Swiftcurrent Creek witchlore

backdated to around the 1st-2nd

what a mess. lestan returned alone, thinner than before, rattled by his time in the weald by himself. for so long he had not been alone, and then suddenly —
lestan skirted the marsh and at last came to the familiar sprawl of the creek. he shouldn't care, and by all rights the mayfair was not even certain he should stay. 
he called for @Akavir all the same.

Ragged—perhaps. A paw flicked aside the small kill he had made—weasel—knowing he should eat and bearing no appetite. He couldn’t protect a pack when he was thinning, nor when his eyes held a rim of red, the hint of restless nights.

Then again, he had failed on many occasions to protect his pack—and one of them called for him now.

He cast one more look to the morsel of food. He plucked it aside, hoping another would find it and eat it—Mae, perhaps.

And then, his thoughts trying to repress the words they had last shared the day Lestan and Reverie had left together, Akavir made his way to his cousin, eyes sweeping over the man in silence as he closed the distance between them.

nervously lestan waited, and nervously he looked over his own shoulder several times, as if wanting to disappear into the 
when akavir arrived, there was no word. the cousins stared at one another, lestan aware of his shortcomings even as a visible worry entered his gaze.
what had happened to akavir?
he wet his lips. "i don't r-remember everything t-that h-happened here, c-cousin. what i s-said. w-what i did." his eyes closed with the recollection of fever and pain, the golden bird winging in his mind, the deer of fire which galloped through fitful dreams. "i'd l-like to c-come — to s-stay. for s-shardik. but also to s-start over, akavir." now the hushed voice fell into shreds. did he even have the right to ask?

To feel hollow—it was an entirely different sensation in its own right. Was he sad? Surely. Mostly, he felt empty. The wraith that moved among the living—inserting himself from time to time only to watch the darkness of his touch cling to them, too.

“You always have a home here, Lestan,” he offered, his tone a quiet rumble. It wasn’t necessarily water under the bridge—the cousins had a rocky start to begin with, and near the end…

“Reverie told me what that healer did to her…” His tongue felt like sandpaper. “If I had known… I would never have considered his offer….”

Had he known, the likeliness of the healer leaving the creek in one piece would have been a miracle. “I’m sorry. I was worried about you both, and I put trust in someone I never should have.”

reverie. her name evoked the gilded feathers; it was all lestan could do to keep from flinching. desperately he searched through the debris of his mind, trying to find what akavir was currently speaking about.
there were hazes, angry things said, a flight from the creek into the coast.
"i s-should have t-trusted you." there was no need for perfection. not now. not before. "i'm s-sorry, akavir." the lump in his throat felt horrible, growing now; "i — it only g-got w-worse, once we l-left. and then i g-got left." a humourless smile quirked his mouth to know that there had been no reason to go at all.

He had never asked Reverie about Lestan—much for the same reason when his eyes noted the flinch upon the dark man before him at the mere mention of her name.

He hadn’t wanted to send her spiraling.

The idea, though, that Lestan had been left behind from the gilded woman… A twinge erupted in his chest—that familiar sense of feeling—that someone dared hurt one of his own.

But Reverie, too, had been one of his own, had she not? She had found a new husband—after the death of another, perhaps? He had never openly asked—and for a moment, he realized, that even if she were not here in this very moment.. that she had fled once more… that he himself and Reverie were tied to one another always, in one form or another. A strange fate.

The own sag of his shoulders relayed his exhaustion perhaps in ways that words could not. “You’re home now,” he concluded—as if to reassure the man he would not be left behind again.

again he shut his eyes, hard, to hide the relieved sting of tears behind them. lestan had grown attached to shardik; if akavir had said to leave now he would have done so, soul-hurt and lost again.
now he studied his cousin with some melancholy worrying. the time to lay down his story entire had gratefully passed, and now he stepped forward, gaze pensive.
"you h-have ... struggled t-too?" an understatement. he thought of his talisman and the hot anger rose again. if akavir too suffered, perhaps the rot of the witch did not only apply to lestan, but to their name.

Lestan inquired—Akavir, like his cousin only moments before, shut his eyes—that weight ever crushing on his shoulders. His cousin was a man who desired to share in grief and victory—of feelings, and emotions and thoughts.

Akavir had always remained a wall—impenetrable.

But now broken.

He couldn’t begin to explain the ways in which he had struggled. Where had it all began? When, finally would it end? Instead, he gave a shallow nod, opening his eyes to study the dark features of the other Mayfair once more. “Much.”

A Mayfair curse, Lestan had told him once. The belief of it had slowly settled in over the past year—and he found his thoughts drifting to Deirdre and Emaleth of Donnelaith—his aunts. Rumored witches.

much.
it said all that needed to be said, and for a long minute, lestan only faced his cousin with dire naked vulnerability standing in his eyes, the fear. the horror.
he blinked it away, banished it for now with a sad smile. "at l-least th-this time, i c-can help with m-more."
the creek and its memories did not need to haunt him any longer. here was a new start, a beginning that lestan could refresh for himself.
reaching out, he nudged akavir's shoulder gently with his muzzle, taking as much solace in the contact as he hoped was given.

Likewise, was what he wanted to say. But, after what Reverie had told him, he hadn’t truly helped the other man a single day in his life—had simply made it worse. As was his calling, it seemed—the shadowed wraith of the creek, that withered everything he touched.

His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth to stop him from biting it—Lestan’s touch jolting him a moment, before he relaxed—his own muzzle leaning to sweep the back of the man’s nape before beginning to lead him passed the borders. “C’mon,” he said, gaze drifting over the other. “Let’s get you settled.”

<3

meekly lestan followed the other mayfair. the memory of his rage and his anger against the witch burnt in his belly, scorched his throat. but it was chased by the coldwater rush of pain and of fear, of the absence of peace.
the absence of peace. perhaps that was what stood in akavir's golden eyes now. more than exhaustion. more than agony. it was a gnawing. formless. empty. did he feel the same in himself?
lestan was silent.

One more quick survey of his cousin served Akavir to clamp any rising questions he had and wisely keep quiet for now. Lestan had never been a man assertive in his countenance—nor did he demand his presence to be known. Yet there was still something different about the dark man at his side now—decidedly broken.

It was a strange thought to know the man returned once more—particularly when his first impressions of Akavir had been the man had forced a raiding girl as prisoner.

One day he would ask Lestan why he wanted to return when their last conversation had been filled with resentment and vitriol—for now—he would simply provide a safe place to rest and a meal.

They had nothing in common—but blood. And blood mattered.