The morning was warmer than Crete had initially expected, the scent of wet earth creeping into the muggy, damp air within the darken confines of his den. Ears twitched as he stirred awake, the sounds of raindrops cascading onto the bracken that covered the ground, a tell-tale sign -- even before Crete had became awake enough to glimpse outside -- that a light rain was falling. It was normally a soothing sound, yet it brought with it no comfort. Blacktail Deer Plateau did not bring him the comforts of a home, not even with his brothers’ presence. It was hard to consider a place home when Crete was left with the resolute feeling that his concerns and opinions were inherently unwelcome by his alpha female. Crete had grown up in a pack where pack members were encouraged to give their opinion, and to state anything that was troubling them. To Crete, hearing of concerns and, even disapproval at times, helped Alphas to grow. Just because they were the leaders of a pack did not automatically mean they knew everything, and could do no wrong. If Hawkeye wasn’t willing to hear those things, no matter if she liked them or not -- and the fact that she had shot petty words, throwing Flightless Falcons back in his face with a well aimed low blow, as if she had any clue of what really happened proved that she had not liked Crete’s concerns or opinions -- then …well aside from challenging her, Crete hadn’t thought much further than that. Yet, he was not certain he could act upon it. He did not want to leave his brothers, but at the same time was not sure he could continue living under Hawkeye’s rule. He was reluctant, despite Peregrine’s promotion to alpha male, to continue to give her a second chance even so. And if he were to challenge Hawkeye, how would Peregrine react? Would he have to fight his brother, too? Not that, in all truth, Crete would be able to do anything, if he did challenge her and happen to win. It wasn’t like a mute could lead a pack or anything.
He was frustrated. Beyond frustrated he was sick. Sick of always being looked down upon, sick of being pitied because of his muteness, sick of being torn down when he voiced something that bothered him because it wasn’t right, because it wasn’t what someone wanted to hear. Crete was an individual, capable of forming opinions and feelings. He wasn’t going to agree blindly, like some sort of mindless slave. Beyond sick, Crete was tired. Tired of fighting the inner turmoil within him. Tired of never knowing what the right thing was. It would have, admittedly, been easier if Tyrannus had just killed him. Crete had not realized how opinionated he truly was until he was forced to have to deal with consequences of them, and while he could blame his attitude on his abrupt mood swings, borne of the festering wound Tyrannus’ betrayal had left in it’s wake but that was not entirely true. He was plenty conscious of his feelings, of how he expressed things in his body language.
A sigh, heavy in nature, exposing the true weight of the burdens he bore as he crept out of his den, recoiling slightly as the cool rain splashed upon his pelt and began to saturate the silken tendrils of his fur. What am I supposed to do, father? Sea green eyes glimpsed up at the monotone colored sky, looking for a sign -- any sort of sign that Aether was up there somewhere and that wherever he was, he was listening and willing to help.
