Arrow Lake i hit a wall, i never felt so low, so low

Though her intention had always been to come to her father's graveside alone, River regretted the choice the minute she had set foot onto Diaspora's former stomping grounds. Everything stood out to her, almost painfully so: every bird and squirrel she heard alerting in the trees, every scrape of gravel and spring grass beneath her paws, and every shaft of clouded light reaching down to the hallowed ground set her senses ablaze. But more than anything, she felt hyper-aware of her heart beating dully inside her chest. She worried that it might stop at any moment.

The closer she came to her destination, the slower she moved.

Until, at last, she came upon the path she had taken many times as a child; a faded footpath that led from the densite she was raised in to the resting place of Stigmata. About halfway between both places, she stood still, suddenly unable to move any closer or retreat further away.

Wylla was at the gravesite.

Not that she was aware of it. Mahler kept that part of his life under lock and key, and she never asked Stag much about his father, either. When she joined Diaspora, they had already moved to the hollow, and they were there only a short time before Mahler teamed up with Wintersbane to form Sagtannet on the spire. She knew very little of the fabled Stigmata. Only his name, really.

The real reason she was here was the great vantage point it provided. From here she could see well out into the taiga. Not so far as Rivenwood's dwelling in the bypass, but far enough to settle any unease she might have.

A cramp rippled ominously through her belly, forcing Wylla to draw a sharp breath. Very soon, she would need to retreat to the heart of the hollow to prepare, but until then she was restless. When it settled, the tiny she-wolf turned back down the winding path toward home, but came to an abrupt stop on the way and bristled defensively when she spotted the earthy woman standing in her way.

this is as short as i could get it lmao <3

If asked, River would not be able to say for certain how long she had stood there, frozen by haunted memories and inconceivable emotion, but it felt like an eternity. Like her claws had turned into roots, anchoring her to the spot forever. She thought she might fossilize onto the trail; a statue for all to see. The placard would read: Here stands River -- a wolf petrified by her own thoughts. Too lily-livered to go on.

She was saved from her self-inflicted suspension by the approach of another. River's head turned sharply, succinctly followed by the rest of her as she moved to face the she-wolf. She felt caught in a particularly vulnerable moment, and her spine bristled as she readied herself to lash out violently in an effort to diminish the perceived embarrassment. Her instinct to attack was further vindicated by the other's one-eyed countenance, which only made her opponent appear more antagonistic in her head than she did in reality.

Had the wind been in her favor, she might have recognized the scent that Mahler had worn on him like cologne and stopped there, but the Sandraudiga only growled. She began to size up the small wolf, preparing to take advantage of her obvious blind spot and go for the...

She made a surprised face at the sight of her belly and stepped back. The pregnancy seemed almost glaring to River now, given the other's naturally slim build, and her shoulders slumped as she gave up the fight before it had even begun. 

Bitterness and jealousy both reared their ugly heads to whisper in her ear.

You should leave, she huffed. This place is haunted.

River's reaction catalyzed an immediate one in Wylla, who, despite her size, was a fierce scrapper. Her hackles lifted all along the thin line of her back and she peeled up her lips, revealing gnashing teeth. She believed her age to be an asset. This other bitch was younger by a considerable amount. Losing her eye had diminished her skill somewhat, but she still felt confident in her ability to neutralize this threat, and she had plenty of motivation for not holding back in the form of her bloated midriff.

Then River seemed to recollect herself and sag. Wylla assumed River stepped back out of sheer intimidation. It would be a first, but it was the only thing that made sense to her, since she had taken no notice of the other's flabby belly. Good. Fuck this bitch for immediately going on the offensive.

A warning. Wylla scoffed. You meet enough real monsters, you stop being afraid of ghosts. Seems you haven't faced many.

This one wasn't too smart was she? Heavily pregnant, the stranger's best bet would have been to call for back-up or at least put more distance between herself and an aggressor, but she chose to do neither. River was nonplussed, admiring her bravery while still of the mind that this was an overly risky move on the mother's part. A crueler part of her wanted to pop this cow's belly like a balloon and watch as she was deflated by her own choices, but the unborn innocents stalled her. She only sighed, and her tail lashed as the reckless harpy spoke.

I didn't say anything about ghosts, River wanted to say. She had anticipated her words to evoke a question about lingering spirits, if only so she could then deliberately correct the assumption. The Sandraudiga considered herself to be the haunter of this place, and she would see it free of interlopers forever, if she could wield the power to do so.

