Bearclaw Valley till so many decades had passed

outside den, aw

he lay in the warmth, soaking it in like a jaded black stone, and pretended he did not know he was so close to where the children played. merrick still refused to think of them as belonging to him, on stubborn principle he would never abandon. it had been her decision, and so let her live with it.
he flung his kills into the clearing and left more likely than not, though lately the bearwolf had been hanging about a bit more frequently, ears thrust in the direction of the little creatures who had finally come to resemble his kind.
he winced at the bright color of the girl; there were a handful of nights during which merrick had lain sleepless, thinking that dispatching her life might be worth the ghost she carried. but ultimately he had let go of the notion.
the boy had no such curse upon him; his hue kept him from the edge of his father's teeth, but it was the complete awe and submission with which he was regarded that had truly softened merrick.
presently he let his tongue loll, yawned, stretched upon the sunkissed earth.

it's that man again. he brings them unmoving things, and Astara eats them. lately, she's been sharing the meat with them as well, albeit in regurgitated form—a delightful contrast to the sweetness of milk. Avicus is being weaned, and she doesn't even know it.

one day, maybe, she will wake and mourn the loss of her mother's teat.

but she strays from it now, standing within the shadowed den entrance, staring at him. she is growing rapidly; her ears stand aloft, her legs have lengthened, and her pup-fuzz is sleeker now, gained a russet sheen. her eyes are still blue, though darker, and still as cold and impassive as the day they opened.

Avicus waits for him to make the first move. he has never shown much proclivity to spend time with her, and she's not had the ability to seek him out. now, however—with her growing independence—the chasm between them narrows.

eyes upon him, inscrutable and distant as those of her dam. merrick was looking into them now, having picked his muzzle up from the pleasant earth. enthralled, chilled, merrick stared toward the child in silence. she scrutinized him, and he saw all the thousand little ways she had grown from blind grub to something keen and wolfish.
the witch did not approach, nor did he move from his place; his single eye probed her stoic features for an endless moment before merrick lay himself back down again.
a casual gesture, but in his heart the sickening glut of knowledge, good and evil poached like poison from the side of an apple.

he is different from the other wolves she's seen in many ways, but the most striking distinction is the lack of one eye. everyone else has two. slowly, Avicus closes one of hers, in what would look to a casual observer as a comical wink. she is not joking, though, and she tilts her head in an obvious question:

why?

there must be something important about him. he wouldn't come around the den as often as he had if he meant nothing. he is not the familiar figure of her mother and brother, but she wants to know him—she needs to know him.

time ticked by, and only its passing would tell if merrick decided he wanted to know her also, this inquisitive munchkin who bore half his blood. she had startled him with the closing of one eye; he stared again at the child who wore the vivid autumn fur of indra and, at last, thumped his tail to invite her closer.
you will never be mine. the twisted hiss would have tumbled out of his mouth, but the boy clamped his jaws shut and cupped his tattered ears toward the pup. "stop staring unless you wanna fight," merrick mumbled instead. ha ha. a joke. maybe.

her head cocks even more. the words mean nothing. fide, she mimics the last of them as best as she can, intrigued by the bright, clipped sound of it. if she only knew it was, in a way, accepting his rough-and-tumble invitation.

then again. . .she did like to wrestle with Aventus and with her mother.

Avicus stepped forward, beginning to sniff at the corners of his mouth to see if he had any meat slurry for her. her stomach growled; the sensation was quite sudden and she was taken aback, unaware of how hungry she really is. her tongue slides across her dark lips, her growing teeth.

she presses her nose, presses, yearning for connection. yearning for meat.

brazen little flame, she approached, a garbled word on her lip. "fight," merrick correct, though it was ignored as the red girl drew closer and closer. rust-cream guard hairs prickled, briefly; she was now a wolf, and one he had not bothered to know, inching past his few feet of personal space.
she smelled of the blackbird's saliva, of rocks, of dirt, notes of milk still clinging sweetly to the edge of her jaw. merrick, forced to inhale, felt neurons peel themslves from dormancy.
the child, the small weight of her unbelievably trusting body pressed against the bearwolf,
her father
merrick felt his stomach contract in a primal reflexiveness, and in a moment he had retched live-skinned rabbit onto the earth between his paws. bittersweet, mangled; his hunger for flesh matched that of the scarlet daughter, and he withdrew into himself to consider what had happened, infused with a sudden and unnameable feeling.

fiiighTT, she whispers against the corner of his mouth, having been corrected, trying to mimic the sharp final syllable. she senses the instinctual retch and takes a step back as well, face brightening as the red-pink meat falls from his mouth. without wasting another second, she falls upon it.

she laps at the slurry, swallowing it greedily. one day, she will chew through muscle and sinew and marrow alike, but for now, this is choice cuisine. it is warm from the man's body and slides comfortingly down her throat.

Avicus finishes, licking away any remnants from her teeth and jaws. she stares at him gratefully, her stomach no longer rumbling. her eyes are once more drawn to the yawning void in his own skull.

the girl steps forward again, bringing her muzzle an inch away from the empty socket. the other eye moves. this hole does not.

dead? she asks, her meat-scented breath on his face.

the scent of blood on baby's breath churned something like nausea in merrick. pinprick dot in the center of his eye, slowly widening as the autumnfall of her pelt filled his vision
mama
piping voice threatening boyishly at the back of his throat
hunger of a deeper need seated in his marrow.
"dead," merrick managed to garble in response, unable to tear himself from the unconscious command of this small being. bones would snap between his jaws, beneath his foot; and yet the thought of such was fading, fading.
"blood," the coywolf whispered, lifting his chin as a slithering grin flickered to life upon his scarred lips. "blood."

one more word she doesn't know—but one more word, regardless, in her mouth. blood, she parrots dutifully, and pulls away. his repetition of 'dead' gives her the answer, whether true or not. that eye is dead and gone, unmoving. the other is not.

both of hers are not dead, she. . .thinks. she blinks slowly, solemnly, and then closes one and then the other in a strange sort of double wink. satisfied with the feeling, she opens both of them wide and stares at the man's scarred face.

he must be important if he keeps coming to visit.

Avicus leans forward and licks his cheek to keep his scent and taste in her mind, and then turns away, heading back toward the den. she looks over her shoulder, wondering if he'll follow—but she doesn't linger too long. back into the darkness she retreats, where she'll wearily watch him until slipping into slumber.

<3

last eye left to the boy watched as red-child pulled away, the look of tiredness clinging to her tiny form. for a long time he watched after where the pup had gone. he did not approach. he did not glance aside. until the inward burble urged him away, until whatever word influenced merrick suggested that he might leave, the coywolf stayed as he was.
merrick left the densite with the same odd feeling prickled beadwork and looming between his shoulder blades. 
the children belonged to the raven.
the raven belonged to him, and he to she.
did that not make them his possessions also?
but the thought was still bitter to merrick, still reeked of tadec's slow disappearance, and so he did not think upon it again for the remainder of the day.