Emberwood being born with a talent or an inclination for goodness is the aberration

forward-dated several days, staying vague about some things

he's wounded and he shouldn't be wandering from absynthe, but he does it anyway. he sees flashes of red fur at the edges of his vision, he scents the stranger on the breeze; he can't breathe, and his brother's presence does not help. murderer, the wind whispers as he slips between trees in search of what he needs.
the seeds go down as easily as ever — that is, not easily at all. when his choking subsides he can only lay himself down gingerly on his side, as if the action might shatter his threadbare figure. he breathes heavily. i love y-you. slowly he closes his eyes and water fills his lungs, for a moment he's suffocating, for a moment there's relief—
he sucks in a ragged, gasping breath and it's gone, as fleeting as peace always is.

The hopes and expectations of peace in a new land were dashed away. Æthelwulf swiftly found himself swimming in the bleak reality that the greener grass was merely a trick of the light, and inner demons followed no matter where you went. He shouldered the weight willingly, for at least he was far from those he failed.

For now, at least.

Like called to like, and the bastard knight found himself trailing toward the sounds of turmoil and ragged breaths. He observed the broken mess he found silently, at first. Save your pity, some frigid part of him urged. He probably deserved it.

Unable to cast the first stone, Wulf let his eyes trail along the wounded stranger in stoic consideration. There was little he could do in terms of the physical - he'd only ever opened flesh, never worked to close it. But perhaps the deepest scars were internal. Æthelwulf thought himself a good man, and good men offered their backs to bear the weight of others, even if their legs already trembled from their own.

"It'll pass," he offered. It was useless to tell the stranger it would get better, as this was a lie more foul that anything else he could dream up. Pain, like storms, came and went upon its own accord. He didn't need to know what happened - he didn't care, and it didn't matter. Perhaps, when he learned to turn the tables of time to rewrite the past, he'd want to know more of it. For now? Confessions only served to muddy the waters.

"Some day."

the approach of another trickles down his senses like melting ice; first his scent, the sounds of approaching footsteps — then a presence. he only has a moment to breathe it in before the other is speaking, his own form still motionless save the movement of his chest. he doesn't turn to look at him, even when a frigid silence crashes over the pair again in the wake of the stranger's words.
"it will," he agrees after what feels like a lifetime, throat dry and voice crackling like dead leaves. "and i will replace it just as quickly. there is truly no rest for the wicked; you ought to demand a refund. i certainly would, but —" he yawns. "busy, as you can see." still he doesn't move to address the stranger directly, but his gaze shifts, straining slightly to see the unknown wolf from the angle he's at.

Agreement came only after Wulf had resigned himself to continue on, convinced his presence was undesired and better had elsewhere. But, like a marionette, it came with strings.

"And I will replace it just as quickly. There is truly no rest for the wicked..."

Ah. He believed the words a half truth, at best. There was no rest for any of them. His paws knew the soil of many lands and, the residents of all shared the same suffering. Unless to be alive was to be inherently rotten on the inside - a theroy which Æthelwulf wouldn't be stunned to find true - torment new no preference. It sunk its claws into the soft belly of any who dared to expose it, even if just for a moment.

That didn't stop him from asking, words no less gentle than the white noise of ocean waves against sandy shores.

 "Are you wicked?"