Walleye had been aware.

Aware of the cold, aware of the slowness, aware of the end. Far before he reached it. Each year had been harder after his fourth and it seemed to crawl further and further down hill each year that followed. Especially in the winter. This year served as no exception to that rule. Only that it did not crawl this year, it ran down hill away from him. A harsh way to see himself.

Yet he did not wish to burden. There was no need to when the pack already cared for one frail woman who was still older than him. So he accepted this with open arms. Decided it was time, or rather forced to acknowledge it was time, and walked off into the woods. Uncertain of the direction he was headed and positive it did not matter.

Eventually he found a peaceful place. Free of children, of adults, of pesky predators that might end him on terms he had not agreed to.

He had remembered how some of the elders had seemed to know. How they too had wandered off and found their own peace only to be discovered later and be brought home. He doubted he would return home. The sea far away from where he found himself resting that early morning. He remembered how he thought he would be by the sea forever, that he would always smell of salt and fish. Now he smelled swampy and of strangers scent upon his coat. He presumed it was better like this. None of his children would know, no lingering lovers would know. Truthfully even those that he knew who remained, he figured, would not be horribly bothered by it. Everybody either disappeared or grew too busy with their own lives.

He could find peace in all of this — and he did.

His eyes closed as the sun dared to peek on the horizon, stars and moon faded in the sky. His breathing slowed as did everything else in his body. There was no grand commotion, no need for large tales about how he met his end, no battle of beasts. Nothing more than a man that met this fate from old age.

The rising sun marked the end of Walleye.