Blacktail Deer Plateau iii. time flies

Third and final installment of this dream-oriented character arc!

"There are two wolves inside every man," says Dad, his voice rumbling against the back of Grayday's neck. He is a boy again, all elbows and knees and long, gangly legs - and he still fits across his father's forelegs. Any other time, he would be listening in wide-eyed attention to his father's words, soaking up his wisdom like a sponge; but it is late, it's been a long night, and Dad isn't talking to him.

"I don't need to hear this again," says Mur, and out of the corner of his eyes, Grayday can see Mur turn his head away in agitation. Used to be that, when Mur was around, they'd play and have fun - but not this time. This time, there's something cold and sad and almost frightening in his countenance, and Grayday hadn't gone near him at all. But Dad is here, and even if Grayday believes that Mur would never hurt him, he knows he wouldn't be there if Dad wasn't, too.

Grayday blinks sleepily between the two, his eyes sliding over the stars and then back to Mur's face. Dad is saying, as if Mur hadn't interupted, "One is light, one is darkness. One is humble, one is proud. One gives, one takes. Two wolves, Mur."

Mur has an ugly look on his face - so like Dad's, but younger and sharper. Grayday wonders if he looks as much like Dad. If he, like his brother, is a smaller, cheaper version of the king that guards his back. "I don't need your damn proverbs right now," says Mur, a certain viciousness to his tone despite the softness of his voice. "I need your help - if I knew you were gonna beat me over the head with your almighty limmericks, I'd've stayed and dealt with things myself."

He gets the feeling they think he's asleep. He might as well be, for all he takes from the conversation. Grayday doesn't know why his brother is upset, or what wolves his father is talking about - he just knows the deep shame of hearing Mur speak so insolently to Dad - and getting away with it, too.

"These wolves, they fight in your chest," says Dad. "All day and night, every second of your life. They grow with you."

"Dad, please."

"Do you know which one wins?"

Mur lays his head on his paws, and Grayday squeezes his eyes shut as their faces are suddenly right next to each other. "Don't, Da."

Dad leans over to murmur something into Mur's cheek. Grayday finds his face squished against his brother's, and he squirms away as discreetly as he can. Soon enough, though, Dad leans back once more, and Grayday is able to settle back down between his forelegs.

"The one you feed."

Mur doesn't say anything, this time. Grayday peeks out of one eye and catches sight of the sparkle on his brother's cheek. A moment later, a shuddering breath pricks his ears, and he realizes - Mur is crying! Grayday has never seen a man cry before. The spectacle intrigues him, but the two adults are quiet long enough for him to drift back into his sleepy stupor. Eventually, when they speak again, he only catches tiny snippets.

" - all dead, Da, and you can't - "

" - might feel like forever, but you gotta hold on .... can't stop living just 'cause - "

"You don't understand!"

" - is a choice. Every hour, every minute. And you can wallow in it, Murry, or you can take a deep breath, get back up, and live another day. There'll be days where you might have to force yourself, but I promise you - I promise - there'll be happy days again."

Grayday stirs as Mur stands. It's almost sunrise, and Mur is a black shadow against the grey light of dawn.

"What if I don't want to be happy?"

"Then I suppose you'll know which one to feed."

---

Grayday let out a weary sigh as he awoke that night, and for a moment, he simply laid there, contemplating the vivid dream. His dreams were usually far more disjointed, but this one had been almost word-for-word out of the past. He cast a brief thought after Murdock, who had not visited again before Grayday left the pack, but wondered mostly after his father, and the parable he'd not understood as a boy.

Sleep did not come easy that night. She didn't know if it was the ache in her chest or the throbbing in her paw, or something simply was not sitting right with her at that moment. She rose as silently as she could, hobbling towards where she thought the form of her father ought to lay, quiet as to avoid an encounter with Pema ("You know you should be resting") or waking anyone else. She hardly disliked the girl, rather, she was growing fond of the wheat-coloured female, but she didn't want to feel the guilt that came with her warnings. 

She approached carefully, lest he be sleeping, but to her satisfaction he was awake. His sigh and breath gave that away, and she plopped onto the earth beside him, chuffing softly and peering at him curiously.

