Firefly Glen [PHE] sofon

tags for ref or joining! <3

in the presence of more food, more faces than she had seen in a long while, and more fixation on her sense of self, skaigona's health understandably refused to move further.
swiftcurrent camp was almost unavoidable, placed in the middle of all the others. as soon as she knew its location, the huntress kept herself away.
expecting that @Ezra might keep close, skaigona sought the seclusion of the unclaimed redtail camp, gratefully dipping down among bouquets of pink lilac and tea-rose for a much-needed rest.
but the next morning found her ill in all ways, exhausting her depleted form. skaigona did not seek the healers; there were enough of them to discover her small hollow if it was necessary.
when she was not there, she was seeking the deeper places among the hunting-wood, alight with curses for the timing of her body's weakness. meat. rest. time. all were here. then they would move. just some days more, as few as she could manage.
lightly nauseated, skaigona dozed in a thin tangle of oak trees.

his wounds from the wolverine have begun to scab and heal ... and thus have begun to itch. it takes all of ezra's willpower not to scratch at them; but not wanting to ignite an infection causes him to grit his teeth and ignore the instinct.

easier to do as he notes his mother's declining condition.

it causes worry to crease his brow as he lingers near her where she decided they were to camp.

wearily, he watches the others ... and with baited breath he keeps looking for @Anselm among them.

you said aunt druid vas sick, ezra hates to broach the subject; hates even thinking of the idea. willing to let himself blindly think that she is travel weary and hungry and that is why she has fallen ill. is ... is it possible that she passed it to you? golden eyes beg her to tell him that it was impossible and she was simply hungry and ran down and to stop worrying.

assuming he would have told her about the wolverine; lmk if not <3

no! baby, no, never — that could never happe —
"yes." her voice was hoarse; in this moment it was the effect of emotion as she reached for her boy. "i don't think so. but there's a chance, i won't lie. i just —" and here she held back the breakers of briny grief behind the dam of her closed eyelids, "— it's been a lot, ezra. you know. i think i'm just so tired i'm sick. it happens like that sometimes."
her eyes sharpened on his wounded face. "have you cleaned those?" they'd scar.
skaigona took a breath. another slight against her parenting; another assurance that the decision she had made for ezra was the correct one. 
torn between telling him now or waiting until anselm hopefully arrived, she held onto the latter and kissed his face. "i'll need you to hunt while we're here. you remember how i showed you with the birds?"

yes. there was a chance.

ezra's breath stutters in his throat, lungs feel like they're freezing. he takes a quick, shallow breath, golden eyes burning into his mother's face. she didn't think druid passed her the sickness but there was always a possibility. ok, ezra finally forces a word out. two syllables. but he doesn't exactly feel reassured. he supposes there was no way to know until they knew.

but he holds onto the hope that she is right: she is just run down.

he feels exhaustion in his bones, a new sort of deep tired that he'd never felt before himself. but he's so driven by his determination that he willingly ignores it.

i washed them out, he murmurs almost guiltily, avoiding her gaze then as the attention shifts to the wolverine's claw marks rent upon his flesh. but he hadn't sought any sort of healer ... despite that there were likely many in the neighboring camps. still, they hadn't been invited to this hunting party and there was something that felt clandestine about being here, about lingering in the unclaimed camp as if they belonged. the worst part was, ezra didn't exactly hate the feeling that it brought with it.

his gaze lifts as she kisses his cheek.

i remember, he also remembers showing nutu how to hunt birds ( though he was far from an expert ). you probably need more than measly birds ... i could ...take from the nearby camps. not a lot. just enough that they wouldn't miss it. he's inspired by that feeling; that sort of rebellion of breaking rules, of doing something he isn't supposed to. part of him feels guilty at the suggestion: he didn't earn that meat ... but the other part vehemently argued that stealing it would be for a good cause. would help his mother regain her strength.

he washed them. like washing the feet of someone who needs more than you, she thought, a snippet of scripture avoided by skaigona until now. until now, when it felt like some piece of heda was bleeding through.
unaware of his consideration, that they were crouched among an organized cell that might not invite their grit, skaigona reached to cup his face and then let her arm drift down again, strangely fatigued by the effort. "no, baby. we won't steal. there's enough here to share, we just have to ask."
which meant ezra had to ask, had to make the questions and reveal them to those camped around them.
but she was too tired, too tired to think more than this; her paw snaked again through the grass to find his own, to hold her son for a moment.
"it'll be really good to see gideon again," she murmured, trying to encourage him. them both, really. "go and find something to eat. i'll sleep. we'll talk again. i just need — some rest," and at last she sighed, truly drifting as her body succumbed to the horrendous days which might at last end in hope.

i washed them probably wasn't the answer his mother had been looking for ... but it was the truth. still, he did not feel inclined to share whether he washed them in a murky mud puddle or a spring creek and thankfully, she didn't ask.

just ask; is the words she uses as she touches his face before her touch falls away. just asking didn't sound half as fun as stealing, if ezra was being honest. it wasn't right ... and for one that idolized justice as much as he subconsciously did, it went against the pillar that had always stood holy within his heart.

but justice, he'd argue wasn't always so black and white. good or bad. it was justice. a sip of wine from the holy grail, a healing shroud or an executioners sword.

ok. he doesn't push her, seeing the exhaustion in the soft lines of her face that he selfishly hadn't noticed before. so singular in his search for his father and brother he'd missed the earlier signs that her energy was waning. guilt gnaws at him now like a starving stray; biting past flesh and ribcage straight to his heart.

i'll be back with food soon. he promises, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.