Dawnlark Plains isbjørn

grayday's words floated through his ears like wispy clouds; he took in their meaning, but it all seemed rather abstract. the earth was ripped from his feet, and he found himself in the maplewood again, facing dawn, the doubts and fears a storm brewing in her eyes. how he'd taken too much to heart her insecurities, letting them wound him, turning away from her.

then she'd gone off and gotten hurt, and he felt as if he was to blame. he had been the chain, the rock. trying to wrangle the girl in was trying to stop the wind from blowing; it would blow, always blow, and you'd get knocked over in the process. aditya dipped his head, feeling ashamed.

and there was pain on grayday's face and behind his words; he, too, had evidently faced this dilemma. no wolf spoke so eloquently on experiences they hadn't been given. and for the first time, he felt fear. he knew grayday liked him, respected him. . .but what if he were to hurt his daughter? even by accident? what if dawn decided to cut him loose?

could grayday like and respect him for the wolf that he was, without the girl by his side?

"i understand," adi murmured, though part of him did not. part of him never would again. he was wild himself, but he was mature, firmly rooted in reality and commitment. once upon a time he'd been the wind; now he felt more like the mountains, old and unchanging. "thank you. i. . .thanks." for once, his words were an inadequate picture of how he felt inside. he let them fall to the ground, his face troubled.