His head turned automatically toward the sounds of wakefulness, though he knew instinctively that it was Dawn this time, and not his regular nighttime pal. When she settled beside him, his eyes were warm but far-away.

"Hey, baby," he murmured, nosing at her cheek. "Are you hurtin' too badly?"

His heart ached for his poor, injured girl, but he knew that Dawn would get through it just fine. She was tough, and Pema seemed to be taking good care of her. Grayday wondered if they were becoming friends, or if Dawn's... abrasive nature had nipped that in the bud. He hoped it was the former - he hoped she'd get on alright with Moonstone, too.

"I'm okay. Pema's helped." came her quiet response, and then, a moment later, faced with one of the few packmates she would truly confide in, she said, "No, I'm not. I'm useless, Da - I can't hunt, I can't scout. I know it's temporary...but I hate being the one people have to care for." Her voice increased in volume in the slightest, and she was quick to fall silent again, soft sigh leaving her muzzle. Even the simplest tasks required effort, and her pride didn't help with her attitude towards the whole thing. She had tried to fill her time with learning; perhaps she could add an extra skill to her repertoire, but even the lessons she requested from Pema didn't help all too much.

Grayday held in a chuckle, knowing that his daughter probably wouldn't appreciate the humor of the situation, but couldn't help the slightly teasing words that followed. Well, aside from how it's hurting you, I kind of like how close to home it keeps you, he said quietly, giving her cheek a perfunctory lick. Makes me feel like your dad again.

Still, he felt her frustration rather acutely - not too long ago, he'd been in the exact same position. I didn't like it either, he told her seriously. But that's what packs are for, babe. You spend all your time caring for these wolves so that, when you need it, they care for you, too. It's the way we were made.

She offered a fake huff of annoyance it his words, though her gaze, as it peered at him through the dark, was light. She knew she ought to spend more time in the pack, for she wasn't a pup that lacked responsibilities anymore. Perhaps that was part of the reason for her discontent; the fierce attitude that she had towards these new responsibilities. Her father spoke sense, basic, logical sense, and yet she was not satisfied. She knew that logically, he was right; packmates relied on one another. But still, she wasn't ready to accept her weakness. "I know you're right, Da; but being a bother to Pema and the rest, having to rely on them so mcuh - to be the weak link, if only for a while, I-"  She broke off, frustration evident in her quiet tone, searching for a solution to pride in her Da, who would always be an authority and a mentor in her life, moreso than any other.

Grayday gave his daughter a stern look, but the affect as surely lost in his affection. He knew he could've done a better job raising her - but her pride was something he admired, and he was glad she'd turned out the way she had, even if it made for some tough lessons in the future.

"We're no better than the rest of them, you and I," he said softly. "I know you don't think of it that way - " he hoped not - "but this drive to do more that you're feeling... I've felt it before. Before you were born, I was always afraid that I wasn't doing enough for the pack. I was afraid that I wasn't important enough for them to care for, if I needed it. I was afraid that they'd reject you and your brother, and my mate. And those are valid fears, Dawn. We do have a duty to serve and protect each other, and the wolf that doesn't might soon find himself on a very bad place," he explained, warning her with a look to be patient - that this wasn't the end of the story.

"But the fact of the matter is, a wolf will always fall short on its own. A wolf on its own can never deserve the care of a pack, and it's only by coming together, and sharing our strengths and weaknesses, and working toward the same goals that we become all that we are meant to be. Sometimes that means going on extra hunts, and sometimes that means putting our resources into a good Hunter and a strong heart, who's had a bit of an accident," he said, his voice a bit teasing once more. "You're not a weak link at all. Not even for now. You're part of our future, and no one resents putting time and effort toward that any more than we resent eating extra just before winter, or digging a den before pups are born."

Grayday's expression hardened somewhat.

"Of course, a certain healer might become resentful if she found out a certain patient was wasting her efforts on frivolous day trips," he added.

