Neverwinter Forest and what love we get, we have to pay for

for @Reed ♥

arturo prayed at lotte's alter until he could pray no more, until he had no more words for his beloved, departed wife. he begged her forgiveness until he ran out of ways to beg for that, too and when he left the strath he did not necessarily feel any more relieved. neither, though, did he feel less relieved so perhaps that was something. it was easy to claim he could move on when he knew in the very marrow of his bones that he would never truly move on from lotte ansbjørn. she may have left her corporeal form and left her children as the only physical evidence of her existence but her imprint upon his heart, upon his very soul was not something that could be removed. not now. not five years from now. arturo'd always believed he would live a long life and now he thinks that living long has become his curse. if he was doomed to remain upon this god-forsaken world then he might as well make the best of it by doing what it is he does the very best: exerting control and pilfering information with charisma as the silver spoon he'd been born with in his mouth was always meant to do.

his tour will end here before he returns to the coast. he is not sure what draws him to it over and over — aside from the fact that perhaps on the coast the good memories are strong enough to outweigh the bad ones that will continuously haunt him. for now, he seeks temporarily refuge in the thick evergreen pines that stand as proud and old sentries in neverwinter forest, moving through the snow dusted foliage in search of a fresh water source.

papa!

four months old, reed is growing into a delicate sprite, a petite mimicry of her mother with oversized paws and her father's dark orange eyes. despite her tumultuous upbringing she is healthy, if scrawny (and most likely will remain somewhat stunted for the rest of her days), and carries herself with a confidence she believes befitting of someone like her. her father's abandonment, her lack of stable home -- these things have not impacted the princess' ego not one bit, surrounded as she is by the loving support of her mother and siblings.

most of her days she stays close to mama's side, but with age comes curiosity about the world around her. it is dangerous to wander alone, she knows, or so she's been told, but really, who on earth is foolish enough to mess with her? she is young and vibrant and has never learned fear.

she sneaks away from her family's camp, intrigued by a rather large beetle making its slow and steady way across the frosty forest ground. she hasn't seen anything like it before. it seems completely oblivious to her, which is baffling, but she isn't sure if it's prey or some sort of sentient plant. she follows it for a while but grows bored -- and then she realises she's not alone; there's a scent nearby that is strangely familiar and unfamiliar all at once. the witchdoctor had disappeared before she'd time to grow old enough to remember him, and so she cannot place the scent as belong to him (kind of), yet she still finds herself following it to the source. a man, a stranger, and again that sensation of unfamiliar-and-familiarity rises in her. it makes her uncomfortable. 

pulling herself to her full diminutive height, the child steps right up to the man and demands, "who are you?"

arturo recognizes her right away. this time, when the witchdoctor receded back to whatever hellish hole he'd crawled out of he'd left the gangster with all of his memories and even though she was no longer the infant he remembered she still looked like herself, and still smelled like hemlock and her siblings. regardless of his time away, the memory of their scents were not something lost to him. she stalks up to him, brazen and unafraid and the fearghal monarch feels something seize up in his chest as he contemplates the odds of the chances that he would happen to stumble across his youngest daughter? er, well, rather she would stomp up to him. he does not ask her in the softened, choked voice that he knew would come from betwixt his lips if she remembered him because he knows she does not. it guts him to his core that his own daughter looks at him but does not recognize him. does not see herself in his features.

he contemplates not telling her. it's a very real consideration in his mind as he visibly hesitates. there is a part of him that considers that hemlock and the children might be better off without him, that his return might cause complications. "i am," arturo takes a deep breath and offers a tight twitch of his lips, weighed to one side of his own internal war. "i'm your father, reed. i am arturo. arturo fearghal." calling himself her 'father' seemed a bit unfair. it's not as if he's done anything to earn that title to her or her brother but regardless she is of his loins and if nothing else he is, biologically, her father.

arturo likes to assume he was not a coward and he holds tightly to this assumption of his own self character as he awaits, with baited breath, for his youngest daughter's reaction to his words.

