Emberwood and i don't think that i hate me, but

the dark dove quickly rebukes thorn’s rising fears, and so the eyjolfur settles — his gaze pulling across her features to measure her sincerity. it was not uncommon, he had learned, for women to protect the corrupted hearts of their men — but he detected no such disingenuity in alessia.

he could tell, too, by the dangerous spill of her words that she was near overflow. wanting to feel less imposing, the brute slid to his stomach in the snow and rested his dark muzzle on his paws. you have made no such mess, thorn pointed out thickly, quick to place the flaw in her male counterpart. you did not know. the blame is his own. is he at least standing by you? god helped the man that whelped a litter and then left that litter (and woman) to die — in thorn’s eyes there was perhaps no greater dishonor, no greater scarlet curse of selfishness.

he could at least rest knowing for now alessia had the pack at her backside -- after some conversation where thorn was dubious that the woman was really mentally okay, the pair made back for the creek. thorn was willing -- happy even -- to walk her home -- but as her form disappeared into packlands, he hoped her future would be bright and not filled with the sadness he had detected in her somber eyes.