She was quiet as her father launched into speech, gaze on him. She way have not been the most obedient child, but she knew very well that her father spoke sense, and it paid to listen to whatever he had to offer her. When he first spoke, her ears slicked back a fraction and she offered a minute nod of her head, for though she was stubbornly proud, she was not arrogant. But he continued, and as always, his words seemed to elaborate the feelings she couldn't quite express. That was part of it, she supposed; feeling that she just wasn't quite good enough, doing enough. She had felt it before, when Khoe fell pregnant, and earlier, when Sunny had still been in her life. 

He continued though, and as he did, the girl relaxed in the slightest. It took another's perspective to truly change how she felt, to look into the maze of thoughts she found herself pacing. Of course, her lingering discontent did not instantly vanish, but nor did it dig into her side as it had, when her father laid it all out plainly as he always did. His teasing tone took on a chiding note as he spoke of Pema, and she sighed in earnest. "I know, Da. I do like Pema; I was supposed to teach her to hunt before I got hurt, too." She offered, wanting her father to know that she didn't do anything out of spite towards the newer member. Pema, and Moonstone too, were starting to grow on her, though she didn't especially know the latter very well.

Grayday's dropped his reproving expression as soon as Dawn looked sufficiently regretful. "You'll have plenty of time after you heal," he assured her. "Before winter, even." He hated chastening his children, even though he knew it was oftentimes for their own good. It seemed that, in this case, Dawn had learned as much of her lesson as mere words were likely to impress on her. Satisfied with this, the father's mind wandered to other, related topics.

"I love this time of year," he said to his daughter, tail sweeping idly behind him. "My mother - I wish you could've known her - she called it 'breathe deep'. It stretches from the last day of summer to the first day of the breeding season. It's a time for slowing down, and fattening up, and drawing close into the pack," he explained. "As the seasons change, they bring changes in our spirits as well. There's no season more lonely than winter, they say - but when you have a pack to share it with, there's nothing that brings you closer."

She was quiet as the conversation changed, her father obviously satisfied with her reply. She liked this time of year, too; summer was wickedly hot, spring was wet and muddy, winter was frigid, from what she remembered; but Autumn...she liked Autumn. His words lulled her as she imagined the colours on the trees growing brighter, the season closing. When he said breeding season, her gaze flicked to him briefly, and a question burned at her tongue. Would he ever take another mate? Two dark women abandoning him with the same predicament, first Amber and then Khoe. Was he cursed? Had he better opt for a pale woman, if he did choose another mate? These questions did not pass her lips a moment, and though part of her longed to hear of the seasons and fill the conversation with lightness, the thought did not leave her. 

"I'm not going anywhere. I promise"

"Why did she leave?" her voice was quiet, and though it was clear to her who she was talking about, she added a moment later, "Khoe. She promised - did my mother promise, too?"  her gaze was downcast, but it flickered back up to her father's gaze, suddenly nervous. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I'm sorry, I- we can talk about winter."  She suddenly regretted bringing the topic up at all, another of the thorns in her side that she thought she might be better off ignoring.

Just when the talk of seasons had lulled Grayday into a sense of security, Dawn struck like a viper in two quick blows. He gaped at her for a moment, but quickly snapped out of it. The questions hadn't caused him any more pain than a dull ache; it simply struck him that he'd not spoken to Dawn about this at all, and that it'd been terribly insensetive of him not to seek her out for this conversation.

"You can talk to me about anything," he assured the girl, moving to bump his nose against her. "I don't ever want you to be afraid to ask me about something, Dawn. There's... I don't mean to have secrets. I don't want to."

That taken care of, he turned his thoughts to the two women that'd left him, thinking many of the same things as Dawn although he, too, did not voice them. "I don't know why your mother left. We were happy, as far as I knew. She loved you two so much... as time goes on, I've started to wonder if something didn't happen to her," he admitted, his throat getting a little tight. "I didn't find any signs of it. Her scent just went on and on... but I've never been able to figure that one out."

"But Khoe..." He paused, not quite sure how to put his feelings into words. "When you went for that rabbit... did you think you could stick the landing?" he asked her, seeming to change the subject.

