Phoenix Maplewood string in my hands tethered to faceless friends

remedies. temptation and nausea crawl up his spine in sickly tendrils, so closely intertwined they are all but the same. remedies... but at what cost? a shiver flutters over his small frame as he tries to imagine it. in his mind's eye he sees death, and he feels emptiness. and... guilt, unexpectedly. for all that he is twisted and lacking, he is aware, too, of how he came to be this way. born broken, yes, but not irredeemable; not until later, long after those who had given him life failed him time and again.
perhaps he is not equipped to give his children all that his parents had failed to give him. but he can't help but feel that this alone does not absolve him of the responsibility, the desire to try. it is by his actions, his mistakes that these children live, however small their lives might be for now. and while another wolf might make another choice, while he would not fault them for it (perhaps it would be better to nip tragedy in the bud, prevent suffering before it becomes tangible), he knows within moments that he cannot take the man's offer.
he doesn't want this, but it is no longer just about what he wants. it's about redemption. not for him, and certainly not for his parents. redemption for a concept he can't name, an ideal he has held tightly to his chest since the day he decided that parents suck ass and their kids deserve better.
redemption, perhaps, for the better that so many children never got.

he shakes his head, swallowing hard. thanks, but... no, he can't explain it, wouldn't want to even if he could. there's more intimacy in his convictions than in his defects, somehow. easier to flaunt the broken pieces, hide any thin weakling sprouts of goodness within him. wintersbane is... busy. with the half dozen women he knocked up. he probably doesn't even know about me yet. bitterness, yes; that's definitely easier.