Ankyra Sound the fault is not in our stars, but the moon; that idiot rock ruins everything

She’d wandered back to Drageda with her two friends, determined to make things work for them. They’d have a place for winter and can figure things out later but neither of them really wanted it. Saarthal disappeared within weeks and Max went after her, even after her own search turned up empty handed. She hates it, but she knows she failed the both of them—all of them—and nothing she does it going to make a difference. She has somewhere warm to be, at least, and Blixen doesn’t fault her for her friends leaving (maybe they’ll be back, but who is she kidding?).

As the day starts to fade out, the high noon sun turning into early afternoon (which may as well be evening, at this rate), Mallaidh finds herself outside of Drageda once more. It is no surprise that she wanders off, her own thoughts plaguing her until she’s driven out in an attempt to sort them for next time. She doesn’t know how to let things go and none of it ever gets any easier.

The sand is cold beneath her feet and she welcomes the change of terrain when she leaves it behind, slipping into the monolith forest. She never spent much time here prior to Grimnismal moving in but they’re gone now and no neighbors to worry about (she’s blissfully unaware of a bear having once ransacked this place). It’s been a long time since she’s seen Ingram, or anyone from that crew for that matter, and she doesn’t expect to again lest they foolishly try to come back. She doubts Drageda would allow them refuge a second time.

The forest is dark, what few rays of light coming in from up high, and she wanders through carefully this time.

arturo always finds himself on the returning to the coast; every time he returns to the teekon wilds; lured by the ghosts of what once was. he knows to block them out, taught by an old medicine woman and acclaimed soothsayer ( that panicked him as he worried if it might rouse witchdoctor from whatever slimy crevice of arturo's broken mind he was hiding in ).

you have a future fire eyes, she croaked to him one morning. it is not with the ghosts of your past.

his last departure was possibly his longest to date. at least, he thinks it is. for a while time had become an abstract concept to the gangster and the blur of months was merely that: a blur. spent piecing himself back together, dusting himself off and plotting his next course of life and where it would take him. naturally, it takes him back to teekon. it is where lotte is laid to rest, where his children still remain.

there is little light save the rays that break through the thickened canopy above but that hardly bothers the gangster. arturo moves through it with purpose. his place cannot be on the coast anymore. he must sever the lure that keeps drawing him back. ghosts are not my future. the move of teaghlaigh inland had been necessary at the time ...and though he hadn't known: prophetic. he must move inland now. it is that direction he heads only to hesitate. the briefest scent, familiar in many ways than one catches his attention.

mallaidh.

his hesitation prolongs as he wars with himself. should he try to find her? attempt to reconcile? would she want to see him? or would it be better that he didn't meddle. no doubt, she is doing fine on her own without his interference. but she is his child ( adult or not she will always be his daughter ) and paternal instincts make the decision for him.

molly? he calls out her name in question in his smoky timbre as she comes into his view and then he waits with bated breath, eyes of twin suns focusing upon her, watching carefully for her reaction.

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363 words

Mallaidh? she hears, instantly turning to the source. At first, she doesn’t see him—she hardly has time to figure out who said her name—but soon he steps out of seemingly nowhere. Pale eyes land on him when his form comes into view. Her jaw parts slightly, surprised to see him so close to home. Again.

It had been the last time she was part of Drageda, on the ridge where she’d last seen Roarke, and she doesn’t know how she feels that his father is on her doorstep. Tall ears fall back against her skull and she stares at him for several seconds, before answering.

Why are you quiet when family is near? she calls out, wishing her mother to show up and help her. Instead, she remains missing and vacant in her mind.

