Wapun Meadow Tiny Flower Swaying in Your Palm

The memories caused the argent boy to wonder. He wondered what his brother was up to, who of his family still lived, as well as how they were all doing. It was a terrible thing to be taken from them, which was all he could think when it first happened. He had wanted to return home, to walk on familiar land once more, but knew the chances of that happening to be slim to none. The humans that had brought him to the strange land received nothing but his hatred at first, but now that he'd had the time to explore such a place, and meet such kind wolves, he might only tear off a finger or two if he'd ever been forced to meet them again. Might, though, he couldn't confirm those words for himself. "I wanted to return for awhile," Alastor told her. "Now, though, I'm content here. Even if I don't have a family here, I intend to find one, and the land still interests me enough to want to stay until I do."

Alastor could still remember the flowers that grew around his family's old den site, as well as the look of crimson given to the petals the one night. The memory, the image, was pushed from his mind instantly, not wanting to remember such things. Instead, he focused on all the good he remembered. The lessons on flowers and some other plants, rolling around in the little fields and meadows with his siblings and, sometimes, his mother. It had been fun, and he did miss it, but knew he couldn't go back. It was an impossible task, unless he'd somehow manage to grow gills and cross the ocean to get back to Pelion. Impossibility aside, he didn't want to return. Not entirely, anyways. In the Wilds, there seemed to be more kind wolves than anything, leaving him with no reason to have to act out; unlike back home.

Icy orbs held understanding in them when the female spoke of the similarity between flowers and memories. She was right about them growing within one's mind, as well as their heart. "But not all memories wilt like flowers tend to do," he added. Some memories were quick to die and fade away, but others stayed, and some were forced away. A memory could be destroyed, trampled on and pushed away, just as easily as a flower. Both were so delicate, and both needed to be cared for and watched after, so as not to fade away. "Memories just don't return each Spring. When they're gone, that's it."