Firefly Glen raindrops on my window sill

Why he even bothered to return to these lands was beyond him. But then, when was the last time he had he even cared? Whatever ambition had fired his youth had tempered out to some clouded sense of indifference, and Tuathal made no attempt to change that. Ceara would not be proud of him, he knew that full well, or if what little he now made of his life, but what did that matter anymore? She was dead.

The evening sky was clear tonight, and clear always meant cold. The days were little better, but they, at least, had the sun — all Tuathal could hope in to keep him warm, given his lack of companions or a pack. In the moonlit hours he preferred to keep moving, to shake the ice from his bones (for through all his apathy, he still felt that strong desire to live).

Tonight he paced along the river’s edge, fully aware that his paws fell in line with the recent steps of another, but not caring to avoid the consequence of running into another, even when he saw them resting by the river bank ahead. He kept to his course, mostly; only when he came close enough would he strike a berth to move around her, if she didn’t notice him first.