Return to your roots.

[Jefferson Soul]

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Sorry it took so long for me to get to this!

What he had been experiencing far surpassed taxing; stress, anger and frustration built up on his shoulders like weights. His health had plummeted some, unbeknownst to any others, for Jefferson was not one to expose his shortcomings or statuses when they shifted from the norm. He would not have others worry for him, not when his own concern lay in everything but himself: Geneva's health had made for a steady decline, while Dawali's had remained the same in his slow process of healing. Pripyat had been a ghost for a son since the accident, surely plagued with a guilt that could not be dispersed without his father's permission, but such permissions were difficult to come by when the boy made himself scarce. Jefferson balanced AniWaya and Phoenix Valley now in his only hand, his duties doubled since Tala had begun shrinking away. He feared the worst, that the responsibility would drive her away, but the brute never seemed to be able to catch her to discuss it.

Two packs and all he loved remained in his hand, in his grasp, and yet it all flowed through his fingers like water. A grip on it all was impossible, and yet still he worked to sustain the world around him. When had so much depended on an idiot like he? Jefferson had never forseen such dependence, such ultimate responsibility when he collapsed on Valley borders so many years ago simply wishing to fill his stomach. He had never seen himself caring for the pack leader and taking her place, nor ruling alone and with actual capability. He had never seen himself falling in love or even coming to understand it. He had never seen himself as a father.

And as he moved through the villa, feet dragging and shoulders hanging in exhaustion, such thoughts still plagued him. Even the bags beneath his eyes or the illness in his stomach could fend off his worries and responsibilities. When would it end?

As he drew near to the church, hoping Geneva lurked within, his weary, one-eyed gaze fell on the gray boy he called his son, at his knees before the great steps. "Pripyat," he said, no immediacy in his tone; exhaustion dampened all other emotions, though honest curiosity and worry did blossom silently within his chest. He breathed a moment, thoughts drawing focus, addressing the situation at hand. Tattered ears flicked back, and slowly the scarred man approached. "It's not your fault, Pripyat." Flat. Tired.