Fairspell Meadow shed every skin that no longer fits

for @Maegi

each step is a pained reminder to scarab that the world is oh-so-cruel. he'd assumed, given the state of the wilds, that he would find it littered with corpses fresh for the picking. he was wrong. though he had no issue with eating his own ilk when they were already in rigor mortis he doesn't have the desire to actually turn to hunting wolves — besides that, he thinks sourly, he's in not fit state to hunt much of anything. what little bit of food he's found since leaving the grove has been meager and mostly picked clean by greedy scavengers before him and far too scrawny for him to believe that the worst of famine was over.

he no longer knows — or cares — how long he's been moving or in what direction. he just knew that he had to keep moving. keeping moving has become his purpose. towards what? towards the sun and stars of his life but he didn't know where they were ( or where he was ) or if they were even still alive. even if they were he could not return to them like this: wounded, bruised, skin beginning to stretching gaunt over his ribcage.

he pauses to bow his head, readjust his grasp upon his prized petrified sandpiper, and once he is sure it is not in danger of slipping from between his jaws he pushes forward, into the tall grasses of the meadow, nose-blind to the scent of wolves lingering within its depths.

The poppies she'd cultivated so lovingly within Blackfeather Woods were not here. She doubted they would even survive here; the weather had turned cold, windy, the ground frosted over. She made intermittent trips back to the trees to her caches, furtively ingesting the black seeds before returning to the meadow.

She was in a constant daze, a drowsy, droopy state of being. Sakhmet and Sobek were kept within the field of her vision, even if they were merely dark shapes in the distance—but close enough that she could reach them if need be. Maybe. In grief and in intoxication, she dragged herself along, skirting the borders like the ghost her pale son once was—now, truly, was.

Maegi thought she was hallucinating upon seeing the child but upon coming further, his scent entered her nostrils, pungently briny. She walked his way, giving him a cursory look-over before she spoke. Young, not much older than her own three two children. Clutching a. . .

What on earth is that you have? she asked softly, more in wonder than in scorn. She met his tired gaze, a maternal warmth returning to eyes for days so dead. Who are you?

the woman that approaches him walks with a small gait — he notices that there is something wrong with her right forepaw and her face is twisted in a permanent grimace; his assessment is quick with a sweep of his lapis lazuli gaze that does not linger too long on any specific spot. she might not be the prettiest thing to look at ...but what were appearances? he was the golden prince ...the lost prince and scarab cannot help but fear that inside he's become something twisted and dark. he'd always had an affinity for dead things but the utter willingness to devour wolf flesh as if it were venison — regardless of how righteous he feels his cause was, regardless that he had not been the one to deal the killing blow — was monstrous. scarab knows this even if the consideration causes a shiver to slither down his spine. a chill but lacking the regret he suspects he should feel. the dark prince.

the warming look in her gaze as she asks her questions causes his breath to tremble around the petrified sandpiper within his grasp and the feeling that if he could cry he would. it reminds him of the suns of his life with a fierce longing for his mothers. he gently places the sandpiper against his forepaws. it's — my prize? which wouldn't be a lie. it'd once been the crown jewel of his collection. now it was all that was left of it. my prize. he settles for after all. it's all i have left.

scarab. my name is scarab.

My prize. It took her aback, slightly, but then she realized it wasn't completely out of the ordinary. Euron, after all, had collected things—Sobek, too, seemed to be taking after his uncle in that regard. And the artifact did look like something Maegi would bring to her god. Did he have the same inclinations. . .?

Scarab, she repeated, letting herself smile just barely. He looked exhausted to her, like he'd come a long way (and if he smelled of the sea, he must have). Come, Maegi invited, canting her head down a nearby rise. Sit with me for a while. Rest your paws.

If he followed, she would lead him to a small hollow that she'd deemed an impromptu rendezvous place. No trees, but some bushes, shelter from the keening wind. An overhang carved into the rolling landscape, perhaps large enough for two or three wolves to bundle together for warmth. Flowers, or at least the stems. The greenery was dying with the winter.

