He wasn't one who liked, or was even good at, brooding.

Pain always came like a whiplash, fast and furious and stinging, whining and keening as it arced through the air, leaving you stunned and fallen and shocked. It always seemed to come out of nowhere, and left him fumbling in the dirt, trying to pick up the pieces of things and put them back together. Poison Path, Indru, Marsh, his accident—the four major ones, the times when he didn't even know where to start, where nothing made sense to him. When everything got so shaken, when every foundation quivered, and where hope seemed the only thing, but a foolish thing.

The ache had dulled over the years. Poison Path forgotten and forgiven. Indru, let go of. Marsh.. Marsh, a scar, a bit too tight, so he felt it each time his heart beat. There hadn't been anyone to ask the questions of. There hadn't been anyone who could explain to him—no one who could lay it out for him, and say hey, so this is what happened, this is what happens, and this is what will happen. It was all just a blur, a bank of fog, and he was stumbling around in it.

The timing might've been awful, but when he had gone north, mating with anyone had been the furthest thing from his mind—and least of all had that been the reason he'd headed towards Hearthwood River. Sure, he knew how to get rid of the frustrations of the seasons, but.. no. He shook his head to himself and prowled through the heavy snowfall. When he had finally found her, or rather, been found by her, the only thing he had thought of was her, and her forgiveness. It was the only thing he had wanted, and, desperate, he had taken whatever she gave. Given, what she had wanted.

But why him? She had loved him, she had made it clear she did not love him anymore. She had made it more than clear that he was a ghost, a thing from the past, an old scar ripped open anew; then why had she..?

The further he walked, the louder the caw caaw became. It had begun like a noise in the back of his mind, but now, it had grown even louder. He stopped dead in his tracks and flattened his ears to his head. Bloody bird.

He couldn't understand her reasoning in the slightest. Had it just been a spur of the moment thing, urged on by the emotional release and the season..? What had she wanted (caaaw-caw) from him? And what did she want, now? Her life had shattered. He had shown up from nowhere, probably hitting bruises that had still not faded. And then, she had taken him, for that was the only way he could describe how it had come about and happened. Afterwards, she had left in the cold pallid light of dawn, without a word. He had awoken when she left, but figured if she wanted to go without saying good-bye, he wouldn't force her to.

Besides, as the fresh scars lining his face told, it might not have been without risk.

Caw! the black bird with shining black eyes said, as it sat in front of him. It hopped a little and flapped its wings, still making a racket. He scowled at it. It wasn't helping him with his existential crisis.

Caaa-caw!

"No," he told it, for no other reason than that he could; his ears folded back and his lips curled into a grumpy line. The barest hint of his largest fangs lurked there in the folds of white and black. It wasn't a threat—he wasn't in the mood for threatening a bird—but it was a face of severe displeasure. It eyed him with its beady eyes, clicked its beak, hopped and flapped, and walked in a little circle, as if thinking. Craaa- it began, and Ice chuffed it into silence. It turned its back to him, and glared over a feathery shoulder. A little snow had settled on its head like a crown.

Now that it was silent, it was...well, with the little halo of snow, he almost wanted to call it cute, and as if it sensed his thoughts—and the little smile curving his lips—it gave him a minatory glare from the depths of those eyes. The intelligence in them was only a little disconcerting.

"Is he trying to tell you something?" someone said as they padded up through the snowfall. The raven hopped to face her, ca-caw and crawing at her, and Ice simply shrugged. It certainly seemed that way, and maybe it was, but what, and why? He refrained from scowling. If I listened, maybe I would know, but with the thoughts of Kisla trampling through his head, it was hard to want to pay attention to a needy bird. "Maybe," he admitted after a moment, leaning over to give her cheek a nudge. "I fear I'm not very good at listening, though." As if it understood, the raven gave a very slight nod, and hopped about again.