where do we go now

Artur sat atop the wall, seemingly calm and at ease, but his paws flexed and relaxed rhythmically without conscious thought, scraping his claws against the stone, and his jaw was clenched as he glared out over the lands outside of the pack. Though he might have looked like he was on sentry duty, his blue eyes were unseeing as his unfocused gaze drifted.

His mother had died in the night.

It hadn't been unexpected. She'd told them all repeatedly to expect it. She was old, and the disease that had set in after she'd been injured had burned up what strength she had left. She'd been living on borrowed time, but she had seen them into adulthood.

And now she was gone.

He'd taken charge easily enough, taking a great deal of the heaviest work of digging a grave for her in the circle of stones and burying her there. He left the little rituals of grieving to his gentler siblings - she was dead and had no need of the words spoken over the grave, and he certainly didn't need to share his feelings. But now that he was alone, without anyone else to bolster and bully, he felt... lost. What now? Where did they go from here? Gwenevere had been his hero as much as his mother, and now he had to take up stewardship of their family and their family name when he was scarcely a yearling. She'd promised them all that she would see them trained, but fate had taken her before she could arrange for it. That left it to him to do. He was the oldest, it was his responsibility.

The weight of it all crushed down on him, and he drew in a sharp breath that wasn't a sob, but was probably the closest his self-control had come to slipping into crying. He'd been clutching his iron self-discipline like a lifeline, refusing to relax even the slightest bit even now that he was alone, because he was afraid that if he did let go, if he cried, he wouldn't stop. He needed to be strong so he damn well would be.