Bearclaw Valley b

He meandered much in the same way that an old dog does his backyard, slow and easygoing; in many ways, the valley was still his to roam, every inch of it having seen his face more times than he cared to count. It was his home, truly, even when the shadows the Blackfeather kept such a tight grip on him.

He was home.

But he was not alone.

Kove had followed the river in one direction for a short while before turning and travelling in the opposite way, heading away from the forest and towards the waterfall; it was there behind that roaring fall that he’d spent much of his time towards the end, and it was there that he wished to visit and reminisce within the confines of. Life was a terribly fickle thing, though, often throwing wrenches into places where they did not belong, stopping up the gears and preventing any further rotations. Life liked to break things, he realised, and nothing was to be left untouched by its terrible ways. Life caused love and pain, joy and sadness—but perhaps equally the worst and best thing that it could ever do was bring back the ghosts of one’s past.

And it was his turn to experience that.

A breath of air became trapped within his throat and his legs stiffened immediately, nearly causing him to stumble. He tried to release the breath, to free it, but soon found that he might have been better off keeping hold of it, as the breaths that followed were short and quick. He blinked one, twice, thrice—yet, she didn’t go away. She stayed there along the river, seemingly amazed by it, just as she had been in the beginning so long ago.

So long ago and yet...

Was she younger now? Perhaps it only looked that way, for the years had touched him in a way that they could not her. She was gone from this world, after all. She had left years ago but, just as was the heart, the mind could be difficult. His eyes saw right then and there that she stood just steps away, that she was well within the range of his grasp.

She wasn’t gone. Somehow, Desna had been mistaken—her mother lived.

“Scarlett...?” he finally choked out, unable to tell now just what was real and what was not. She was there—she was standing right there. He refused to believe that his eyes might be fooling him—he didn’t want to believe. Scarlett was there, alive and home, and he would accept nothing else as truth.

He took a step towards her, then froze.

But would she disappear if he reached out to her? Would she leave him again? His legs trembled, be it old age, fear, or a bit of both—or maybe it was anticipation. Burning eagerness to be reunited with her, a need for this—for her—to be real.

Just this once, even if it was to be the last time, he wanted her to be real.