fly on

Perhaps for the breadth of Charon's life, Mordecai had been apart of the Plateau at length. In a way, he had, as his original intentions had only been to stay out the winter with them. But a few weeks had given away into months, and Mordecai had slowly become one of them in essence. Yet to the older Ostrega, he had never truly been apart of the pack. Though he had always been willing to aid them and work for them, Mordecai knew full in well that he had been an outlier in their midst more than he had been at the forefront of anything. A confidant, a friend, one that that they had accepted apart of them.

And he supposed in some sense he had betrayed that for branching out on his own. Yet natural law often did that, the urge to disperse and justify those selfish reasons — at least when the wolf in question did not pose a threat — drove a fierce wedge between them all. But it was water beneath the bridge, or so he had been willing to believe. The revelation that Charon had been the one attacked did not sit well with him, though Mordecai found just an inkling of doubt lingering. He had no solid reason to doubt what he was being told, but understood that he only had one side of the story. There was no telling what had transpired in full, as he was wont to find out.

But his shoulder sagged slightly; his brow furrowed indescribably.

"Why did you have to teach him a lesson? Did he just attack you out of the blue?" He didn't agree with the notion of teaching a lesson, but then again once upon a time in his life he would have probably done the same. Perhaps even now, if pushed far enough, he would resort to the same response. "And your wounds, have they been looked after?" He was willing to think that they had, somehow, though Mordecai could not think of who would tend to him. He didn't see Dante letting Blue Willow do it if such a spat went down near the Plateau, and yet Charon was miles upon miles away from it. He was even further from the Bay.