Firefly Glen the groan of mortal terror

Tagging for reference. Message me to change anything. ♥
My apologies for Cypress’ copious adolescent angst. Preferably not open to someone who would scoop him up and take him home.

Within the raven’s chest gnawed an ache that would not quiet; he could not feed or subdue it, and it festered there like a glowing ember in a wooden sepulcher, eating away at the rafters that housed it. One by one, they had left him behind — @Lucy first, then @Rannoch, and finally @Scimitar. Logic told the young wolf that each of them had had good reason to go. Lucy could not allow herself to be taken by a stranger again; Rannoch had been nearly mad with worry at Lucy’s departure; and Scimitar had carried the weight of losing his son and adopted foundling in one fell swoop. Of course Scimitar needed to search for them — he was alpha. That he’d taken @October, too, was adding insult to injury — the forest seemed empty to Cypress, who had never really been close with his cousins, aunt, or uncle. Even @Allure and @Pasha had been swept up in the search, leaving Cypress to remain with Eshe lest the Frostfur matriarch completely fall to pieces in the wake of her illness and this tragedy.

Cypress had known where Lucy would go; he had also known that Rannoch would inevitably follow. He was not surprised by the turn of events and could not have coherently explained why they troubled him to such a degree. In a striking contrast to the robustness of health Rannoch had always enjoyed, Cypress had come down with the same illness Eshe had contracted — and though it had proven useful at first, keeping her attention drawn from the fleeing pair, now he found the way she clung to him suffocating. She was distracted and emotional by turns, doing her best to hold her composure and show a brave face — but Cypress was blessed, or perhaps cursed, by a wisdom beyond his years. He had no illusions about the magnitude of her hurt. Rannoch and Cypress had been her miracle children — the Boys Who Lived. “You were supposed to wait for me,” he said now, quietly and tonelessly, practicing the words to himself so that when he flung them at his grayscale brother they would be crisp and clear. “You were supposed to wait for me — we were supposed to find her together.”

The illness had left his throat parched and hoarse, his lips cracked, and his lean sides slightly leaner. Both eyes felt painful and dry; they had emitted a milky discharge, but this seemed to have dissipated. Now, as though the blue itself had melted from his sulphureous globes, his eyes were a bright and eerie yellow in a mask of indelible black. With the growth of his winter undercoat had come wisps of smoke and ash, and the fur along his nape and shoulders was wilder than ever. He shook out his fur, stretching his long legs — still gangly, but no longer ungainly — as he left the familiarity of the forest behind and struck out for the glen where he, Lucy, Rannoch, and his cousins had romped and played. It was fortunate that he was departing several days too late to hear his brother’s betrayal spoken aloud — “you know, we can do that without Cypress,” — for his pride was bent just enough to allow forgiveness to straighten it again. “I’m sorry, mama,” he whispered as his fleet paws left the moonlit borders far behind him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself leading Rannoch and Lucy home to Neverwinter, never again to be assaulted by the foul creature who had arrived from far away to whisk their princess to another castle. Eshe would forgive him — she always forgave him. He was going to be a hero.

The fireflies were aglow as they had been before, but joy was loathe to stir in the heartsick boy’s breast. He merely stood, his face a stoic mask, wild fur whipping about as a cool autumn breeze licked intrusively against his skin. “Lucy?” he asked uncertainly into the darkness. “You were supposed to wait for me, Rannoch. We were supposed to find her together.”