Word Count: 400+
Whoop whoop! Let’s get this biatch started! XD
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She’d come to these ruins again. These twisted, hulking remains. Coffins of a bygone age. They suited her mood right now, as Finn gazed out across the rubble that was once a city called Halifax. Things were getting tougher now, the shadows drawing closer, Cuhlain at their head.
Even now, the silvery, insubstantial wolf hovered at her shoulder, picking away at her like some ridiculous bird. ”See? No one really cares that you’re gone, they don’t miss you. They don’t need you!” Finn turned away, flicking her ear angrily. It was hard not to listen, but she still found the strength to do so. For now.
You shouldn’t have left, Finn. You should have stayed. I starved to death that winter, and it was all because you left me alone. ”It was your own damn fault you up and died, old man. It was your own doing. You gave Aegnus the orders…” Finn snapped, hackles raising. She could feel Cuhlain’s smirk, without even looking at him.
She didn’t want to play his game, but the rules kept changing. She had to keep silent, bear these visions and hallucinations like the stoic warrior she was. Finn had no time for fear or doubt. Ever since… ever since Jac had gone and knocked her up. At least, she thought it was Jac. The father of the brood in her belly could well be Rurik, but she wouldn’t be able to tell until they were born.
All she’d wanted was some affection, a moment of closeness to someone that didn’t involve hatred or fighting. Was that too much to ask? Perhaps for Finn it was. She wanted to keep trying, she really did, but the days were growing dimmer and the nights longer and she found herself sinking back into the melancholy. By a strange twist of irony, she would not starve physically this winter, but perhaps emotionally.
Finn did not want to become the twisted thing her father had been. That was a horror beyond all horrors. She did not want to become some rangy, scarred old wolf who terrorized her children with frightening tales and made them fight and fight and fight. She was determined not to be to her children as Cuhlain had been to herself.
The sun was setting, glowing like the unsettled embers of a fire. The sky, for once, was cloudless, and awash in pinks and golds and reds. She should have gained some measure of peace from the sight. But she didn’t, she couldn’t. A long, hard winter indeed.