Porcupine Ridge everything's a lie

Tag mostly for reference, but definitely welcome for Antigone! AW otherwise.

She quaked with a certain anger.

It felt as accepting to her as Arsenio and Tamar were—of how intricately they had made room for her in their family, they kept Reyson at arms length.

And with Antigone missing—having run off—her anger would drift to anxiety and worry. Had he even been outside of Epoch lands before? Where would he go?

The dusk settled over the lands—painting the snow in oranges and pinks—the promise of a beautiful day the next morning, and still, she felt the cold of the winter wind push at her from the ridge. Her side ached—she mended, but she would still need rest.

But rest be damned. Her muzzle titled up, she called for @Antigone—desperate for him to hear her—desperate for him to come home safe, where he belonged. If Arsenio found him—would he willingly follow the man home, if he was so angry?

She did not know—and as the pink of the sky melted to purple, she refused to move from her spot.

The call came from a familiar voice.

Antigone turned his red head to the origins of it. Too close to Epoch, he told himself. It was too close to the shame he had felt under the burning stare of his mother and father. It was too close for him to risk going back and being dragged into the vale. The boy didn’t want to think of the punishment that faced him. He didn’t want to see the look of disappointment and anger that had twisted his sweet mother’s face into…

The young wolf did not listen to the reason in his mind. He ran to her voice because his heart told him that he must.

Slowing as he drew nearer to where Meadow was, Antigone sniffed at the air to test for other scents. If the monster Reyson was in the vicinity, he feared that there would be no resolution without fangs. The young wolf felt the lick of familiar anger in his belly. He seethed at the thought of that man being anywhere near her.

Meadow… his voice cracked. Antigone kept himself concealed by the brush. His navy eyes were trained on her features. The aching of his heart tried to urge him forward. If only he could touch her. If only he could tell her that he would do better by her.

Vigilant, she stood. Unmoving—the time passed, and while she had believed it to be a useless endeavor, she knew she had to try. She couldn’t go far—but, for those she cared for, she knew she would do everything she could.

And so surprise flitted over her soft features at her name being whispered—her muzzle sweeping to the brush where two navy eyes peered at her. Antigone! Relief swept through her, and she felt the tears spring to her eyes because of it—and a laugh escape her, despite nothing about this situation holding any amusement. Emotions were a funny and raw thing.

“Antigone, you’re not a fugitive,” she murmured, lifting a paw to wipe at her cheek before she moved toward him, hoping he could be coaxed from hiding. “Everyone is desperate to make sure you’re okay and safe.” She tiptoed closer, her muzzle sweeping lower to the snowy ground—honeyed eyes seeking out the angst of a teenager—knowing her voice cracked with the emotion she felt.

His name on her tongue was like fire. The boy had never felt so warm, so fearful. He wanted to step from the shade of the brush and into her presence. He wanted to drink in the familiar scents of her pelt, the warmth of the herbs that had integrated with her very aroma. Antigone thought that this feeling might destroy him.

Meadow said that he was no fugitive, that they were worried for his safety. This only made him feel like a child. The boy was desperate for her to see him as anything else.

A single step drew him out of the brush and into the open. His eyes were wary upon the shadows behind her. The honey-warmth of her stare was fixed on him, cracking at the walls that he had hastily built in his retreat from the vale.

Meadow let’s leave, he said to her in a quiet voice. Let’s go somewhere else, somewhere new. Away from all of them. In just a few months he would be an adult and he could prove himself to her. They were not bound by Epoch! Antigone knew that if she allowed him to love her, he would show her nothing but care.

He took a step forward—the brush falling away from his pelt and allowing her a chance for her eyes to skim over him, ensuring he hadn’t come to harm during his time away. At the heart of the matter, the silver Heiros knew it wouldn’t be the worst idea that he did do a bit of traveling outside Epoch borders—met others from other packs—mingled with youthful females from other packs. In the walls of his home, it was her and Towhee that remained unrelated to him—of course he gravitated toward her in this stage of his life.

He said they could run away together—and she found a sad smile touching her lips. “We don’t leave our friends and family behind, Antigone,” she whispered, taking a tentative step to him. She found herself at a loss on how to console him in this moment—she had never fought with family before… and he was perhaps too young to realize just what a privilege it was to take such a loving thing for granted. “We stay, and we try to keep our promises and we try to mend when we have wronged… Just as I have been trying to do since my run in with the cat.” She paused, her muzzle tipping up, eyes studying him thoughtfully. “When I’m better, and the thaw comes, maybe you and I can take a few trips to some of the nearby packs. See what their local healers have to say… Explore a bit.” And, of course, the unspoken: it would give him the chance to experience meeting others his age.

You didn’t do anything wrong, he insisted. Antigone hated how childish he sounded. He did not want this to be the last time he saw Meadow. The young wolf thought of his promise to Sorcha. 

And just as he did, Meadow reminded him that they must keep the promises they had made. 

Three days. 

Antigone would need to see his mother. He would need to tell his sisters that he loved them, or he believed that he did. The boy was not certain that he understood love at all. It didn’t feel right that his feelings for Meadow would also make him furious. That couldn’t be what love was. 

Do you love him, Meadow? 

The boy’s eyes were dark with sadness. He felt he knew the answer. This was all he needed to validate his choice. This was the break that would return him to Sorcha and the heartwood.

He spoke nothing of her suggestion—instead, the question was simple at the very basis of the knowledge—but somehow, her breath hitched, Reyson’s suspicions swimming to the forefront of her mind as she considered this the edge of a precipice.

But she couldn’t lie—it would only hurt everyone further.

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling her heart flutter in sadness at the possibility of how this would make the youth feel—one who she had spent countless hours with over the weeks, teaching. Befriending.

“…If you give him a chance, I think you would learn to like him, too,” she offered, a paw lifting in a pre-determined manner in which to keep him from fleeing—hoping.

Yes.

Ice replaced the burning anger. Like frost creeping in to announce the first snow of the season, he could feel the chill in his blood, in his bones. The light from his eyes faded. Antigone’s expression fell dead and flat.

Life was unbearably cruel.

Meadow seemed to think that her insisting would aid him, that she might convince him to open his heart to Reyson with words of encouragement. She reached for him and the boy felt his stomach churn. She was tainted, now. The single-word confirmation of her feelings for that disgusting thing was enough to sever their carefully crafted ties.

Antigone did not need Meadow. He did not need Epoch. Knowing that she loved him meant that there would be a future with their children in his home. Bile burned at his throat. He had to swallow thickly to keep himself from retching at her feet.

I hope he dies, the boy stated.

And that was all he had to say. Antigone turned, one last glance from his deep blue gaze fixed on the healer woman.

I would have loved you the way you deserved.

Hurting and feeling small, Antigone began to pad back to the vale where he would tell his mother goodbye.

I hope he dies.

She stared after him. The burning resentment in his eyes as he looked at her, now—the way he spoke of Reyson. The words were more vicious in nature than the cat that had attacked her—colder. The blood would drain from her face--her entire frame chilling to the bone.

She was bewildered—struck completely in place, unable to move as he swept past her and to the direction of the vale. Something within her numbed—the sweep of cold, bitter wind brushing her fur, and still she did not feel that. The growing pressure of a headache prickling between her eyes—the tension begging for release in the form of tears, but they wouldn't come.

The smallest of victories was that the boy headed home to his family, and casting a look over her shoulder, as the clouds roiled above, she moved forward—away from Epoch.