Duck Lake Girl use me while you can, I’m all yours

@Marten

Each step brought with it a dull ache, muscles bruised and their healing process drawn out; he was being stubborn at this point, honestly. There were places he could go, wolves he could learn to feel comfortable around, yet he remained out in the valley on his own. Winter was fast-approaching, snow covering the ground and bodies of water freezing over—each day was colder than the last and the prey seemed reluctant to make its return, a hare here and there the only source of meat he was able to find and catch.

Alexander made his way to the lake, what was previously a marsh now frozen solid, returning to the way it was before disaster struck; it wouldn’t be what it once was, not for a long time, but it was getting there. And the development was happening quickly enough that he felt comfortable maneuvering through the territory again, travelling aimlessly across the earth.

the lake was not far from the yearling, who's lids had grown heavier the last few days than they had ever been -- it was the lack of sleep, he'd reckoned, but he'd run out of poppy seeds as quickly as he'd come by them, and sleep did not come easy to him sober, not since indra's death. what a mess he'd become. all in a few weeks. first, the constant moping. then the attempt at revival. indra wouldn't have wanted him to suffer. he needed to go somewhere else. and yet, when he did, it seemed everything got worse. he should've stayed. he should've made her stay. 

burden swells within his breast, paws heavy as he pads out of the wood. even in the spacious home he has now, marten struggles to breath. it catches in his throat and pulls at his tongue. and yet, his nostrils flare, and white steam pillows from his breathe. he cannot ail the demon that lives in his soul. grief. pity. anger. his head spins, eyes narrow -- no, is it the world that's spinning? the lake? surely it's just another tremor ready to knock him off his feet...

still. frozen. marten's entire being falls silent, for once, as the familiar silhouette of a man who he had long forgotten... or had he? he was so clear now, before him, marten doesn't doubt for a second that he knows who this is. we failed her, he calls across the frozen lake, letting his words echo across the empty landscape. indra had been wrong -- he was no better than his father. they were one in the same.

Absentminded, absent even in soul. There was no reason for him to be there, not really. Perhaps it was the memories, distant thoughts of better times, that drew him there; he couldn’t be sure, to evaluate his situation required more time and effort than he could afford to give. But he was there, all the same, either way, no reason making him more inclined to stay than another. Something grounded him there, the scene of the lake glistening as its surface held fast to the flakes coating it, his gaze falling out of focus—

—and then refocusing just as swiftly as his sights previously failed him, ears pricked atop his head as a voice drifted past them.

We failed her.

He couldn’t recognise the voice, his octaves dropped since his childhood, yet somehow he knew even before looking who it was: Marten. His first son and the last of them to remain, as far as he was aware; he was the only boy—no, the only child—that Indra had ever mentioned was still around back when…

“You didn’t,” he called back, turning his head to watch the boy. “I was the one to fail her. Her and Laurel both.” Marten couldn’t carry that with him, not when he wasn’t at fault. No one was, only Xan—it was all his fault, that wouldn’t change.

the fault shifts to xan, or so the man claims -- leaving marten's ear to swivel in uncertainty. disbelief, maybe, but no shock was involved. 

it's not your burden alone, the yearling corrects swiftly. so did her father, and her mother -- and every single one of her children. marten used to not include himself in the list -- but he couldn't say now that he didn't belong. his gaze focuses upon the other pale wolf. their stature, by now, is almost identical. had indra not died, to see his father now... so similar to himself... it might've breathed a fire into one of his greatest fears. but he was already living it, wasn't he? 

his gaze flickers, once, towards the ground, thinking. now what? what was he supposed to say? he wasn't angry with his father. they weren't close, not to any degree, and marten blamed him for a lot of his mothers trauma... but he didn't call him down to fight... his nose twitches, suddenly pulling apart from his grief and his attempt at... god he didn't even know. 

you're injured, he says with a flick of his ear, his brow furrowing, why?

It didn’t take long for a correction to be made, albeit one that the man did not agree with; how he saw it, it was his burden to bear alone and no one else should suffer beneath the weight of it. He was the one to cause pain, the one to bring sorrow and distress. Was there anyone out there to have met him, to have gotten close to him, and then walked away feeling better about themselves? There was no one he could name, not a single face he could place—because wherever Alexander went, discord followed.

“And it’s not your burden at all,” he returned. “She raised you well, you could never fail her.” Xan was grateful for Indra having taken the boy under her wing, for raising him as if he was truly her own. When his birth mother abandoned him, she stepped in and took over that role—hell, she became his sole parent, raising Marten better than his father ever could. “I couldn’t even help her raise my own children…” Another weight to bear upon his shoulders, another stone cast and the scales long since tipped over. No, the boy should never think he failed her—she deserved better than his regrets, for all she did in life.

The focus shifted to him, then, a remark made that caused his body to stiffen—a regrettable tension, meshing with the ache in his shoulder and deepening the discomfort. “I got into a fight,” he answered, slowly relaxing as he spoke. “It isn’t serious.” Not that he expected him to care; Alexander left him to be raised by Indra, never to spend time looking after or raising his own flesh and blood, so why would he care? He was one of many that the albino let down, someone that he abandoned when he should have stayed close.

i didn't want you to raise me, returned marten, still as a stone, save for the single flick of an ear. you were there until we left you. he was feeling sorry for himself, and marten didn't blame him. but for what? indra was dead. there was nothing either of them could do now. the words clung in the back of his throat, he didn't have the energy to fight about this; if i didn't fail her, then why is she dead? what use was there, anyhow? 

his brow furrowed at the mention of a fight, his tail swishing. why did you fight? he asked, before motioning him forward, i'm a healer, let me look at it.

I didn't want you to raise me, the boy returned. Alexander clenched his teeth, biting back his own remark; deep down, he knew anything he said either wouldn’t matter or would be birthed from misdirected anger. He kept quiet and, perhaps, let Indra down again by doing so; she told him once that Marten was his only surviving child, that he was the reason to fix things in his life. But now that he was there, meeting with his son for the first time in months, he couldn’t find the words he knew he should say. Shrouded by the recent onslaught of grief, they were hidden from him in some corner of his mind.

Not that it mattered much either way, the topic of conversation shifted.

“Some boy challenged me,” he answered. “It’s not that bad.” Xan remained glued to the ground when the yearling motioned him over, hesitant; for some time now, the albino was cautious of those proclaiming to be healers, skeptical of the plants they all seemed so eager to utilise. But… perhaps it was time to get over that—or, at the very least, try. Drawing in a breath, he approached the other male and turned his head, offering a full visual of the puncture wounds on his neck. “Usually these things just heal on their own,” he admitted. “Not my first fight or wounds.” At this point, he couldn’t recall when those firsts were or who they were with.