horrid

Jefferson Soul · 07-04-2011, 05:47 PM

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Private.

It was strange, feeling... unnecessary.

A thousand times over, memories of the former Phoenix Valley flashed before his eyes, and in his chest swelled the same pride that had dwelt there each time he'd scoured the green hills and coast back then, knowing it had been his and he had been the responsible party for keeping the pack functional and happy. He'd been needed, wanted, even admired, and all along he had never fully understood why. He still did not, of course, but now that such feelings had left him seemingly forever, Jefferson felt only as... a hollow shell.

He would not melt into a puddle of depression and woe; no, that was not the Jefferson he knew himself to be, let alone any of his former members. He'd hoped he would be at peace, left to be the loner he'd always imagined himself to be — and he had, but the experience was hardly endearing. What was the attraction of loneliness in the days before Phoenix Valley? Why had he always imagined fading back to that freedom, as if it were what called him most? And now, now that he had returned to it, why was he so damn alone?

Truth be told, Jefferson did not leave the ranch house. It brought his depression alive with its creaks and groans, and at night the wind slapped the recently-refurbished roof against its foundation. Was that all he had to remember them by? Should be leave and accept his fate as a loner, doomed to the same end as the blind, scarred, anti-social creature that had been Laruku Tears, his own brother?

Three-legged and possessed by an age that matched more his mind than body, the wolf hobbled back onto the porch from his slow stroll across the land. Its scents were fading, its winds without a whistle. He'd walked the former borders for some time, as if hoping to see a soul returning to him, but none did. He was alone. It was how he had wanted it all along, hadn't he?

The scarred wolf collapsed onto his stomach at the edge of the porch, head resting on the only remaining foreleg he had left. He thought briefly of Pripyat, of Geneva, of DaVinci and Iskata. Green eye simply stared out, weary, the former Valley titan now no more than a useless watchdog for something that no longer existed.

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