Totoka River 내가 바보같아서 바라볼 수 밖에만 없는 건 아마도

@Kierkegaard ♡

Five days had passed since Marbas had left his Siren at the river, and despite the advice of Riverbone’s daughter — “You’ll have to stay close for awhile. You have to come to me in the bay, if anything like this happens again — or if it starts to burn, or hurts too much, or if you get lonely,” — Coelacanth began to make her way back to it. In truth, the wounds did hurt, but thanks to the siren of Tara’s detailed instructions, they remained free of dirt and debris and were not in eminent danger of infection. The inky ingénue had possessed no previous knowledge of the healing herbs, but she found it was easy and automatic to notice yarrow when she saw it now, and did her best to spread poultices of the stuff over the punctures whenever she could. By now her silky, feathery fur had grown coarse and stiff with salt and plant matter — and the pulling and pinching sensation it engendered irritated her beyond what she could endure. She wanted a bath — she wanted her river, she wanted her brother, she wanted familiarity — and set out to satisfy the urge. Who could stop her?

Dried remnants of chewed yarrow clung to her breast as she limped and shuffled toward the river in a sick parody of her usual dancing gait; she paused to sweep her slender muzzle toward the embankment despite an involuntary gasp of protest at the shockwaves of pain that fissured through her sleek musculature. Tears sprang to her eyes, making them glow like two snow globes inhabited by bioluminescent plankton, and spilled over the inky satin of her cheeks. Much of Marbas’ scent must have been blurred or muddied by time or the undulating arms of the sea — but she padded doggedly onward anyway, seeking him with feverish anxiousness that heightened with every step. What would she say or do if she found him? How could she tell him that she was sorry? That these wounds were in large part her fault, Seelie had no doubt. That being said, she could not fathom allowing the mahogany-eyed wolf within touching range now — in fact, only the slate-and-sand Atoll had been within close range of Coelacanth since the incident.

Amoxtli’s love for treasure hunting and for adventure had led him on many variegated journeys throughout his life, either with or without Coelacanth — but always, always, she had been able to feel his presence. He was the force toward which her inner compass gravitated. For a little over a week, he had not returned to their den — and although this was, in itself, not overwhelmingly concerning, Coelacanth saw within her mind’s eye his dragon’s hoard of treasure collecting salt and sand in alarming measure — she saw it buried, the luster and shimmer dulled by salt and neglect. The neurotic, obsessive nature of the shepherd dog — the very thing that made them so adept at counting and keeping sheep — was beginning to emerge and Seelie found herself unable to look upon the emptiness she already knew she would find. Oxtli was not here, she knew — he was out of range, somewhere she could not sense. She knew he was not dead — she was sure she would have felt a disturbance in the very air she breathed if that were the case — but he was most decidedly elsewhere.

Serein and Sirimiri told you this would happen, she reminded herself as new tears of petulant self-pity followed the tracks of their predecessors in rivulets down her velveteen cheeks. The two Corten females were twins — the only twins born since Crosscurrent and Undertow — and shared a similarly uncanny closeness. Upon noticing the perfect, wordless confederation between the two tiny sheepwolves, both aunts had taken it upon themselves to prepare Seelie and Oxtli in every way they could for the day the halfbreeds’ binary star expanded and split into two separate universes. Coelacanth and Amoxtli had never truly believed it would actually happen — but the atramentous female had no choice but to accept it now.

Coelacanth was normally a creature of joy and light, but the abrupt absence of Marbas in the wake of Amoxtli’s inexplicable disappearance weighed heavily upon the little Groenendael; sore of heart and weary of bone, she followed the river upstream until she discovered a miniature waterfall bordered on one side by a higher elevation of mossy rock. This odd formation created a moss-blanketed pool, tucked away from view and protected from the river’s strongest pull, and she nestled into it with a tremulous whimper of discomfort that fanned out into a soft sigh of pleasure. Half-submerged, she was practically invisible and found the protection from prying eyes a welcome respite. The flow of pure snowmelt laved the symmetrical, wing-like wounds that marred the sensitive juncture of throat, breastbone, and point of shoulder, and its clean sweetness was a relief to her parched throat. Bathing in earnest, granted a reprieve from the pain of her wounds by the numbness brought about by the water’s chill, she preened with her fangs whatever fur she could easily reach. Again and again she dipped her head below surface, using her paw to smooth the tufts of her ears to smooth, tapered pinpricks.

When a dull ache broke through the numbness, she knew she ought to stop; she sighed again and stretched her graceful neck to rest her pert chin upon a mossy rock, watching the water spill down and outward, toward the sea.