Whitefish River always protect ya neck

It was hard to keep Drago's spirits up when he was so rooted to one place because of his injuries. Verx tried his best, but he was all too aware he still fell short. It would take a monumental effort to get his son back to even somewhat normal. . .and for all his size, all his brute strength, even this task was too huge.

But he'd keep trying. That's all he could do was to keep trying, one day at a time.

Hei, Drago, he called softly into the early evening, approaching the place where the boy could usually be found. His words were muffled; in his mouth, he carried a long, browned-with-age bone, still glittering from the stream where he'd found it. Little did Verx know that it was a mere fragment of what it once was. To him, it was still quite impressive.

And he thought it might interest his son as well. Look at this, Vercingetorix said, smiling as he set the curved relic upon the grass a tail's length or so away from Dragomir. Where do you think it came from?

for @Dragomir and/or @Isilmë

Dragomir wished he cared more about the goings on of Kaistleoki, or what was happening with his family. Though he visibly brightened up whenever Isilmë visited him, the same couldn't be said when his parents did. Sometimes he was brightened by them, sometimes not. It wasn't that he was angry with them; he'd just become so used to being unable to rely on them that he refused to stake anything on them. They still left often, leaving him on his own for large chunks of the day, and now they didn't seem to speak to one another at all. The days bled together for Dragomir, so he was slow to notice that. When he did, it was with a defeated sort of apathy that he placed the final brick into a wall around his heart, blaming himself for not being good enough for them.

Vercingetorix's arrival pleased Dragomir, if only because sometimes he was hopeful that things would change, that maybe one day he would be good enough. He was certainly interested in the long browned bone his father brought with him, and did his best to arrange his features into something conveying that. It fell short, of course. He smiled rarely these days, partially due to his trauma and partially due to this apathy he had found, but his eyes did light up at the sight of it, so perhaps Vercingetorix would take that as a victory.

Yet when the man asked where Dragomir thought it came from, the boy could only shrug (the scars on his nape no longer pained him) and flatly say, I dunno. A moose?

Verx didn't miss the light in his son's eyes. He usually wasn't very attuned to shit like that, but he'd been so focused on Drago's day-to-day (even if from a distance) that seeing the spark made him happy. The flat tone was what it was; Vercingetorix could roll with it.

Big-ass moose, he joked, grinning. His mouth twisted as he looked down at the. . .thing, which did look like part of an antler. Just a massive antler. I dunno. I don't think I've seen a moose this big. Must be some sort of fairy tale beast.

He shrugged, settling down on his belly and stretching his legs before him. How are you feeling? he asked, his smile growing kinder, more sincere.

Flat and mistrustful and unattached to Vercingetorix as Dragomir felt on the inside, he also felt a little better each and every day, and that made it easier to muster a small smile for the man's joke. Big-ass moose, indeed. He might never be the same wolf he was meant to be prior to Sanguinus' deceit, but someday, if things kept improving the way they were, perhaps he would reach a semblance of normal once more; and being a kid, it was impossible not to marvel at the size of the fictional beast whose antler may have produced this tine.

It was equally impossible to deny that his passion lay in this—he was a hunter through and through and he enjoyed all the spoils of the hunt, including trinkets such as this. So even though he felt unable to really speak to his father or relate to him much these days, Dragomir's interest was piqued sufficiently to mask this. Just 'cause you haven't seen it doesn't mean it doesn't exist, he suggested, and he even managed a well-meaning flap of his tail over the ground.

But his expression fell when the subject turned back to his well-being. It was exhausting to think about how far he still had to go and even more exhausting to try to talk about it. He had no trouble discussing it with Speedy, but for some reason his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth when he attempted to open up to Vercingetorix or Aurëwen about it ... as if he simply couldn't open up to them at all anymore. So instead of saying what was really on his mind, which was more along the lines of what had really happened to him and how his mental state was still frayed and unwell, Dragomir answered, better. My back really hurts and my legs are super stiff, but I think it hurts less. He looked better, too; the swelling around his eye was gone, leaving just a bit of lopsidedness to that side of his face where his fractured cheekbone had healed a little crooked, and his wounds were mostly gone. It was just his legs and his sore ribs left now.

And his mind, which would take much longer to heal, if it ever did.

Very true, Verx laughed, and left it at that. Dragomir had a point, after all. For all he'd seen of the world, he probably hadn't seen it all. And his son seemed more imaginative than he ever would be; even if it wasn't real, Drago could probably dream it into existence. He seemed to have that kind of power (and that kind of time, poor thing).

But at least it seemed he was on the mend. He reacted with quiet, fervent joy at the answer, glad to hear things at least were hurting less. It'll get better and better with each day, he promised, nodding. Injuries like that take some time. . .but you'll be back on your paws before you know it.

And then what? He hadn't really thought past his son's recovery. Would they stay here? Would they travel elsewhere? He was loath to rip his kids away from another place they'd called home, but. . .it was damn close to extant enemies, and he sure didn't like that.

He didn't really want to think about the long road to recovery, so he nodded in response to Verx's encouragement, but didn't contribute anything else to that conversation. There was a long beat where he wasn't sure what else to say, for he felt he didn't have a lot in common with his sire (because he didn't know much about his sire), but then his eyes danced across the exposed flesh of Vercingetorix's throat and he swallowed reflexively.