Maegi eased herself to the ground, laying sphinx-like, her forepaws stretched out before her. Where are you from, Scarab? she asked gently, once he had settled himself.

scarab's lapis lazuli gaze follows the gesture of her head as the woman invites him in to the rise she's motioned to. the prospect of resting his paws for a while sounds like heaven — amidst the other aches he has barely noticed that his paw pads have cracked and begun to bleed from the tireless traveling he's done. there is a part of him that warns him he should not be so trusting of strangers whose name he doesn't even know ...but he's in no condition to care. he offers a small nod of acceptance, snatching up his petrified sandpiper before trotting after her, mimicking her sphinx-like position across from her.

there is plenty of open space between them and gently he sets his crowning jewel betwixt his paws, salmon pink tongue drawing across his jowls once. scarab hesitates only briefly, unsure how much information about himself he should give. but ...what does it matter? for all he knew: his family perished in the tremors or the tsunami that followed; and if by some miracle they still lived for all they knew he was dead. the coast, he offers vaguely and then specifies a moment after rusalka. quietly.

Rusalka. The name rang a bell, and she racked her brain trying to remember. . .but no. Nothing came up. Just one of those coastal packs that weren't Undersea; she set it aside for later use. Wait, no! Hadn't Vaati mentioned he was once part of that group? She wondered if they knew each other, if Scarab was even old enough to know her brother.

A long way from home, Maegi sympathized, voice wistful as she thought of the sea. Are you lost? Can you not find your way back to them?

The timing was. . .something. A wayward boy, coming to her right on the heels of her own son's demise. She was tempted to scoop him up and keep him close, to not let him slip away—but that wouldn't be fair. Somewhere out there, a mother was mourning her missing son. She couldn't do that to anyone else.

scarab is quiet as she comments that he's a long way from home. he has been tossed around mercilessly by the sea, spent days gorging himself on his own ilk and wandering for so long that time and distance have begun blurry concepts to him. home. he doubts — after the tsunami — that home even exists anymore. he saw the damage done to the grove. it was hard to image than ankyra sound fared any better.

i — he swallows thickly against the words — for it is easier to think them then to say them aloud. to utter them out loud feels like a curse that once he says he cannot take back. there was a cave in. i got separated from the pack. and then the big wave hit and carried me out to sea. it spit me out in a grove to the south ...i found dead bodies when i awoke. i don't think the sound fared any better. he conveniently leaves out the part where he ate the one wolf corpse. for some reason that isn't something he's so willing to divulge. it was his monstrous little secret that he must keep close to his chest.

there, scarab thinks. it was a craftily worded way to admit to her that he thinks his family is dead without coming right out and saying it. surely, wording counted for everything when it came to 'curses'.

Oh, my. He had endured a lot, hadn't he? Maegi listened with a mournful expression, sad not only for the boy but for his family as well. Had any of them survived? She hoped so, for his sake, but from the gruesome picture he painted, it didn't seem likely. Scarab had been lucky to survive.

I'm sorry, she murmured, eyes fixed gently on his own brilliant blue gaze. If you need a place to stay. . . We've faced our own hardships lately, and I can't promise anything much in the way of food or shelter, but. . .

She really ought not to do this. But what other choice did she have? Turn the boy away? Maegi supposed some would, true. She thought of Indra, then, who'd had no obligation to help her in her time of greatest weakness—yet she did. Children should be loved, protected. It was only right.

She'd find a way to feed another small mouth.

scarab accepts the woman's condolences with a solemn look that quickly becomes forlorn. he allows the reality of his situation and what has likely befallen his family to settle in. 'curse' or not, speaking it aloud has forced it into a perspective for scarab that he cannot deny. perhaps another would keep going: would not stop scouring the wilds until he found them ...or until he didn't. but scarab was tired and sore and very much travel weary. he was in no condition to tear apart the wilds root by root looking for the sun and stars of his life — and this woman, whom has been nothing but kind to him is offering him a place to stay.

until his wounds heal he is not going to be much help to the pack, admittedly, and yet still she offers. her selflessness moves him in a way that no much has. his ears taper back slightly in thought, fluttering against his skull before cupping forward. he discreetly presses his nose briefly to his petrified sandpiper, weighing the gravity of it despite that he already knows his answer. i do, scarab says softly. when i'm strong enough i'll help in any way i can. he promises.

thank you. the words push from betwixt his lips, choked with the emotion he tries to decipher: gratitude mainly, relief that he will not have to keep trudging thru alone.

