He was very worried. He hadn't seen dad for a few days and that was not normal at all. At first, Pheiros thought maybe he had just wandered somewhere farther than usual, even though it wasn't really like him to just disappear. But the continued and worsening rumbling made him fear that maybe something had happened. What if he was trapped somewhere? Or hurt?
He probably should have alerted Arbiter or Terance...maybe asked them for help looking, but he was beside himself with worry, and had just taken off from the hollow to search for his father. Cold, white stuff had collected in the field he now wandered through. Had he been in better spirits, it would have excited him, and he would have asked his dad lots of questions about it. The thought made his chest tighten.
A familiar scent caught his attention, making him wrinkle his nose; it was the way the caches smelled sometimes when the older stuff needed to be cleared. He didn't automatically think much of it until he saw a strangely-shaped heap just ahead of him. It was dusted with the white stuff as well, but a tuft of what looked like golden fur billowed in the cold breeze. He swallowed and slowly moved closer, noticing then the dried blood in places where the white stuff had been disturbed by the wind.
It was like his senses realized what he was looking at before he could truly process it because a flicker of dread made his heart race as he neared the strange mound. He soon wished he hadn't come here at all. The sight before him was horrific, and he suddenly became sick, turning to empty his stomach on the ground. The face—his face. It was still mostly intact, enough for Pheiros to know right away that it belonged to his father. But it was lifeless. Not smiling at him warmly like he ways did. He was only able to get a brief glimpse of his body before he felt sick again. He turned and vomited once more, this time, closing his eyes and falling back on his haunches. Even if he had only laid eyes on his father's mangled body briefly, the images was burned into his mind, and he could see it painted onto his eyelids now. The way what was left of his insides seemed to just have spilled out from his stomach—one of his legs missing, appearing to have been ripped from its socket—his blood frozen to the ground where it had pooled around him—he clamped his teeth together so hard that it hurt, a pained grunt forcing it's way out. This wasn't real. How could it be? He was a good son. He mostly followed the rules and he tried to always do the right thing. He was supposed to be with his dad; they were a team. So this wasn't real; he would open his eyes, and there would be nothing there.
After a few seconds, he finally gathered the strength to lift his eyelids and look upon the scene once more. Nothing had changed. His father still lay there, dead and ripped open. It was suddenly hard to breath, and he could feel bile moving up from his stomach. He didn't know what to do, so he sat there, gasping for air before finally getting up and sprinting away. He couldn't bear to see it one second longer. He wasn't sure how long he ran but eventually, he collapsed into a pile of cold white stuff and sobbed for what felt like hours, until he had no tears left. And then he just lied there numb and exhausted and broken.
The sun had started to lower in the sky before he finally stirred. When did he get so cold? And how long had he been there? He didn't know. He wanted to stay there until he fell asleep, but something in him told him he should get up and go home. He ignored it at first, perfectly content to never move again, but the urge got stronger and stronger. Idly, he wondered what dad would say if he saw him here like this. He would be worried for sure, and he would tell him to get up and go home. So that's what he did. Just in case dad was watching from somewhere. He wouldn't want to worry him.
He probably should have alerted Arbiter or Terance...maybe asked them for help looking, but he was beside himself with worry, and had just taken off from the hollow to search for his father. Cold, white stuff had collected in the field he now wandered through. Had he been in better spirits, it would have excited him, and he would have asked his dad lots of questions about it. The thought made his chest tighten.
A familiar scent caught his attention, making him wrinkle his nose; it was the way the caches smelled sometimes when the older stuff needed to be cleared. He didn't automatically think much of it until he saw a strangely-shaped heap just ahead of him. It was dusted with the white stuff as well, but a tuft of what looked like golden fur billowed in the cold breeze. He swallowed and slowly moved closer, noticing then the dried blood in places where the white stuff had been disturbed by the wind.
It was like his senses realized what he was looking at before he could truly process it because a flicker of dread made his heart race as he neared the strange mound. He soon wished he hadn't come here at all. The sight before him was horrific, and he suddenly became sick, turning to empty his stomach on the ground. The face—his face. It was still mostly intact, enough for Pheiros to know right away that it belonged to his father. But it was lifeless. Not smiling at him warmly like he ways did. He was only able to get a brief glimpse of his body before he felt sick again. He turned and vomited once more, this time, closing his eyes and falling back on his haunches. Even if he had only laid eyes on his father's mangled body briefly, the images was burned into his mind, and he could see it painted onto his eyelids now. The way what was left of his insides seemed to just have spilled out from his stomach—one of his legs missing, appearing to have been ripped from its socket—his blood frozen to the ground where it had pooled around him—he clamped his teeth together so hard that it hurt, a pained grunt forcing it's way out. This wasn't real. How could it be? He was a good son. He mostly followed the rules and he tried to always do the right thing. He was supposed to be with his dad; they were a team. So this wasn't real; he would open his eyes, and there would be nothing there.
After a few seconds, he finally gathered the strength to lift his eyelids and look upon the scene once more. Nothing had changed. His father still lay there, dead and ripped open. It was suddenly hard to breath, and he could feel bile moving up from his stomach. He didn't know what to do, so he sat there, gasping for air before finally getting up and sprinting away. He couldn't bear to see it one second longer. He wasn't sure how long he ran but eventually, he collapsed into a pile of cold white stuff and sobbed for what felt like hours, until he had no tears left. And then he just lied there numb and exhausted and broken.
The sun had started to lower in the sky before he finally stirred. When did he get so cold? And how long had he been there? He didn't know. He wanted to stay there until he fell asleep, but something in him told him he should get up and go home. He ignored it at first, perfectly content to never move again, but the urge got stronger and stronger. Idly, he wondered what dad would say if he saw him here like this. He would be worried for sure, and he would tell him to get up and go home. So that's what he did. Just in case dad was watching from somewhere. He wouldn't want to worry him.
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