Blackfeather Woods and she came to Troy with a dowry; death

astara is the first to appear, melting out from the shadows as if she was birthed from them. he thought the tension he feels in the junction of his shoulders might abate but they only tighten with foreboding anticipation as she draws up alongside him. he spares her a long glimpse, thinking that she has outgrown her nickname of earmuncher. she is not a child any longer. instead, she stands at his side a young woman growing into her own. he does not dare hope that his decision will not be looked upon as a betrayal. he knew, from previous experience, that the wolves of the woods didn't appreciate those who left.

or perhaps, his inner voice argues, that was the decree of a young woman who was, at the time, no more a child than the young lost boys she'd taken under her wing herself.

regardless, he is here and his decision is made, so purely resolute in his mind that he's been guided by mephala herself, driven by nightmares and his own selfish desires. at the sound of another set of footfalls approaching wintersbane looks up from shadow-cloaked daughter to the dark priestess herself. his breath catches in his throat — tight with unfettered guilt. the tundrian watches the listener approach him with affection in her steps and a welcoming smile upon her lips that makes him feel as if someone's cracked open his rib cage, as if some beast has it's jagged and piercing teeth around his heart and it's biting with the intention to crush.

he didn't deserve it. he didn't deserve her affection and he sure as hell didn't deserve that welcoming smile.

hate me, he wants to plead of her and astara both. hate me. look at me like i'm the scourge of the earth. put a kill order on my head. look at me like i'm the devil and you cannot get away from me fast enough.

he knows how to process hatred. he can live with hatred. he's felt it's familiar sting so many times before. vaati. neo. nyx. mallaidh. it would certainly hurt less. he could use snark and his satirical sense of humor to deflect it. this leaves him fumbling and uncertain how to safeguard himself against the crushing guilt. it'd been building and now it comes to it's crown.

i'm leaving. all practiced words are thrown out the window as he goes for just 'ripping off the goddamn bandaid'. the words hurt to say and there is no relief in getting them out into the frost chilled air. instead, he feels measurably worse; like his head is on the chopping block and he's waiting for the moment the ax strikes and severs the rope holding the guillotine blade precariously above his head.