Duck Lake we sang silent night in three parts, which was fun

The pity in her tone cuts him, but not as deeply as her last words. The air leaves his lungs suddenly and without warning. His lips part slightly as if he might say something, but close just as quickly, and for several moments he can't say anything. He thinks: I told Delight, I tried to make sure you knew, and he thinks: I didn't want to leave you, and he thinks: all the love anyone ever had for me died at Broken Boulder. But he can't say any of that; it doesn't matter anymore anyway. She's made up her mind, and maybe she's right.
I know, He says finally, and it hurts but in a way it's freeing — to acknowledge that he is the monster who thought of himself when he made a decision, who has only ever thought of himself, because she is wrong; no one at the Sanctuary could have helped him, not in the way he needs to be able to help himself. It has always been his own burden to bear, and time and failure have brought with them the realization that healing is never the easiest path when the wounds are of this nature. It is never flowers by the bedside and friends gathered around — it is cold, hard decisions and lonely nights, it is the aching strangeness of relearning how to be himself, it is the desolate mornings he wakes up and thinks: where have I been all this time?
It is his burden to bear, and leaving was a decision he had the obligation and right to make; he could not have healed at the Sanctuary, surrounded by wolves he'd come to feel responsible for and wolves he'd come to feel threatened by in unreasonable ways, wolves whose faces remind him of all the pain he's caused. He could only have festered, dragging with him everyone he loves and becoming everything he hates. Maybe that's his fault — maybe it's because he's broken. But he can't regret leaving, even if doing so had ripped the last of his heart from his body.
I'm sorry, His voice breaks slightly. He only regrets that he hurt his friends in the process. But he can't fix that now, can he? And maybe it could never have been avoided in the first place. He can only let go, and hope they've already found peace without him. I hope — that things are better now, for the pack. The urge to fall back to old habits is overwhelming; he has nothing else to say to her, nothing that won't rub salt in the wound. But he hesitates again, lingering and waiting for — he doesn't know what. Waiting for her to finally give up on him for good, maybe. They both know by now that it's long overdue.