Dawnlark Plains isbjørn

aditya listened, slightly slack-jawed in a mix of sadness and horror, as grayday told his story. each word seemed to slice through him like claws; adi didn't often rue his natural empathy, but he did now, as he felt at least some measure of the pain behind his father-in-law's voice. he dipped his head solemnly, waiting for the leader to finish speaking.

"oh, grayday, i am sorry," adi whispered, his voice choked, barely audible above the gentle keening of the early spring wind. he cleared his throat, shaking his head and turning his gaze to grayday's face once more. "i am sorry," he repeated, louder, "for that. all of that. for her, and for you. . ."

he felt sick and ashamed, and shuffled his paws awkwardly as he continued. "i'm afraid i've projected all my heartbreaks onto dawn," he admitted, glancing away fearfully. "put the weight of all my fantasies onto her shoulders. and that's quite a lot of weight," he added, thinking of all the dreams he'd dreamt, the disappointments he'd suffered. "too much weight for anyone, let alone a girl of her age."

everything was slowly coming into focus. their argument, and the way they'd made up. how aditya had treated her so coldly, refusing to bend. he had expected too much of her, too soon.

he didn't want to break dawn the way grayday had broken this girl. perhaps he already had.