Sleepy Fox Hollow Gain the weight of you, then lose it

They had an accord, then. Wylla inwardly grimaced at the thought of calling it that. There was still a lot unspoken between her and Mahler, a lot of forgiveness that needed to be extended, and a lot of soul-searching on her behalf. Her intent in returning to Rivenwood was to get better, and then she hoped to find it in her to stay for her daughter, who deserved better than an absent mother with a death wish. Mahler didn't really factor into it at all, she thought.

Except he did, in ways she wouldn't acknowledge yet; despite all the tension that existed between them, all the injustices Wylla built up in her head and pinned upon him, she missed him fiercely. Despite the implication she would lay with Stag, or with any man who was not him, for the sole purpose of having children—that was his notion of success, not hers!—she longed for his company more often than she cared to admit, and wished for who he was before the ugliness began between them. It was only that every attempt she made to coax that man out ended in pride and frustration.

But maybe time in Rivenwood would find a different path for them. In the meantime, Wylla would allow herself to be brought where she said she would never go for her own wellbeing and that of her daughter, and if time shed further light on her lonesome heart and granted her the trust and the means to forgive Mahler and bury her fears... She would embrace that as it came. For now, she still did not fully trust that he had not fathered every litter in the pack and was obligated to every woman in its ranks, but she would soon learn that, as well, and decide for herself.

I lost Stag, she said abruptly, knowing full well that mentioning the Sandraudiga could put strain between them, but it was the truth. I haven't seen him since... No, she stilled her tongue before she mentioned that day, smacked its dry length against her gums, pivoted. I didn't... We didn't. I would never. She sought his grizzled face with her eye, letting some fierceness find its way back to her, if only for a second. Not with anyone else. It hurt that you thought I would.

Perhaps that was the closest Wylla would come to an apology for her harsh words that day, for the actual apology stuck in her throat. Clearing it, she settled her muzzle down between her legs and said, we can go. Tomorrow, maybe? I'm so— here she yawned, a dry and creaking sound, —tired.

Still her shoulder throbbed, insistent on proper care, but something about the berry juice was soothing. Whether they truly helped or not, they did take the edge off the symptoms. By tomorrow, she hoped she could walk half-decently without tearing it open, although it was probably impossible to descend from the mountains without doing so somewhere along the way. But she had Phaedra and Mahler; they would help her, and she would have to find some way to repay them both, in time.