tracing old steps

The parade has been enjoyable; it was the first time his sons could witness the other side of the border, aside from the brief pilgrimage they had made to Aryth's grave long ago. It was heartwarming to watch them enjoy the festivities, just like their fathers had in past, more peaceful days. Grigori hoped it would last. Knowing war at all was a heavy enough burden, he'd do anything to make sure the boys never experience it first-hand.

But after many games and contests, catching up with Valerian and picking up a souvenir and some treats for Sundstol, who had stayed back home to avoid the overwhelming crowds, the memorial event that was happening not far away, just barely out of sight, distracted him more and more. This was Aryth's homeland, and he died doing what he believed to be best for it - he deserved the tribute as much as any other fallen soldier. Yet, just as he was aware that no wolves from Soara would be welcome there, Grigori couldn't stomach the thought of sharing the space with the Imperial Army. He might have chosen not to seek vengeance, but he could not forgive... never.

Instead, he guided his sons to this place, mostly in silence, content to merely listen to them chat between themselves behind him. He wasn't quite sure what to expect as the last time he'd seen the College was during the battle that took place on its territory... It was bittersweet to see it like this. Forgotten, devoid of meaning and purpose from the moment the piece of it that was most important to him died. On one hand, he would have liked for the college his husband cherished to keep flourishing. But on the other, it would be unbearable to watch it callously move on without him. "Well... here we are. The path's gone now, but down this way was the den we shared." He pointed with his muzzle to dense bushes, then turned to look at a bigger path that still faintly endured. "And over there was the library and lecture halls. Aryth did all his studyin' and teachin' there, and.. well he grew up 'round here in general."

Starinf into the distance, the blonde brute drew in a slow, deep breath, wrestling with the emotions welling up inside of him. It was baffling in a way - he's been hurt many, many times, but there was no physical injury he couldn't recover from. This, however.. never stopped hurting.
„*”

As always, Aphelion lagged a few paces behind. In general, it was a good idea to be mindful of where his paws landed to avoid trampling the hedgehog looping between them. In this moment, however, it served a dual purpose: He was able to take in the ruined beauty of the college in agonizing detail as it came into view. He was so entranced that he almost didn't notice that Friction had stopped dead in his tracks, seeming to recognize the skeletal remains of his once healthy home, and was forced to overcorrect suddenly, lurching forward and slamming his muzzle into his brother's flank.

"Sorry," Aph muttered, rubbing his nose just as Grigori began to share some memories with them, either unaware of what had transpired behind him or electing to ignore it. He nudged his quivering companion back into gear before following suit.

His pale, colorless eyes settled on the overgrown mass that once housed a den, and at once his mind set in motion. How might things have been different, were it not for the war? Would this have been where he and Perihelion grew up? Aphelion thought it might have been nice to study in his father's class rather than a stranger's, considering how highly he'd heard the immigrant professors who'd sought refuge in Saora after the war's conclusion speak of their lost colleague... and the ache he felt in his chest, resonating more fiercely the longer he lingered, looking at a place that'd felt his father's warmth more times than Aphelion ever had or would.

He could tell that reminiscing wasn't just difficult for him. Grigori never needed to hide the pain he shared with his young sons, but it was more evident now in his somber tone than ever. Even Friction fell victim to the sadness they all felt; Aph had never thought a hedgehog could cry before. Moving closer, the lad leaned his thin white pelt against his father's rugged side, offering comfort and seeking it in return, while his face remained abashedly eager for whatever other tidbits they'd be given. He craved these things with a desperation that did not show on his features; they were all he had of Aryth to hold onto—other than Friction, who had huddled himself in between the two beasts' paws.

code // art