Lost Creek Hollow as though i were still mortal

one month ago, @Nunataq had abandoned him upon a bloody hillock, and one month ago, merrick had begun to crack beneath the weight of a veneer that could never thrive without his sister. he patrolled, he spoke with others, he wore his rank well. he did not not speak to her. he did not think her name. he did not sleep in the den they had once shared.
exactly one month to the day, the clay feet of merrick's statue behind which he hid his true form crumbled, and he woke covered in the dew of the field, mouth bitter as ruined wine. eyes darkened with the absence of pain, or perhaps the weight of it, merrick stalked through the hollow and made for the shelter he had once called home, where she lay.
perhaps by fluke or by instinct, she was not there, but the boy was riotous in his wounds
she left
sick sick sick sick sick sick
he dragged furs he had hunted from the den, left them shredded in front of the entrance, bit soil from the walls, churned the dirt outside with his own urine and spittle, crushed nearby branches, all with the cunning meticulousness of one exacting revenge from an enemy. and when he had finished, merrick hunted a young rabbit in the nearby thicket, broke two of its legs, and let its agonized shrieking speak for itself as he pulled the pelt from its body and left it alive outside nunataq's door.
then, and only then, merrick blinked, drew breath, bared his teeth at the empty den, and wept wormwood tears into the mud.
there was no one left, and then there was no merrick, for he fled then, over the borders, toward the steelteeth of the mountains that rose in the west.
and with each step he cursed himself for being so wretched that even the one who had borne him had given up in the end.