“Hey,” she says carefully, certain it is the only thing she can coherently form while she forces herself to stay in one spot. Their last meeting had been tense and angry, Arturo disowning her elder adopted sister. It had been then that he is not the same man she remembers as a child. Maybe he’d been the same wolf this whole time but a different face with his family. There’s no way to determine it as their family remains in shards spread out through the world. “Where have you been?” she asks, breath caught in her throat but she tries to stifle the cracking.

hey. she speaks the word with such care.

the gangster can hardly blame her for her uncertainty. their last reunion hadn't went as well as arturo had planned for. he is as much to blame for that as the cursed witchdoctor. lotte's death had brought arturo — on a pedestal so very high — down to the ruins of the earth he thought he'd left behind. lotte's death brought the gangster: ruthless, cunning, cold to his knees as it shook him to his core. his nightingale queen'd been his heart. it is still painful to think of, months ...or has it been a year now? ...later. perhaps he'll always grieve her and the hole she'd left in his blackened heart. if it beats now it is only to remind him that he's alive. he's still in the good fight. he's still fucking clever and cunning and the world is still his fucking oyster.

dust yourself free of the ashes of what once was. it is no more and never will be again.

hello, the gangster breaks his silence since calling out to her with a soft clear of his throat. while he'd always been good at talking ...talking about emotions ( or dealing with them, really ) had never been his forté. a twitch of the coywolf's ear is given as he considers her inquiry. if the place he'd taken temporary refuge while he nursed his broken heart and his broken mind had a name he didn't truly know it. hadn't cared to learn it. nursing wounds that i should have never left to fester. he does not elaborate, assuming that she will know exactly which wounds he refers to.

you've grown so much. arturo observes after a beat, not quite sure what they should talk about. he doesn't really know the woman his little spit-fire daughter had blossomed into and truth rung like a melancholic toll of a somber bell within him. how've you been? because he really doesn't want to talk about himself.

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335 words

Mallaidh knows the man in front of her is her father, was the husband to her mother, and will always hold a special place. They do not have a relationship now and she doubts they ever will. If he only pops up once every few seasons for short periods of time, she knows she can’t hold on to any of that. Étoille had been with her in her early days of Drageda and though he is not here now, he plays a bigger role than Arturo could ever fill.

She can pretend, though, for a little while. Once, she imagined all her family back in one piece, in the strath and prospering as they were always meant to be. These days, it’s hard to even remember she’d thought it at all. She hasn’t seen Eirlys or Ceallach in so long and Roarke no longer exists to her. And Reed?

Her heart strangles and she looks down to the ground so he doesn’t see the same very wounds still festering on her.

You’ve grown so much.

“Yeah, I…” she pauses, uncertain of what to say. Their last meeting had been too brief to even try and tell him about her life. About Drageda or Blixen or…

It’s not his fault he missed it all. Mallaidh stiffens, surprised that it is not her mother's voice.

“I’ve been okay.”

i've been okay.

it feels strange. strange to speak to her as if they are strangers who bump into one another a few times a year. strange because that's exactly what they are. strange because they shouldn't have been. he was her father. ...her biological father, at least. arturo'd always prided himself on the fact that his children were his redemption arc and now? now he couldn't even claim that.

the devil got no redemption arc. that was just how the world worked. the evil and the cruel stayed evil and cruel. there was no salvation offered, no quarter given.

the gangster's okay with it ...because he has to be. he fucked up. with the lotturos. with his and hemlock's children. he fucked up real bad and though he is apologetic for it he can't bring himself to say the words. they were just words. he couldn't go back and fix everything and here and now they might sound hollow or worse yet condescending.

good, the fearghal replies in a soft rasp, a firm nod of his head given. i'm glad to hear it. he is glad that she seems to be doing well for herself. that's all he, as a father, ever wanted for his children: to do well. to be happy.

Mallaidh realizes she cannot recognize the man from her memories. She knows it’s him but deep in her bones, she does not know the wolf standing in front of her. Her memories paint a man, big and strong, that kept her safe from harm. That played games with her and taught her things on the borders and secretly taught her how to say bad words in his native tongue when he thought they weren’t looking.

She remembers the man she was supposed to grow up with, to learn from, to be a proper heir for their home.

It’s not his fault.

Her jaw tightens and she looks away. No, it’s her fault. It’s always been her fault. As much blame as she puts on Roarke for their mother’s death, it is her fault their father stands before them a ghost of who he had been, of someone that will never come back. For a few seconds, she thinks fondly of Étoille, but guilt settles in deep and ugly.

“I should go,” she finally says as her breath hitches in her throat. He doesn't object, not that she expected him to, and she turns with an awkward smile to leave.