But the thought of monsters versus ghosts was a subjective topic she felt quite opinionated about. It was more compelling to her than goading the round wolf into a bout concerning presumptuousness and semantics, at any rate.

Hogwash. Monsters can be killed, she snorted. Unless you're too weak. Though, I can see why you'd be worried about them. Seems like you let a monster get the best of you, once or twice. Unsmiling, River winked her right eye, for good measure.

Wylla had played this game enough times to know exactly what River was doing, and she was old enough now that she would not rise to it. Another wolf had done much the same not so long ago, but then she had been too depressed. Now she was content — not exactly happy, but nowhere near as sad as she was — and it was her contentment that tempered the worst of Wylla's flaring temper now. That, and recognizing River for the same wolf she had once been, and knowing how to deal with herself.

The loss of her eye still troubled her and it was a low blow for anyone to make, but she snorted where once she would have shouted. Who said anything about worrying? I live. I vanquished my monsters, and all the made up ghosts with them. She had never seen the bitch who took her eye again, leaving Wylla to conclude that she was dead. Have you?

Wylla recognized herself in River, and wondered what had happened in this one's life to turn her so bitter, so young, but she didn't give a shit enough to ask. She didn't care about the skeletons in River's closet, or at least told herself she didn't, if only to spare herself reliving her own life in someone else's voice.

Edited to add a TW and correct an autocorrect >.>

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River grew more and more incensed as she perceived herself losing ground to the masked mother. She felt much like a child, indignantly arguing about the existence of Santa. They're not made up! They're not made up! They're not made up, she seethed, now personally affronted and suddenly furious.

She wouldn't give this swashbuckling skunk the satisfaction of answering her question directly, though the answer was an obvious and resounding no. River had not vanquished her ghosts. Not by a long shot. She spat, if you think ghosts can just be vanquished then you've never watched your children die. It was a wonder that she didn't explode. Tears pricked the edges of her eyes, but she didn't stand down. Have you? River snarled.

Things got awkward real fast.

Wylla begged to differ the nature of ghosts, but there was still a small, girlish part of her that did believe. It was the same part that sent up red sirens in her head whenever she thought of Ankyra Sound and the grotto. The same part that turned sharply from any thought of Caiaphas now that she knew the witch was dead. If ghosts were not real, as Wylla preferred to think, then what was she afraid of?

It was a lightbulb moment when River mentioned children. She had taken no note of the other's figure before now, but suddenly it was like the sagging tits were outlined in luminescent yellow highlighter. Wylla was not often capable of empathy — that vital life skill was struck from her from a very young age — but she felt a sharp pang of regret now, even though River had chosen to start this whole nonsense conversation.

Tiercel had not died, but her children had. They were buried beneath the dogwood tree.

Thade had not died, but when he returned, a part of him was lost forever.

She didn't answer the question because she didn't owe River any sort of explanation, but she tongued her teeth and then said, they can haunt you or live on in your heart. You get to choose. None of it would ever bring them back to life, but if River chose to view them as ghosts and not guardian angels, then that was her bleak decision to make.

As soon as the words left her mouth, she instantly felt exposed and idiotic. 

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she recognized regret forming like a stone in her gut, sickening her. A part of River tried to rein in the rest of her, but all semblance of prior self-control had gone out the window since the day she had fled Thistlewood; a storm brewed inside her, and the seas of her unchecked temper started to slosh mightily -- threatening to spill over.

They can haunt you or live on in your heart. You get to choose.

She winced at the she-wolf's words, and all the hateful wind behind her began to pour through a yawning hole in her sail. She wished she were a dumber wolf in that moment. Someone incapable of introspection. She thought she might have preferred to fight unjustly and have remorse over it later -- or none at all -- rather than to already know wholeheartedly that she was in the wrong.

It was painfully humiliating to understand that her anger was misdirected, even as she directed it towards this complete stranger. Her embarrassment seemed to go on infinitely, and she agonized in that eternal moment over all the things she should have done differently up to this point.

As the waters of River Sandraudiga began to calm, she choked back her misery and tucked away her whipped expression. She could no longer meet the other wolf's eye. I don't see the difference, she said with a soft shake of her head, before turning northbound in a hasty trot to avoid further mortification.

Maybe there was no difference when it happened to you. Wylla had no further words to offer to the deflated wolf, who turned hastily and departed. She watched River go with a silent shrug, then made her way back to the hollow. It was the first and last time she would visit Diaspora's old stomping grounds; she didn't need another run in with that cuckoo clock of a wolf.