A fog lay thick over the lands. The pre-dawn sky was growing brighter by the second; pale blues and periwinkle blending away from the colors of the night into the light of day. The air was chilled, the fog bringing a heaviness with it, like breathing in a cloud. The faint tension of each breath dragged in left him wondering more and more about potential coughs he’d encounter in the hard working folk who lived here. The well worn memory, like a built-in compass, dragged his paws this way, then that, as though he were a blind man being led through the night. He’d know his way home in his sleep, and the restlessness that had gathered in his belly sat there like anxiety as he got closer and closer. The next forty-eight hours he had off would be used to check his neighbors health, stock the den with more medical supplies, and maybe sleep where every lingering scent wrapped him up in nostalgia; a pain for his heart and safety for his mind.
It had been a very long month since he’d been back, and he could only guess the state of his place. Winter was never a kind season to the commonwealth. And though Myra had been a mercenary, picking up jobs when they needed something, Kjartan hadn’t been entirely removed from the people and their troubles.
you’re not like them, little one. Myra’s voice had had a touch of sadness that day; her bright eyes watching him carefully. She’d been gentle about him not making friends his age; it wouldn’t be practical, they would eventually ask questions, couldn’t have too many wolves snooping around their business. But then he’d gone to college and eventually the army, and whatever suspicions any of their neighbors had had about Myra were forgotten.
they’ll take care of me, kjartan, you know they will. his jaw clenches, his breath let out slow as he feels the old grief, like bitterness, weigh in the back of his throat.
Not having to run in to familiar faces was part of the reason he’d arrived so early. He’s blend in with the fog for enough of the trip in, and escape towards the knoll where his den was before anyone could see him and ask him where he’d been, or if he was okay. He doesn’t know what kind of answers he’d be able to give if they asked, if they confronted him. He needed to see what was left of the stores, make some calculations about what to go and find, and then make himself amiable enough to do some rounds and check up on those faces he still begrudged Myra’s death.
The cool grass under his paws begins to angle upwards, and his head lowers a little as he climbs the knoll to where, between twin rocks, the entrance of his old den sat welcoming and waiting. He eyes it, nose drifting to the ground as he takes in old and fresh scents; marking them for future follow-ups.
not too many... that was good at least. A break of light cuts across the rocks in front of him, and he lets the warmth of the sun bathe his shoulder, meting out the chill that had crept into his bones. He turns, then, to watch the sunlight split the fog and lets himself sit there beside his den; greeting the day with a peculiar longing in his heart for a time he couldn’t get back.
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