12-20-2022, 08:52 AM
The burden of his decisions — those made and those yet to pass — rested heavily upon his mind, their weight like many mountains; their reality like jagged peaks, towering, rasping, frigid. He would have shivered beneath their judgement alone, if the cold autumn air hadn't already made stake to that claim over him.
Despite it being midday, Yukon hadn't moved much. Despite him being an early riser, a go-getter, an over-achiever, he hadn't the will to rise. To unfurl, to expose his soft underbelly to the wind, the rain, the snow that beat gently at his back. Since the night before, he'd been tucked against the same stone outcropping, shielding his face, the thick fur along his shoulders and his spine whipping painfully each time a gust of mountainous air passed him by on its way into the valley.
He couldn't fathom why he'd decided to leave, to drop all of those possibilities, all of that potential, all of that anger and flee — flee, like a coward, from the one wolf in his life that had ever given him a chance. That had ever truly, openly seen him. But he'd done it regardless, stripped himself of his own past, soiled his future, because maybe deep down, he knew he didn't deserve it. He deserved to have nothing, know nothing, love nothing. Or, perhaps he was just afraid.
But he'd never admit that to himself.
The howl came from above him, deep and piercing over the crashing sound of the nearby river. For a moment he assumed it was meant for him; perhaps it was a killer, or a mother, or a lover turned to rage. But as the other's breath ended and Yukon twisted to cast ice blue eyes upward, it dawned on him that the voice was unrecognizable. A stranger, perhaps with the same intentions as he but half the self loathing.
Curious, he listened for any other sounds. An answering call, perhaps, because he was unable to pick apart the messenger from the landscape whence he came.
Despite it being midday, Yukon hadn't moved much. Despite him being an early riser, a go-getter, an over-achiever, he hadn't the will to rise. To unfurl, to expose his soft underbelly to the wind, the rain, the snow that beat gently at his back. Since the night before, he'd been tucked against the same stone outcropping, shielding his face, the thick fur along his shoulders and his spine whipping painfully each time a gust of mountainous air passed him by on its way into the valley.
He couldn't fathom why he'd decided to leave, to drop all of those possibilities, all of that potential, all of that anger and flee — flee, like a coward, from the one wolf in his life that had ever given him a chance. That had ever truly, openly seen him. But he'd done it regardless, stripped himself of his own past, soiled his future, because maybe deep down, he knew he didn't deserve it. He deserved to have nothing, know nothing, love nothing. Or, perhaps he was just afraid.
But he'd never admit that to himself.
The howl came from above him, deep and piercing over the crashing sound of the nearby river. For a moment he assumed it was meant for him; perhaps it was a killer, or a mother, or a lover turned to rage. But as the other's breath ended and Yukon twisted to cast ice blue eyes upward, it dawned on him that the voice was unrecognizable. A stranger, perhaps with the same intentions as he but half the self loathing.
Curious, he listened for any other sounds. An answering call, perhaps, because he was unable to pick apart the messenger from the landscape whence he came.