Little Fiery One

Alastor wished that Manea had just gone ahead and gotten it over with when he gave her the go ahead. Instead, she made it worse by tending to him first, leaning closer to kiss away his tears while she caressed his cheek. All the while she spoke, Alastor's dark eyes never left his two doomed children, taking in every little movement and sound they made while he still could. Manea tried to reassure him that as a Mendacium, he would be with them again and that his soul was just as precious as theirs were. HA! What a laughable notion! Alastor's soul had long-since been damned and claimed by whatever devils and demons reigned over the hells that awaited him. No amount of lavish, zealous words were going to save his soul, no matter how heartfelt they had been during their union. He could hear the crushing emotion in Manea's voice, but he forced himself to remain stony and still, lest a single crack in his resolve be his undoing. He just kept staring at his three children—soon to be one. No, Manea was wrong. This was the end for him. If there even was an afterlife, there would be no admittance for the likes of him. Once upon a time, eternal damnation hadn't even fazed him. The demon wolf didn't even bat an eyelash at the thought of hellfire and torment. Now, with things he was losing forever, hell seemed a much more painful punishment.

Manea was right about one thing though: he didn't believe her.

All the while Manea went about her culling ceremony, Alastor remained stolid and motionless, more akin to a statue than a living being. He scarcely breathed while he watched her give little affections to the doomed pups, keeping one protective paw resting over the fire-marked girl he knew would be the one to be saved. He didn't disagree with his mate's choice—he disagreed with the choice existing at all. But it was not his place to question or interfere. He knew what he had been agreeing to when he married her. He just never imagined how impossibly difficult the task would be. Manea recited a ritualistic prayer for their two pups sentenced to death. The more she spoke, the more Alastor couldn't shake the thought of stepping in, doing whatever he could to stop this from happening. The thought of mauling his wife while she was still weak and absconding with the pups even crossed his demented mind a couple of times, but he was swift to shut those thoughts down. It was an impossible situation he was in with no good options available. Everything was a lose-lose, and so Alastor sat in perfect stillness and silence while he let the events unfold as they had to, abyssal eyes hard and steeled while he took everything in. He would remember every second of this moment for the rest of his damned life.

Manea struggled through her ritual, but eventually she got all of the words out, emotional as it had been for her. Though Alastor showed no emotion and had shut down, inside his mind raged and his heart was fractured. He watched in deathly silence while Manea bid them goodbye, and then did as she was compelled to. He watched the first bite happen, seeing his sleeping son's chest cease to rise any longer. His heart wrenched and the desire to throw Manea across the room rose again. He remained where he was. Manea delivered the second killing blow to their littlest daughter next and something about the way her body stilled when he watched it had been worse. Perhaps because she was so small and helpless, she reminded him... Alastor's jaw clenched so hard he could hear his teeth gnashing together. He was only half aware when he watched Manea complete the ritual by marking their remaining child with the blood of her murdered brother and sister. For the longest while, Alastor just stared at his remaining daughter, feeling such a terrible mix of emotions that he didn't feel anything else but drained. It was done, over, finished... He had a daughter, one blessed by the Mendacium traditions and baptized in the blood of her innocent siblings. This was what he'd agreed to. He'd allowed this to happen.

After it was all said and done, Manea couldn't even be courageous enough to look him in the eye. She'd grown his children within her, birthed them, murdered most of them, and now couldn't dare to look him in the eye at the end of it all. When Manea placed their living daughter between them so she could gather up the corpses of the others, the ebony-coated brute gazed down at the little girl barely the size of one of his oversized paws, watching as she nestled up against his paw while she slept. His broken heart stung in his chest, especially when he could smell the fresh blood on her like a shark would in the water. Empty obsidian eyes peered down at her, lifting a single massive paw to rest gently over her, astonished at how small she was. That same paw lifted a moment later, and turning it towards himself, Alastor flexed his digits to extend his deadly claws. The deep red gemstones slipped silently into view, glistening in the early morning light. Those empty black eyes peered up at Manea's back while she wrapped their dead pups in a snow leopard pelt, preparing them for burial. The feral animal in his psyche was frenzied, raging with a homicidal desire for revenge. She'd killed his children. It was only right he kill her in turn.

