You'd give your life you'd sell your soul

Ever since he'd made amends with Peregrine, Atticus had felt much better about things. He felt like a boat sailing on an even keel, rather than one tossed about by chaotic winds of anger and bitterness. As long as there was some semblance of harmony among his family and himself, everything else could go to hell and he'd be fine.

On that note, he was on his way to visit Crete this morning. He had been so occupied with his own issues of late -- even leaving the packlands for several weeks in the midst of it all -- that he felt that it'd been ages since he'd last seen his brother. He made his way through the sparse forest, enjoying the bright patches of sunlight that passed warmly over his back and the cheery melodies of birdsong that sprinkled the air around him. He regretted being such a self-absorbed asshole these past weeks, but he had resolved to apologize to Crete for not being around.

He sort of remembered where his brother kept his den, and was rewarded for his vague memory by the sight of his littermate sprawled out on his back in a brilliant pool of golden sunshine. He smiled, gladdened by the sight of his brother comfortable and happy. But then he noticed something. The way the sheen of sunlight danced and shifted over curves rather than angles, the paler, more sterling hues of silver fur rather than the stark contrast of black and white that Crete wore. Atticus halted as a scent, at once familiar and yet different, came to him. And then it dawned on him and the name tumbled out of his lips before he could think, "Osprey…?"