Hushed Willows this common blood ii

Valiant was an ice-white and jagged wraithe on the plains, and then the marsh, and then streaking past the borders and through the willows toward the hidden reaches of the territory. The whelping dens were his destination, even though he was not sure why he ought to go there. Perhaps he thought that, if he could go back to the place where he'd been born, he might be able to stop himself from ever coming to be. He might be able to crawl back into his dead mother and rot there, or perhaps the faerie magic that now lived in the woods would take him up, twist him into something else.

The yearling collapsed long before he got there, gasping for breath through his labored cries of anguish. How many times had he thought, Maybe this would be easier if he were just dead. And now he was, and there was nothing to be done. How many times had he thought, I'll live my own life for now, and I'll look for him a little later. How many times had he passed by the opportunity to cross paths with the man again, even if just for one more time? For a few minutes?

Now he would never know what would have been.

And he was alone.

An orphan.

Unloved.