Again and again the animal thrashed and raged for control, but Alastor refused to relinquish it. Black eyes narrowed, pupils shrinking to feral pinpricks as anger blended with sorrow, remorse, and self-loathing. It was a deadly and volatile cocktail ready to blow—but he didn't give in. Despite the wild emotions he was dealing with, he still loved Manea and could never do harm to her. Though it enraged his psychotic side even more, Alastor exhaled hard and retracted his claws, forcing his paw back down to the ground lest he do something he regret. Manea returned to focus on their living daughter once more, stroking the flame markings on her back that mimicked his own, making a comment that she needed a name. "Name her whatever feels right," he spoke in a hard, strained tone that was forced to remain even to keep it devoid of all emotion. It was better to force himself to feel nothing than to feel everything he was bottling up inside. With the violet alphess tending to their new pup, Alastor rose to his paws and strode past Manea, snatching up the bundle that contained their children within and carrying it out with purposeful strides. He wasn't going to let her bury them. He would deal with this himself. He needed to be away from her for a time anyway and this would be a perfect excuse. He didn't give a fuck if she'd just given birth. He wasn't safe to be around right now.

Alastor carried the bundle down the mountain paths towards the eastern beach, walking through the cold autumn morning air. He barely felt the chill through his thick fur, and what he did feel was nothing compared to the cold in his veins. With every step he took, the memory of watching Manea kill their pups played back in his mind over and over, each time stabbing him in the chest again and again and again. Alastor stopped when he came to the rocky shore, seeing the dawn sun rising over the eastern sea and painting the sky a pale canvas of pallid purples and blues. The only sounds were the lapping of the waves and the cries of the gulls above. It was quiet, serene, secluded. Everything his children deserved for their eternal rest. Alastor set the bundle carefully down and found a copse of oak trees by the shore, digging out a grave for his children beneath their wide branches. Once it was sufficiently deep enough, Alastor slid the bundle closer to him, then unwrapped it to gaze down at his children one last time. They were both so small, so helpless, so perfect... Little pieces of himself and his mate  Manea had found fault in both of them, yet he had seen none. Alastor swallowed back the knot in his throat, bringing gentle toe tips of one paw to caress each of their heads one last time before he bundled them back up and carefully nestled them into the hole. Piling the dirt back on top of his deceased children was easily the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

When it was done, Alastor patted the earth flat again and leaned against the oak tree with a quivering sigh. Teary black eyes blinked open to gaze out at the sunrise, warm light spilling across the cold land and settling right over his pups' grave. They would be bathed in morning light for the rest of eternity, as they deserved to be. Fantasies of what could have been once more rushed through his mind, his imagination tormenting him with futures that would never exist. First birthdays that would never be celebrated. Milestones that would never come to pass. He'd known what he'd agreed to by being Manea's mate—he hadn't known the pain and struggle that would come with it. Alastor thought that maybe he'd have some words to say to his children to make this moment make sense, to make it seem right or to justify it. Now that he was here though, nothing felt right. Nothing fit. And so he simply said nothing, just watched the sun rise with a paw over his pups' grave until he needed to vent or he would explode. The Genetor headed off of Alias Island at a steady lope, not bothering to return to the den on the way. He ran right across the land bridge, straight out of Elysium territory, and out into the wild lands of the north.

The dire brute arrived in the Sound shortly later. Now that he was finally alone, Alastor swallowed a deep breath, then he let the animal go. The dire wolf growled low in his chest, then snarled as he lashed around and dug his claws into the nearest tree, tearing at the bark in a rabid frenzy to vent out his rage. Again and again and again he tore gouges out of the wood, snarling and seething. All the pain and anger inside was let loose. It was only once his paws began to ache from tearing up the solid wood for so long did he collapse against the tree again, slumping to the ground as his body was racked with sobs that shook him to the core. The emotions roiled inside him, and throwing his head back to the sky, Alastor let loose a pained and broken scream that seemed to echo around the northern mountains. In place of the pain grew rage. The more he vented, the angrier he became, his chest heaving while he grappled with a desire to rip and tear and harm to release the pent up anger inside. And so that's what Alastor did. The Elysian wolf didn't return home that day. Instead, he charged blindly around the north, killing anything and everything unlucky enough to cross his path. Each kill relieved and incensed him and nothing was spared his wrath, not predator nor prey. Alastor was long gone.

When he did eventually return, it would be well past the evening and almost night, and he would return covered in blood and sporting more than a few new wounds across him. They felt like nothing compared to what he felt inside. These new scars would be his recompense to his children for the rest of his days. He would say nothing to Manea or to anyone who spoke to him. He had nothing to say anyway.

"Alastor Mendacium"