Fox's Glade My silent lips

It was but a dull ache now on the side of his face, the physical pain of his loss paling in comparison to the mental repercussions it had. He wanted to blame someone for it, anyone that he could, but not a single name would enter his mind when he tried to do so. Deep down, he knew it was his own fault; he was out of practise, having not been a member of a pack for some time now and having not partaken in a spar for even longer. Not to mention the distraction that was his own mind, filled to the brim with things he should do and paths he should’ve taken—there was little space left over for the strategic thinking required to win. All that existed was his anger, or maybe it was something more, something deeper than rage alone. What drove him to travel to the coast, and then to leave it again without completing the task that’d taken him there in the first place? It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t joy.

It was the fear of loss, and the realisation that he’d been wrong.

As the thought hit him, Alexander came to an immediate stop. He was wrong? In the wrong, that is. He frowned and his tail twitched, his mind trying to work through everything—past and present—in search of more answers. He’d been in the wrong. He’d pushed others away, time and time again—but, in the same breath, he asked them to stay. To not leave him alone, not again, despite his transgressions. Some had agreed, some had humoured him, and what had they gotten in return? Nothing. Nothing at all, because Xan had never changed, not to reflect their sacrifices or even his own feelings. He’d pushed and pushed and pushed until, finally, there was no one left to push away.

Engulfed in thought, he didn’t realise where he was. He didn’t know how close to home, exactly, he’d wandered. And as he tilted his head back and unconsciously loosed a howl from his lips, he didn’t realise that it might just confirm what he feared the most: that he was alone, and that he was to blame.