Otter Creek Blood Stains on the Collar Means Just Don’t Ask

The Snowbird woman descended upon Herod like a squall. Her shrill and indignant voice rose in a flurry of squawks, demanding his attention. Yet he did not deign to respond, only drawing his head back as her words lashed at him like the beating of wings. The faintest curl of his lips and set jaw betrayed his restraint. The elder's golden eyes fixed coldly upon her, watching from beneath the heavy shadow of his brow. There was no need for words. Her fury would burn itself out, as such things always did.

When at last she stormed away, her indignation trailing behind her like a dissipating gust, Herod’s gaze followed her briefly before he turned, shaking his head with a tsk.

There was no rush. The boy--his boy--had not gotten far. Could not get far in his current condition. Through the tangle of leaves and branches, he saw him--Hasdrubal, struggling against his fate. Herod’s expression softened; amusement tempered with sorrow. He would wait. He had always been patient, and this moment was no different. The boy’s efforts would cease soon enough, and when he turned to face his reality, Herod would be there.

The Abbot would wait until the boy’s futile resistance ebbed, and his eyes--those striking, unnatural opals--met his own gaze. The lion stepped forward, his movements slow, as though not to startle the boy further. With a gentle flourish, he removed the alligator-hide cloak from his shoulders, laying it carefully upon the ground.

Hello, Hasdrubal, Herod's voice, though gentle, carried the weight of worlds. It was a greeting filled with a quiet, somber attachment. He lowered himself to sit upon the hide, smoothing it beneath his silvering paw.

I had hoped, he began, his words rich with regret, that when we met again, it would be under better circumstances. There was no denying the distance that had grown between them--an ocean's worth of mistrust and fear. A faint sigh escaped him as his gaze remained locked upon the boy’s face.

I can see that during our time apart, you have grown to fear me. Worse still, you have come to believe your own falsehoods, to twist our past into something it never was. Herod’s voice faltered momentarily before regaining its strength, still calm despite the ache within. 

There was hurt in his expression, carved into the lines of his aging face. The last time we stood before one another, it was...unfortunate, I will admit. But you must remember, Hasdrubal--you were the one to first spill blood. You were not imprisoned out of cruelty but for your own protection and for the safety of all those who would have suffered had you not been contained. His words were measured, and his golden gaze never left Hasdrubal’s, as though trying to reach some deeper understanding.

There was no anger in Herod’s voice, only a profound weariness after years of devotion and a year of struggle and heartache. All I have ever wanted, he said softly, was what was best for Godsmouth…what was best for you. The sincerity in his tone was undeniable, a plea wrapped in layers of authority and care. He reached out then, his paw resting gently upon Hasdrubal’s shoulder, the touch both familiar and strange after so long. I am willing to forgive, he whispered, the words carrying the weight of a promise. Come to your senses, Hasdrubal. Return home. We can be as we once were. Together—Prophet and Abbot, as it was always meant to be.

Herod’s golden eyes searched the boy’s face, his expression a mixture of hope and sorrow, as though daring to believe that some fragment of their old bond still remained.