His reassurance calmed her unease, and she moved to bump his nose in turn. Her gaze still displayed some of her unease, but perhaps that was lost in the dark. They didn't keep secrets, except for a choice few that Dawn treasured, but had no significant impact on their relationship nor the pack. He first addressed the topic of her mother, the mystery that lurked in the form of a what if in the depths of her mind. She no longer felt anything towards her mother, save a weak resentment, the woman had no bearing on her life. But Khoe was different, she had known the woman, trusted her, even begun to saw her as a shadow of the maternal figure she lacked (but did just fine without). 

When her father began to discuss, her, then change she subject, she gave him a sideways glance. She bore with him, however, she trusted her father not to push aside difficult subject, not when he had told her so much already. "I didn't. I guess I was so caught up in the hunt that I just...jumped. And didn't really think about landing." As she said the words, understanding began to spark in her mind, and her gaze turned to her father.

Grayday nodded. It was not exactly the answer he'd expected, but it worked with his explanation all the same. "I think Khoe jumped without looking. She wanted to be a mother so bad. More than you wanted that rabbit, I'll bet. But after she jumped, I think she got scared. And when she had the chance to bail, she did," the father explained, his voice a bit heavy. He didn't think he was angry at her - he didn't have the energy for it - but it certainly didn't feel great to think about her.

"It was wrong of her to leave your brother and sisters behind," he said after a moment, realizing his metaphor might not have gotten that across. "Especially the way she did, behind everyone's backs. I'll never argue with that. But... sometimes she made me nervous. The way she was around the pups. I'd be lying if I said I didn't sleep a little better knowing she's not going to carry them off in the night."

Though he felt bad saying these things about the mother of his children, it was something of a relief to get it off his chest. "I don't think she was meant to be a mother. I didn't see it before, but as soon as they were born... she just seemed different. Changed. I don't know if there was a better way for things to have gone."

Laid out in simple terms, Dawn could understand what, exactly, had driven Khoe to do all she had. After a moment's thought, Dawn remarked, " She was selfish; preoccupied with the idea of being a mother, but not caring much for whatever came after." She settled her paws on her head, tiredness held at bay by the working of her mind. It was better, then, that the woman had left; Dawn would do best to strike her form her mind. Her gaze fell to her father again, asking a second later, voice soft "What did you tell them? Do you think that she'll come back for them?" She asked, wondering if the woman would realize just how crappy a parent she had been and crawl back seeking forgiveness. She hated Khoe, hated her for her siblings, hated her for ruining the perfect family Dawn had wanted for her siblings. But their family was fractured too; it wasn't as messy as her's, but the potential for them to grow up with the complete family Dawn had dreamed of as a pup was gone.

"She was," Grayday agreed, wishing he'd seen it earlier. His ears fell back in regret and sorrow, and something a lot like shame. If he'd just said no - if he'd just stayed away from her, let her ride out her heat, told her to find some other man... But he loved all his children, and could not bring himself to regret their creation. Only that they'd have to be raised by him alone, without a mother in their lives.

"I told them she had to leave, and I didn't know if she'd be back," he sighed. "I don't want to lie, but I can't tell them the truth, can I? It's a mean enough world without them being angry - hatin', even - their mother." He fell silent for a beat. "I hope she doesn't, though. I don't want her back around here. If she tries... I don't know. Would it be better to let her? Can I really take away their chance at a mother?"

She twisted, watching her father as he continued, mind working.  "When they were born, I was - jealous, of them, for having a whole family. But now...now, I think, I know, I would rather a family that loves each other and stays with each other because they want too, not one that is stuck together out of a sense of duty. Amber didn't belong in our family; she made that clear after she left." She paused, compiling her wards, for she was dangerously close to making no sense at all as her thoughts steamrolled out of her. "Khoe doesn't belong. And the kids will hate her for leaving, I hated Amber. But you can only hate and be angry for so long, before you realize that what you need and what belongs is in front of you. I love you Da, and they do to, and you're all they - we - need." She fell silent then, gaze turned towards him sincerity in her hawkish gaze. It was a lot, and she felt like she hadn't quite explained it the best, or told him all she wanted to, but it would do.

