Lavender Ethos like the snow, silent and cold.

Mid-morning, cloudy.  26F/-3C.  Open for one, please.

It was cold. But he liked the cold, more than the heat and the sun. He liked the clouds, and he liked the snow coating the ground, even when it wasn’t actively falling. Theo laid down carefully, legs half-tucked and half-out, allowing the young wolf to balance as he gazed outwards, where he knew the graves were. Aleksei had shown him earlier in the year. Their mother was there, Aleksei’s father. Other River wolves, whom they’d loved and lost.

“Hello,” he said softly, green eyes studying the quiet with his emerald eyes.

Hello, the wind whispered back, and his tail gave a gentle wag. His ears cupped forward, watching the wind swirl up little flurries of snow where the wolves should be.

“I like the quiet, too.”

The Ethos was one of the Stark’s favourite places to visit—especially since she was named after the clearing. It was also home to fallen river wolves. Mostly former members, those she had not had the pleasure of meeting. Her aunt Kisla was buried her, the former matriarch of Hearthwood. Her father spoke of the woman fondly; Lavender wished she could have gotten to know her better before her passing. But death was always unpredictable, swooping in as it pleased; selfish and unforgiving. Her parents had told the twins of their brother—the brother they never got to meet. He was buried here. Laddeus. A frown creased her delicate features, tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I like the quiet, too.

Her ears twitched, chartreuse eyes narrowed as she attempted to locate the voice. She padded toward her age-mate, her tail swinging low behind her. Me too, she hummed quietly as she flopped down beside the Tainn, her legs tucking neatly beneath her snow-kissed body. 

Mathéo’s head jerked up as his age-mate appeared – he hadn’t heard her approach. He hadn’t really expected anyone to join him, much less Lavender; maybe he didn’t know her that well. He didn’t know any of his agemates that well, not the alpha’s litter, not Oksana, not even his own sister. It wasn’t exactly like the Tainn had tried, either, especially not after Kisla’s death. He felt like he was floating through the woods, through the days, through the different moons.

He supposed now was a good a time as ever to try.

“Do the adults talk too loudly for you?”

Or—

“Do you talk to them, too?”

(This post was last modified: Dec 15, 2017, 08:49 PM by Matheo.)

The girl felt guilty for not getting to know the orphaned boy better. It should have been easy—they were agemates after all—but the tawny Tainn had distanced himself from his packmates. Much like Inna had. He had never been as outgoing as his sister, or even her sister. She didn’t know how to deal with death, especially since her parents were both alive and well. While she felt bad for him Lavender also did not want to coddle him, for he was much older (and bigger) now. But there was something off about him, something different. But even Risaela was different now, after witnessing the death of her mother. More subdued. Fumbling over her words and not as bold as she had been before.

His question(s) pulled the pale Stark away from her thoughts, her nose tipping to the side as her brows pinched together. Sometimes, she mused, her voice soft. Like Mathéo she liked spending time on her own. Away from the adults and the hustle and bustle of the pack. It was his second question that sparked her interest even more. Them? Her chartreuse gaze fell to the ground, where the fallen river wolves were buried. She shook her head softly. I let them talk to me, she answered with a dismissive shrug. The trees, the shrivelled stalks of lavender, the ghosts. She liked being quiet in the Ethos, absorbing everything. It was her safe place.

To be compared to Inna might have made the young boy bristle – he was not like the dark cloud at all. She was mean sometimes, mean to Ris, mean to Lachesis. He might be sad, might be a cloud in his own right, but Mathéo often tried very hard not to burden anyone else with his own concerns. He was quiet, a ghost not unlike his makeshift father, and kept the company of those who’d already left this earthly plain.

But Lavender, she’d caught his curiosity just now like something bright and sharp. A ray of light cutting through the fog. For better or worse though, he was not yet certain. “What do they say?” He was curious – wasn’t sure if that was rude, wasn’t sure if he cared just now – did the ghosts say the same thing, or did they know the difference?

She kicked at the snow softly, her chartreuse gaze focused on the ground. He was much quieter than the others; easier to be around. Even if he was a bit odd. It just meant he was different. At least he did not fill the air with obnoxious poems that didn’t make sense. There was only so much of her twin that the pale Stark could handle before she wanted to pluck out her own fur. Mathéo, however, was like a breath of fresh air. The adults were often sulking or worrying. The other cubs busy getting into mischief and testing their luck. But the tawny boy—he was something different. Speaking of ghosts and seeking solitude amongst a pack full of dynamic personalities.

Her head tipped to the side at his question, although her gaze did not lift. They tell me to stop worrying so much. But it never helped. Worrying was in her blood, thanks to both of her parents. Somehow the pale Stark had absorbed all of her parents anxiety in the womb, for Lilliana had been spared. Lucky her.

There are several fresh rabbit tracks in the mud. Hunt Opportunity

"Interesting." The ghosts had never said as much to him. Maybe Lavender worried more than he did. Given how often Théo replayed what he'd seen in his mind, over and over and over again, it made him wonder just how much the pale pup could worry. Like maybe that was all she did. That sounded very tiring. "Maybe they are right. But I am not sure. Worry is tiring."

And not all that useful. He did it a lot, but the Tainn wasn't sure what it had done for him, really.

"Usually, I talk to them. They listen well. But do not say too much."

Now, he wasn't sure if he found that disappointing. If his mother was here right now, what would she say to him?

It almost hurt to consider.

They’re probably right, she hummed thoughtfully in response, her shoulders rolling into a soft shrug. Worrying is very tiring. She did not like how much she worried but it was impossible for her to stop. She had been born to two very anxious wolf and swallowed up all of their worries to ensure that her sister received none. Wasn’t she nice and thoughtful. Lilliana could use a little worry, however, for she was far too bold and loud.

Her head fell to the side. And what do you say to them? She asked, growing more intrigued by the second. The quiet, spooky boy had captured her attention and she was eager to learn more about him. And what he had to say to the ghosts. She did not doubt that he talked to his mother, for she had been ripped from his life far too early. You don’t have to tell me if y’don’t want to, she added hastily, for she did not want to appear insensitive. Or nosey. Even though she was.

"I ask about my mother."

He shrugged. Even if he didn't say, the other wolf could likely guess. Why else would he talk to ghosts? To wolves who weren't there? It was hard to tell if anyone was listening, or if he was just saying words because otherwise he could have gone days without making a sound. They never did answer. It made it harder to gauge if he was making it all up. He didn't think he was.

But it certainly felt like it, sometimes.

"But no one answers. It's not any different than real life though." He shrugged. "I wonder what being a ghost is like. I have asked. They never say."