The world was a cruel place. He wished he could've spared her from some of the pain—that he could've changed things before they were too late to change. If he had drifted further north.. further south.. so he hadn't had to come in through the mountains. If he hadn't assumed Triell would say goodbye to Serach, so he could've told him that he had to, so he could've saved their hearts some bruises.

But he hadn't, and he wasn't sure he could blame himself for those things.

He wanted to, though. If he could take responsibility for them, maybe he could prevent them from happening in the future. Maybe he could make things better then.

Dreams, just dreams, all of it.

“If Serach needs anything, he can always come to us. I’ll try to visit soon.” He nodded, and his heart tightened in his chest. She was so.. so grown, with a life of her own, and even though she could've been further away, she was still too far away. To leave took some kind of coordination. Permission. He kept himself from wincing. That the world went on without him, and that it hurt him, was nothing he ever wanted to lay at her feet. "I'll tell him," he hummed in reply, watching her with eyes struggling to hide their sadness. "If you don't mind.. I'd like to come visit you, too. I understand that now isn't a very good time, though," he finished with a wry little smile. If Aponi was busy trying to eat anyone who came near her, he doubted Kisla wanted a strange man coming too close to her home. Just.. for tensions. Whoever led Hearthwood River alongside her might not approve.

She started to drift away and he was left to stare hollow-eyed and breathless at the inky black, cold lake. What was it she had said? She had a mate. The question snapped back; what happened to him? And another question hot on the heels of that; what will you do now? Shocked and cold and afraid, he stared at the horizon. He wanted to turn away from it. He wanted to look at her again, and.. and not see the grown Kisla? That was treachery; he was proud of her, and all that she had achieved. He was proud that she had made a life for herself. And he hated himself, for not having been there to support her, and witness it.

Slowly, he turned to face her again, trying to smooth the frustration and conflict from his face. He took a few steps closer, suddenly aware of the distance between them, and terrified of losing her into the cold dark night before knowing that he was, at least, not hated.

She prepared for something, and words started to tumble out.

One ear flicked, once, twice, and then they managed to steady, and focus on her voice. He wasn't at all sure why she finally answered his questions, his prompts, but he would not ask; would not question. He would listen, and he would think, and he.. well, what? Her mate died nearly a year ago. Her eldest daughter left, taking her child with her. Then... the snake filled her with thoughts of a ridiculous religion, and Ice felt the air leave his lungs. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to inhale again.

There—there couldn't be more wolves with stupid ideas like that, could there? It had to be Kisla's grand-daughter he had met, and tried to save, but so foolishly driven away from him. His heart was pounding, light and flighty in his throat, and he did his best to meet her eyes. What she said broke his heart. What she said left him speechless. His pulse was roaring in his ears as he took a few steps forward, trying to bridge the distance between them again. He didn't know where to start.

Somewhere, he guessed. Better than nowhere. "Is there anything I can do?" he found himself asking, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I—I want you to be happy, but... If there is anything.. anything..." She had said he owed Serach the world. He had told her that he knew that. So if she asked something of him that went against that.. well, what the hell would he do? He blinked, and patted at the snow with a paw. "I think I met your granddaughter," he murmured. "Black and silver, yellow eyes. Spoke of a Mother, who guided them to good." His voice grew in strength, and he couldn't keep the bitterness out of it.

He didn't know life could be so painful. Growing up, he had always thought he'd grow out of the awkwardness of youth and magically enter some kind of happy, adult land, where everything was.. great. Not perfect, necessarily, but where things like heartache didn't exist. Where wolves didn't come just to go without a word. Where no one died prematurely, where they all got to be nine years old at some point—where daughters didn't run away to get murdered, or infected with religion. Religion were things of the childhood. Things you grew out of because it was just bizarre to have others tell you you should be killed just because of the way you were born.

The injustice of it had never faded from his mind. And now, that thing was here, too.

He wanted a world where she wouldn't have to stand before him, and attack him time and again for what he'd done; he didn't want a world where she stood cold in front of him, saying that her mate was dead. Ice didn't even know what his name had been. He didn't want her to have suffered, but she had, and it left him in the darkness. He wanted to whine. Promise her everything would be alright from here on out. That things would be.. better.

