Larksong Grotto Know not where I'm at, but know where I've been

Sometimes, Miyako wished her brother had killed her, too.

If he had done so, she wouldn't be here, paws planted on cold stone, watching the songbirds flutter about, chirping their tunes that meant something to them but absolutely nothing to her.

She had no idea where she was. After Ichiro had turned on her, she had just gone south, picking her way through taiga and tundra, seeking solitude. Her fur was black and clean, but it might as well be splattered with the blood of her brothers, blood spilt on her watch as she sat, unable to help as they were ripped apart.

Her sister and youngest brother? Probably dead, too. Her parents certainly dead. Ichiro and his heartless shrew of a mate with control of their family's territory. Miyako was alone. No one knew her here.

It was a comfort and a terror to find herself a stranger in a strange land. For once, she had peace and quiet. But the quiet sat in her stomach, sharp and intrusive, like a bone you swallowed after forgetting to chew. "Alone," she said aloud, her voice echoing off the empty grotto walls. Old scent markers told her there had once been a pack here--but they were here no longer, and Miyako was alone. Alive, and alone.