That was that, then. He promised to help and she allowed herself to smile again, happy for his fervency. Of course. But focus on getting strong again, first. I'll do what I can to help you. Maegi paused for a second, unsure if— No. It was okay. I was hurt once as a child. Someone helped me. I owe them my life. . .and I'd always do the same for a young one that walked across my border.

Her voice was sincere, strong. She already felt a connection with Scarab, and she hoped it was for his sake, and not just because she was feeling sentimental over her dead son. Anansi could never be replaced, but. . .this helped, somewhat.

This is Blackfeather— Her voice broke off abruptly, filled with uncertainty. Well. We lived in the woods, but they're not safe right now. I guess it's just called Blackfeather, now. The pack, that is. My name is Maegi. Her face relaxed again. I have children not much younger than you. Sakhmet and Sobek—they're twins. I hope you can meet them soon; I'm sure they'll help you settle in.

there it was again, that almost overwhelming feeling of gratitude that expands in his chest, making it feel tight ...and perhaps something else. this is a blood debt, a life bond. she is saving his life and thus he will owe her in ways that he may never be able to fully repay. though from everything he can tell, maegi means this as a simple act of kindness: a repayment of her own blood debt towards the pack that had helped her as a child but this is how scarab perceives it. he has always adhered to a strict view of 'gifts'. a 'gift' must be repaid with something of equal value in his mind. usually, a favor. but this was the ultimate gift. a common favor wouldn't possible do. at the very least, she deserved his unwavering loyalty.

i will, scarab assures her — a bit late — to her words of him focusing on regaining his strength. his gaze flits from her towards the stretch of meadow behind her, letting the words she speaks sink in. the pack, blackfeather. her name, maegi. her children, sakhmet and sobek — their names reminding him a bit of his own. scarab subconsciously nuzzles the petrified sandpiper for a brief second, drawing comfort from the dead thing, and glimpses back to maegi where his gaze rests. i think i will rest for a bit and then maybe i'll look for your twins... he says and then hesitates. if that's alright? he asks a moment later, never having a situation before where his confidence wavered.

this isn't rusalka, scarab reminds himself. it was blackfeather. and he would have to learn his place here and where he would come to fit in.

Of course, she murmured, noting the weariness in his face, his voice. The boy needed a good rest. Food, when she could find it. And, yes, friends. Sobek and Sakhmet desperately needed friends, now, too. Whether or not they would be open to the idea of another companion was on them, but at least Maegi could steer Scarab in their direction.

She rose, a little unsteadily, to her paws. Everything was unsteady these days, from the ground up. Let me know if you ever need anything, Maegi told him, her eyes kind. I'm around. Physically, at least.

With a nod to the newest Blackfeather (but for how long?) she moved away, leaving him to slumber. Perhaps she would sleep some, herself—though she doubted it, with the horrific dreams she'd been having as of late.

thankfully, scarab notes, maegi does not seem to have issue with him wanting to rest. though, for the most part, scarab was left unbothered by any lone wolves that might've been roaming around the areas he's travelled thru he is looking forward to the ability to sleep without worrying about finding himself at the mercy of another's teeth. though, telling them that he would eat them ( not in any form a bluff ) if they didn't leave him alone might've been enough to ward off the weaker ones.

i will, scarab assures her. thank you, again. eventually, he would have to think of a way he might best return the favor of saving his life but for now ...he would rest up and when he was well enough he would begin assimilating himself to his new life in blackfeather. wearily, he pushes himself to his paws once more, unable to hide the wince at the sting from the cuts on his paw-pads and heads deeper in territory to a secluded and partially hidden place where he shuffles about for a bit and settles down to sleep, his petrified sandpiper tucked protectively and possessively against the curve of his chest.