Perhaps Razekiel — or the "Great Mother," as he insisted on calling it — was right.

The pack had become his only because none others could take it. Phoenix Valley had been forced into his hands after only a few short months of membership. No, it hadn't been on purpose: Despite his rescuing of Iskata alongside Ty, still she stepped down as Matriarch and was, he guessed, killed soon enough. She'd named him her successor first, of course, for who the hell knew why — perhaps their relation, perhaps out of trust, perhaps in compensation to when Deuce had tried to send him away starving from pack borders so long ago. With Hel having departed from the pack many moons before, with Iskata's death Deuce Rhiannon was the Valley's final founder and last remaining leader — and she wanted nothing to do with a wolf-coy hybrid forced into leadership beside her as Iskata's final request. Considering what the white female had endured, Jefferson couldn't exactly blame her innate racism, but as he'd seen in Mew, it could be overcome. Peace could be made, thus Deuce was perhaps just as much the criminal he was, for never simply giving him a chance. No, despite he eventually leading Phoenix Valley for years in her stead, Deuce decided early he was not worth his time, and off she went. That was the story, the tale of how the Valley had ended up in the hands of a scarred, monstrous loner-at-heart never quite suitable for leadership.

But there was an end for everything, and now was that time. Lucifer was dead; finally the cyclops's underlings could be redeemed to the best of his ability for all the sable idiot had wrought upon them, but the timing was late. Jefferson had done his best to provide for his pack while Lucifer appeared in and out of the territory and attacked the women one-by-one; while trying to hunt the male down he made sure to provide the women some sort of sanctuary, some sort of notion to protect themselves. He had performed his best, but perhaps his best was not enough. Too many lives had been ruined by the time Jefferson could take down the male, and the guilt ate away at him, driving the cyclops into an anti-social scarcity, hating to be bothered and roused from his depressions. Geneva was gone, possibly dead. His son hated him. His members had been attacked and raped a dozen times over, and he had been unable to do a thing. The great Valley titan was tired — that was the only way to describe it. Too much guilt weighed his shoulders, and he sought only freedom and peace of mind. Separation. Isolation. Silence, both in body and mind. He needed to seek out Geneva and confirm his fears that had indeed died of the disease that claimed Jordan, or he needed to reunite himself with her if she had managed to survive. These things he could not do with a pack requiring him at all times.

As agreed, Razekiel met him under the noonday sun within the newly-refurbished ranch house, and over a couple cigarettes they discussed the last of the topics needed to be brought to light with the pack gathered. The coyote was optimistic and excited, though respectful of Jefferson in such a time of heavy transition. The decision had not been an easy one but a necessary one, and though the cyclops moved from the table to the front entrance with sunken shoulders and a drag in his step, he knew it was all for the best. Phoenix Valley would be in good hands. Nayru met them at the porch, her cherry eyes filled with the same eagerness Razekiel's were, and for a long moment Jefferson wished he could reclaim that youth in himself. Still, that portion of his life remain shut away, hidden in the shadows of unveiled memories.

Razekiel and Nayru remained on the porch behind him, mumbling between themselves about the Dahlia meeting a few days before. Jefferson breathed one last time into the cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stomping it out (much to the Lykoi's dismay), and throwing his head back, the great Patriarch released a long, heavy howl into the air — knowing well it would be his last.

They gathered, one by one, their gazes equally curious, equally trusting, equally acknowledging. He appeared like a broken tower before them — weary, age-stricken, one-armed and one-eyed. With hanging shoulders, the Patriarch held a deathly silence as they gathered, attempting weak smiles and curt nods as they each appeared. They gazed upon the two strangers at the porch, and little did they know that the pot-smoking hippie and the two-toned woman would soon be the two they would call leaders. At this final thought, a jabbing pain cut into his chest, and chokingly the Patriarch forced himself to speak and address his members one final time.

"Phoenix Valley is no more," he said, his words sharp and gruff. Pained.

Breathing deeply to collect himself, Jefferson continued. "These are Razekiel and Nayru," he said, motioning his single arm to them both on the porch. "She leads Dahlia de Mai currently, or what used to be Dahlia. You and they are one now, should you choose to stay. My time is up. I am no longer in charge here."

He bowed his head. He hardly knew what more to say, and thus with a demanding flick of his fingers over his shoulder, Razekiel was summoned. The coyote, joint in teeth, perked his ears in surprise and, smiling once at Nayru, jogged down the porch stairs and joined the old scarred man before the last of Phoenix Valley.