"I love you, too, babe," said Grayday, his heart swelling with pride and affection. Still, there was something lingering on the edges of his mind - he wanted to push it away and simply enjoy the moment, but in his heart, he could hear his father whispering, and he knew that he would never forgive himself if he let this moment pass.

"Dawn..."

Easy stirred against his chest as he leaned closer to his eldest daughter.

"There are two wolves fighting in my chest. One is angry, and one is loving. One is harmful, and one is peaceful," he began, hesitating a bit as he realized the words weren't coming out exactly the same as he remembered. But thing was - was that he couldn't remember. The words in his dream were nothing more than a comforting murmur in waking hours, and Grayday found that the only thing he could do was speak from his heart. "Look, Dawn - I'm worried about you and your brother. I know that things haven't been great between the two of you, but he loves you," he said earnestly, his voice quiet and, honestly, a little desperate. "It just... it kills me to have this distance between us. I know that he left. It hurt me, too. But he was young, and he missed home, and he's not as strong as you."

He pressed his forehead against his daughter's.

"Please, Dawn. For me. Will you go and see him?"

Her brow furrowed in question, wondering at the sudden new direction her father's conversation had gone. Two wolves? She didn't have time to ponder the odd saying or truly understand it before her father leaned near, and his next words were about her brother. She ought to have expected this; they were on the subject of broken families, after all. Truthfully, Dawn had grown comfortable with her brother being so far away, the subject of lingering resentment so far removed from her near perfect life on the Plateau. 

She was silent, noting with despair the desperation in her father's voice, and knowing that she could not say no to his request this time. He spoke sincerely, and his words gave her a jolt; did he really think her stronger than Sunny? Had his pain at him leaving been this much more than her own, suppressed by resentment and the distance between her and her brother? She pressed her forehead against his, too, and sighed softly, already knowing her answer.  "I will, Da. For you."  She supposed, if her oaf of a brother finally realized that his father loved and missed him so much, that the family he had turned his back on was prepared to welcome him and love him, she ought to bring him back to the Plateau, too. 

I will.

Grayday let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and a weight he'd carried for too long began to ease. She would see him, and they might not make up this time, but at least they would have the chance. He wanted his children to be closer than they were now before he died, and if there was anything he'd learned since coming to the Teekon Wilds, it was that any day could be your last.

"Thank you," he said with feeling, giving her a fond nuzzle. He didn't know if he'd ever forgive himself, if he failed his children in this way. One day he would be gone, and he'd have to count on them to take care of each other. Dawn, he knew, was up to the job where her younger siblings were concerned, whether or not she knew it. Grayday trusted that, if something were to happen to him, she'd keep them safe and fed until they were old enough to take care of themselves. But his children all had different strengths, and he hoped that Sunny would be there sharing his compassion with them as well.

He still couldn't help but be slightly more fond of the child that was present. Perhaps because he saw how much she grew each day. "I'm so proud of you, Dawn," he sighed, his tail thumping behind him as he regarded his eldest daughter. "You've turned into such a reliable, strong-hearted woman. I feel a little bit better about what I've done with my life every time I look at you."

finally, post 200 for Graydad! <3

She breathed a sigh when her father expressed his gratitude, a small noise of contentment. Change happened, she was beginning to adapt to it, now. Her stubborn resistance to change in relationships was eroding, slowly, and she realized that the constant resentment and distance between her brother and herself might be a weight on her back better removed. She laid her head on her paws, watching her father with a kind of comfortable happiness in her gaze. In that moment, things were good. 

An abashed smile grew on her muzzle without her consent, and she felt, for the first time in this manner, overwhelmed. "I-  I'm -  It's all I've wanted to do." She admitted softly, mangled sentence proof of her emotion. It was true, she still remembered the time she had told her father that "I'll make you proud, Da."  so long ago. Her gaze was fierce joy mixed with a deep-set love for her father, speaking more for her than her words ever could. She shifted closer to him, draping her head over her shoulders and letting out a happy sigh, breathing in the scent of Da and home and comfort, previous grievances forgotten, his final words enforcing the little smile that refused to fade from her maw.