it's just politics

Ooc: Set right after the rebellion was put down-- early 1707

The news had come the night before. He had looked out of his den at the line of soldiers returning from the front-- mostly, they were the Imperial Army simply crossing through the Lowlands, heading back to the Mainland. He couldn't explain it, but he had a bad feeling when he saw them.

And it turned out that his father had died in one of the battles.

Which one?

How may wolves had he fought before he fell? Had he proved more ferocious than Arthur could have imagined, or was he as soft on the battlefield as he was at home? Who had done it? Delivered the blow that his father didn't deserve, that the soldier was just performing out of duty or the same sense of nationality that his father claimed as he marched away?

The news had numbed him at first. His throat closed, and he left home because he suddenly found it horrifically claustrophobic. He found his way to the peaks where he thought he'd be able to breathe better-- but he was wrong. Even as he stared over the moonlit land sprawling before him, in the wide open air, his breath hitched and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, his father couldn't breathe either -- he'd never breathe again --

The man had collapsed into a crumpled heap there on the peak, his body heaving in heavy sobs that echoed against the cold stones. He was fairly certain no one could hear him, except for the many crows that roosted and called this place home not that it mattered.

He had exhausted himself and stayed awake most of the night. He must have drifted off at some point, for when he opened his eyes next the sun was rising over the horizon. It was casting liquid golden light across the sky, lighting the wisps of clouds with crimson and fuchsia.

It should have been beautiful, but it only seemed callous.

Arthur's honey eyes hardened as he pulled himself to a sit, glaring at the sky. He was furious with the sky for it's insensitivity. He was furious with himself for letting his father march away . His mind buzzed with exhaustion and grief, he was light-headed and yet felt so heavy he didn't think he'd be able to move a paw from his place.

And then he heard the footsteps of another.

The man dragged his eyes from the landscape below to find the figure of a dark woman, her pale eyes reflecting in the liquid light. Echo.

The sight of her caused his throat to tightened all over again. She knew his parents. She knew his father. They had grown up together-- and even in all of their differences, she was still, and always would be, a figurehead of 'home'. So, seeing her in the face of this loss, was nearly too much for him. He stared at her, his lips tight to keep himself from the cry that was queuing in his throat.

"I," he tried, but his voice cracked. He tried to clear his throat, to speak normally to her. But it wasn't happening. The more he looked at her, the more his chest ached and his eyes burned. He blinked away, eyes averting to the ground at his paws. He felt weak. He felt embarrassed. He felt broken. "Sorry," he managed to rasp out.


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@NAMEHERE

code + art by claerie

@Echo

moon flower

The soldiers came in dribs and drabs, sometimes in groups, other times in pairs or by themselves. They filtered through the trees like ghosts, their steps weary and tired, their eyes drawn and heavy. Most were Imperial Army just passing through, but a few of the rebels made it back. Not many, but it was better than none.

That meant it was over now, right? Although there'd been word sent that the Mainlanders had won - and her heart had sunk with the news - at least there wouldn't be any more fighting. No more killing, no more hurting. Right?

It was while she'd been searching for Arthur one morning that she found out what had happened to his father, and she felt a heavy stone settle in her stomach. It grew heavier and heavier the longer she could not find her friend. Sweet, sweet Arthur, the boy who'd been her friend for as long as she could remember, who showed her kindness even when she was all rough edges and sharp words. He didn't deserve this. His father hadn't deserved this.

Knowing the emotions he must be feeling it wasn't too hard to guess where he might've run off to. The peaks; a place of solitude and contemplation. It was then easy to follow his familiar scent.

Echo found her friend sat with his face tilted towards the sky, turning to her only when he noticed her approach. He looked... tired. Battered, even though it hadn't been him who had gone off to fight. Echo usually always had something to say. Now however, words seemed to escape her. What could she say in the face of such sorrow?

Things had felt strange lately, especially since she'd killed that injured solider. She still didn't regret it, but her mother barely met her eye any more and she swore everyone in the Arboretum looked at her now with more disdain than they usually did. Arthur had looked at her different... but now... now he just looked at her with broken eyes.

Quietly she went to sit beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. He was bigger than her now, all long, gangly limbs, and all she wanted to do was bring him close to her and envelop him in her embrace. "You don't have anything to be sorry for." Her voice was soft today, gentle where it was usually loud and brash. She lifted a paw and placed it softly atop one of his own - she wasn't good at this sort of stuff, but she wanted to be. For him.

code by claerie