How long did that take? he wondered, jabbing his nose in the direction of Verx's scar. Dragomir reasoned that his wounds couldn't be half as bad as that. After all, when he looked back at his legs, he didn't see any damage. It was all on the inside. In order to show on the outside, he figured it must be a lot worse, and must take longer to heal.

He both did and didn't expect the question. Verx could handle it, though. He frowned slightly in contemplation, thinking. The time between the injury and Drago's birth had flown by; most of it was a blur, to him.

Not as long as I thought it would, he admitted. Maybe half, three-quarters of a moon or so. Your mom did a good job fixing me up, Vercingetorix added, letting his mouth melt into a smile. I probably would be dead without her help.

For all their problems, he did owe Aure that. That and the kids.

Verx's answer was both encouraging and frustrating, if only because Dragomir had been waiting a lot longer than that, it seemed like, and there was still no end in sight for him. How could his dad's wound look so damn bad and heal faster than his? That was a touch dramatic, maybe, but thankfully it didn't show on his face much. He did muster the energy to complain, I've been waiting forever, but, granted, he had just been lying around for that whole time. It was dreadfully boring and left him far too much time to think about things he shouldn't be thinking about, like flashbacks to the cave, or how hopeless he always felt.

Vercingetorix's mention of being dead without Aurë's help made the boy's heart lurch unpleasantly. Speedy and his mother were instrumental in helping him get better, but there wasn't all that much they could do for him. It was a lot of wait-and-see. That wasn't why his heart thudded, though. What happened? he wondered, unsure if his father had ever shared that story or not. Probably not. Almost being murdered by insane sea hobos wasn't exactly the funnest thing to talk about.

I know, he sympathized, eyes sad. You got hurt a lot worse than me -- leg injuries take a long time to mend. Blackhead just took some skin and blood from me. Only a flesh wound! And besides, the damage to Dragomir's psyche was far worse than perhaps two broken legs and a fractured cheek. Fucking monster. . .

He smiled briefly at the question, exhaling through his nose in a rueful sigh. This woman from a rival pack attacked me out of nowhere, Verx responded, keeping it fairly brief and somewhat vague. We fought, and she went for the throat. Nearly tore it right out but was off by just a little bit. I probably would have bled out on the spot if her aim had been correct.

And then Dragomir and Isilmë wouldn't have a father at all. Would that be preferable to the shitty parent he'd been so far? Maybe.

Just some skin and blood, but the wound looked way more gnarly than Dragomir's internal ones. It was a good lesson in never underestimating the severity of internal injury, if nothing else. The psychological damage was nothing to sniff at, either, but healing psychological damage wasn't something Dragomir would ever claim to be interested in or adept at. Because of Speedy, he had an interest in healing physical hurts ... that was good enough for now.

Did you hurt her back? Dragomir asked. Surely he would seek revenge on someone who tried to take him out for no reason? Dragomir thought he would, if he was in Vercingetorix's shoes. It wasn't that simple, but in his mind it was. He would like, in some small part of him, to seek revenge against Sanguinus and his shadowy accomplice someday ...

... If only he could get past the thought of them making him quiver like a frightened babe.

His lips firmed into a straight line at the question, eyes darkening a little. Did he hurt her back? He supposed he had, in the moment. . .but obviously he hadn't finished the job. Had been given the chance, at Easthollow, and would forever regret not taking it. Fuck him for caring about Rusalka in that moment, he guessed.

Plus he'd been too paralyzed with shock to really act. She just had killed a fucking kid, after all.

Not afterward, Verx finally said, looking rueful. I never had the chance. If I do, though. . . He shrugged, blinking at his son. It's not about me. I'm more afraid of her coming around and hurting you or Isi if she thinks that'll hurt me. Killing her won't heal my throat. . .but it'll keep y'all safe. That's mainly why I'd do it.

Did he think of taking revenge against his torturer? He had to. Anyone would, in his paws. But Vercingetorix knew that route would lead to disappointment at worst and death at best; he certainly wanted to dissuade Dragomir from any rash actions he might have taken at that age.

Then again, Drago was already a billion times smarter than his impulsive sire. So. There was that.

Cool with fading or concluding this since Vercingetorix has kicked the bucket? Rest in peace dad. D:

Not afterward. Dragomir wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. As a wild animal whose instinct was self-preservation, it was easy to feel like the bitch who attacked his dad deserved pain in return. But as his mother's son, for how little he took after her, he was kind of relieved that Vercingetorix wasn't vengeful enough to waste time going after her.

Except he kind of was, which we would all discover later, in that really depressing death thread.

Dragomir was quiet after Vercingetorix shared the conditions under which he would kill his attacker. He was humbled by it, reminded that no matter how poorly he felt about them, he had his parents in his corner. No matter how much they'd disappointed him, they would protect him, be by his side when he needed them. He felt abruptly ashamed of the distant way he'd treated them since awakening.

Thanks, dad, he said thickly, for he didn't know what else to say, and "I'm sorry" was proving too difficult to get out at the moment.

The emotion in Dragomir's voice took him aback, slightly, and he swallowed, his own throat feeling a bit thick. Of course, goufa, Verx said, smiling. He wondered if his boy would see the faint sheen of tears standing in his eyes. Not even a question.

He eventually shifted back to the mysterious bone and they discussed that for a while. Or not. Either way, Vercingetorix was beginning to build up the trust he'd lost, and that was good.

Stupid fucking dice.