He was past believing in that, though, and he guessed she was too. And he hated that silence became the thing he turned to, that he somehow thought it was the better thing to do these days—it made him feel like he wasn't even trying. One ear clipped sadly as he heard the name spoken. Bennet. It fitted the dark youth he remembered so vividly, lost in a world Ice couldn't quite bring himself to believe in.

He prepared to say something, then—anything, about how she had seemed physically fine, but defiant.. The way she had made it clear to him that he was wrong and she would not be questioned in her faith, but the words evaporated in his mouth as she leaned closer. Her cold nose trailed along his pale cheek, and he felt his breath come in sharp in his lungs. He.. he had expected her to drift away on the night breeze, the way she had looked from him to the direction of her home.. and instead, she touched him, softly, and he was suddenly very aware of the dry blood crusted in the rents in his skin. It itched. It was a rude reminder of what had happened only minutes earlier—it seemed a lifetime ago, though.

"Kisla..." he rumbled, surprised by the way her name made it to his chest. Surprised, by.. by what she'd said, what she'd asked, and the ghosts the season put in his mind.. the ghosts the season put in his skin, a tingle left behind by that trailing touch.

Idiot. He reprimanded himself mentally, but reached out all the same, trying to lean his nose against her neck, just behind her ear, as he thought of her request. He could stay out all night, no one would care much—he could stay out another week, and no one would care. It was March, after all. No; that wasn't what he considered carefully as he inhaled her scent. "I'll stay as long as you like," he said quietly, just in case she needed to hear it, before going on. "Serach was thrust into the position of leader rather abruptly, when Triell was injured in a hunt last summer, but he has grown well in the role. No one questions it—no one did earlier either, as far as I could tell. I'm.." He frowned a little. He had been so out of touch with his emotions for so long, that finally.. acknowledging them, and talking about his son—sons he amended mentally—was both relieving and alien. "I'm very proud of him, Kis. He's an adult. Responsible. I didn't know anything was up with Aponi until she challenged Spieden, and won. When they tried to soothe her, Serach said, 'we just wanted a chance to lead together, that's all' and that was when it dawned on me. Heritage aside, she's a fine wolf. Strict, but not cruel." He chuckled a little, thinking of Shallow.

The next part, he wasn't sure of, but it had to be said, but quietly. "She reminds me of Corinna." A small, sad smile curved his lips. "Oh, and, uh.. I have grand-daughters too, apparently. Sceral went somewhere and found himself a lady and now he's got two daughters, Lena and Amelie. Lena lives in the Bend."

He wondered what Marsh would say.

Drawn from vivid memory and blood, he had only known Kisla as a youth—Indru's green-eyed daughter, just past her second birthday when he had gone across the mountains, and died. He had never been there to watch her grow up. And he wasn't there now, nearly four years later, when she leaned into him and he pressed the side of his face against her neck.

It was an old ache, an old throb, more present tonight due than it usually was. He sometimes wondered what Marsh would've said of Serach and Sceral. He had wondered what they would've made of Marsh. He wanted, desperately, to have shared his family with him—to extend it to him, because he was family, bound by the fire and blood, that thing which had always drawn his silver eyes, and that thing which had made the rusty wolf spit out Ice's mangled name.

But too many years had passed for him to feel guilty of the half-formed thoughts snapping at his heels, and his awareness of Kisla's warmth. She nudged him, and laid down as he started talking. His breath drifted like smoke, and his muzzle was low, close by her head, until he, too, folded his legs and laid down. Perhaps he was closer than he should've been. Perhaps it was just the cold biting his bones and his wish to stave it off that made him seek contact.

“I guess we’re old,” she said, and he gave her a rueful smile. He had felt old by the time he was five-six, too, driven away by loss and frustration, sunk deep in a black mire. Now, at nine, he felt young again, but there was a lethargy in his bones, a weight that took longer to chase away in the dim hours of morning. "I guess we are," he said, and reached out to kiss the base of her ear. Maybe she wasn't for him—maybe he wasn't for her—but that would never be a reason to leave her alone and lost in the dark. He wasn't much of a guiding light, and he had no idea where he was going, but he was company for the road and he would not leave her so soon after having found her again.