply didn’t have the same ambition. He was the wingman, the weapon, the infantryman.

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“I will teach you.” Kjalarr agreed with a sage nod to his younger brother. “There is much I do not know, I am not practiced in all the traditions but we can learn together.” Kjalarr admitted and suggested, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls as he offered Cypress a slightly crooked, partially sheepish grin. As far as he’d been made aware of: there was no right or wrong way to worship the wild Gods of his faith only that occasionally they desired sacrifices and that there were certain rituals to be preformed. So far, he’d done none of these things and perhaps that was the issue. How could he demand their favor when he’d done nothing to earn it? To deserve it?

“Let’s agree to disagree.” Kjalarr offered when his brother protested that he wasn’t brave, offering his younger brother a nudge as he felt Cypress butt his head to the underside of his chin. “No,” Now it was Kjalarr’s turn to protest as Cypress spoke that he was like Scimitar. He wasn’t anything like his adoptive father, not really, and to pretend to be was nothing short of an insult to his memory. “I am like myself. And there’s nothing wrong with being like yourself.” Perhaps Kjalarr was like Ragnar and perhaps he wasn’t but he’d spent so much time obsessing over it when he was younger that now: now he finally understood. You couldn’t walk around comparing yourself to others or trying to be like someone else because you’d always fail. “If you try to be like others you only set yourself up for failure and disappointment. You just be the best you that you can be.” The scarred northman reiterated his thoughts aloud to Cypress.

“Maybe I should take you to Ondine for her to look at that wound.” Kjalarr mused as he studied his brother’s visage with a worried frown. “As a matter of fact I would feel a whole lot better if we did, so c’mon.” Kjalarr issued the soft command to let Cypress know he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer.

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Cypress tongued the torn flesh at the leftmost corner of his lips, but he couldn’t feel it — and whether that was due to cold or the early onset of infection, he couldn’t say. What he came to realize was that it didn’t seem to be responding as it normally did — when he’d grinned, for example. He tried a second time, but as the right corners of his lips quirked roguishly upward, the left side remained exactly where it was. It didn’t seem to affect his speech, and when he yawned it didn’t hurt, so he paid little mind to it. “Okay,” he said, acquiescent, following his brother deeper into the forest’s bitter heart.