'father' - the word is foreign to her, no recognition behind her eyes. she knows mother and brother and sister - from her understand, her and her kin sprung forth from mother with no other help required. why would she think anything else? no one's ever explained it to her.

she can't put a paw on the look in the strange man's eyes either. it unsettles her, the tension in her belly turning into frustration. "how do you know my name?" the tiny fearghal demands, opting to focus on the parts of his speech she does understand. his name means nothing the way that the concept of fatherhood does, but he knows her name. determined not to show the way his words have disrupted her, she draws herself up as tall as she can and puffs her chest out, speaking haughtily: "whatever a father is, i don't got one."

arturo can see that she does not recognize him — by sight, no, he did not assume that she would — yet there is no recognition at all. not even when the gangster gives her his name and that stings the absolute worse. no, it moves beyond a sting. a sting is an annoyance, a pain that can easily be swallowed, that easily can be soothed. he feels gutted and worse than gutted he feels a sense of uneasy betrayal from the only other wolf on this god-forsaking planet that he thought felt as he does. he scowls over the girl's head then, hating being redundant and wondering if it much matters. if she has not been raised knowing him by name then he thinks that he has no further business with her. if she does not even know the name arturo fearghal then there is no sense in trying to reconcile with her mother if she does not want him in their lives at all ( even by mention ). he doesn't understand and is so ready to build back the walls of the prison he readily cocoons himself in.

the resolve of the merciless and cold gangster comes sweeping in abruptly, embracing the frigid air. his hackles prickle and bristle and he loathes himself as he looks down at his youngest daughter with fiery eyes that have burned out the wonderment and warmth he'd felt at seeing her again. they are the eyes of a family gravely wounded and a ruthless gangster boss during a dealing that he ultimately expects to go his way or else ( except it's already not gone his way and he's deciding his next course of action ). he's beginning to regret and resent his children as this seems to be a reoccurring theme with them.

he ignores her haughty comment though his lip curls in a silent warning. a warning that he can't one hundred percent say for sure he would not act upon should she press. "run back to your mother, child." he commands her in a quieted, smoky rumble though his deep baritone lacks all gentleness. if she refuses his command, then he will be the one to turn and walk away. he did it once as witchdoctor and it should be measurably easier to do now that he knows he is not even known by his youngest children.

the girl child isn't necessarily spoiled, for the instability of her early months undermined any true accumulation of status -- her family has loved and indulged her by turns, but she has been denied the foundation on which to build a stable sense of self. the look the man levies her is foreign and a little frightening, the opposite of such indulgences. and there is still that nagging, prickling feeling of familiarity she can't name, that makes her want to linger even though the smart move is to turn and run as she's told.

only thing is, she doesn't like to do as she's told. "no," reed insists, employing her favorite word, "not 'til you tell me how you know my name." the girl is stubborn to a fault and has no intention of letting the smoky stranger slip out of her grasp when he clearly knows something she oughta - and when he has the audacity to try and deny her a simple answer! should he try to leave she has every intention of following as fast as her tiny form will allow, any thought of returning to the safety of her mother dashed from her head by an insatiable need to be given what she wants: the truth.

no. n o. that small word utter defiance forces a low growl to rumble and press forth from bewtixt arturo's clenched teeth. no. he did not like being told no, especially from a child. especially from his own child. she might not have been raised by him but she is of his loins and thus still his child regardless. "yes," the gangster presses in a low, hissing snarl. "i've already told you. i will not repeat myself." he tells her coldly, firmly. a low, angry sigh pushes from somewhere deep in the gangster's lungs and his tail lashes against his hocks as his ears taper back against his skull. he bears his teeth at her, turns his back to her in a sharp, feral movement and begins to walk away, silently praying to the deities that he did not ( could not ) believe in that she does not follow.

 small red ears flatten back against her skull, feeling for the first time a sense of danger at their proximity. that growl is like nothing she's heard before, that snarl a cruelty she isn't familiar with. she takes a tiny step back, her pout widening into a trembling frown. "you're mean!" the girl shouts, childish and sniffling, but does not move to chase him this time -- the image of those teeth bared at her enough to keep her rooted despite her stubborn tendencies. she stays planted, expression wobbly, until he's out of sight, and then turns on her tiny heels and scurries back to mama, the momentary fear fading until only her righteous outrage at his display of aggression remains. what a rude, bad man!