Moonspear raised high, brought low

It was near torture seeing Amekaze so deflated and lacking in energy. To see her so wounded was like salt to his own wounds, rubbed in ever so slowly and painfully over time. This was a wound that did not heal so easily; worse even than the death of Ragnar or the disappearance of Levi. Perhaps matched only by Dhole's insolent run-away action. He wanted blood on his teeth, he wanted power, he wanted control.

Part of him blamed her for it, blamed Flóki — if not only to ignore the blame that he, himself, held in all of this — for they had accepted Lazarus here. She had lavished in his attentions and now this had come of it. Charon knew he and Flóki should have ran Lazarus from the pack after his first move of insolence. There had been many opportunities, yet it had never happened, and for that, they were all to blame. But most of all he blamed his mate, for the insolent asshat had listened to her, and she had accepted his insolence for it. He'd grown soft because of that, trustig her judgement, and so had Flóki. None of them had guessed what would come of it, but here it was, and he could not stir the feeling of disgust as he laid eyes on her in the stream.

A mixture of relief — for she was alone and alright — and disgust — for it reminded him of what had happened, it rubbed more salt in his wound — flooded him as he saw her. He did not know whether he wished to hold her close or to chew her out for her poor judgement more.

For some time he just stood and watched her with a hardened expression on his face, standing by the shoreline not far away. It wasn't clear whether he was standing guard, making sure she was not hurt, or if he was simply afraid of what closeness would bring and kept his distance purposely and fearfully. Especially because he remembered what happened to Flóki and Dhole.