Little Fiery One

Manea seemed relieved when he explained what he had taken in those vials, seeing the stress and panic melting away from her expression. The two wolves were quiet for a moment, Alastor floating in a woozy state between lucidity and unconsciousness, his body heavy and muscles aching. He was only vaguely aware of Manea beginning to lower his paw—just for her to pull it up and begin inspecting his injured paw. No... she was inspecting his claws. He could see the gears turning in her head but didn't know what thoughts were fluttering about her brain until she began to speak again. He had demanded proof of the Ancients' souls that inhabited them supposedly. Well, he already had all the proof. His mutations—his fur and his claws—they had all come about after he had become a Mendacium, after he had created Avacyn and Saracyn and become the man he was always supposed to be as their father. His actions and his love had made him worthy enough for his gifts to manifest, and it had all come about because he had been taken into the family. Alastor's ears flicked back against his skull, glassy black eyes staring down at his claws, and at the purple paw of his wife gently cradling his. Despite all the rage and sorrow, despite the madness and instability, she still thought he was an amazing father. She was right too: he would tear the whole world down for his family.

It was slow and it was tedious, but bit by bit Alastor's reeling mind was beginning to understand. He couldn't find any logical way that explained away his sudden development of rare mutations after he had changed, nor how his own children had been gifted such magnificent rarities either. Maybe... Manea was right. Maybe his soul wasn't damned for all the sins he'd committed in his depravity or in the name of another. Maybe it had just taken a bit of extra work and weathering for the diamond to reveal itself beneath the coal. Alastor closed his eyes while Manea caressed his cheek with her paw, leaning into her touch while fresh crystalline tears fell down his muzzle, mixing with the blood he was still dripping. His homicidal anger had burned away and left nothing but cold ash in its wake. Alastor's body fully slumped, no longer the insane wolf he was when he'd left the den or when he'd returned. He heard Manea call for Irilyth, offering his mate no resistance while she ushered him carefully to the ground. His heavy body slumped and collapsed to the hard cave floor, feeling the aching tiredness starting to claim his mind. Was this what death felt like? A slow surrendering to oblivion? A gradual fading away of light and life? Was he dying right now?

Alastor was only partially cognizant for the poking and prodding of their little blonde healer as Irilyth began to tend to his wounds, extracting the glass from his paw and stitching up the larger lacerations on his chest and torso. Were those the ones made by the bear or the boar? He couldn't exactly tell where some ended and others began. A quiet squealing brought the dire wolf back to consciousness, obsidian eyes opening to spot his violet queen comforting their crying newborn on their bed. That paternal instinct flared up, urging his weary body to go over there to comfort his child, but he had no strength left to do so. At some point he heard Irilyth ask how many doses of his medication he'd taken. "Three..." he mumbled beneath groggy tones, struggling to keep his eyes open. Irilyth gave an exasperated sigh and continued to patch him up, stitching his wounds and covering them with a yarrow and horsetail paste to stem the bleeding and close the wounds before covering them in lamb's ear bandages.

Manea returned to his side while Irilyth worked on him, carrying their little fire-marked girl to nestle her between them once more, the way she should have spent her entire first day of life. Manea set their daughter between his massive black paws and Alastor instinctually scooped the small being in his grasp, holding her as gently as one would handle glass. With the glass removed from his paw, he had no fear of harming her with his touch, although some of his own blood smeared onto the tiny pup's fur, mixing with that of his other children's on her. Alastor watched the tiny girl settle in against her father and fall asleep once more. Tears filled his eyes; she was so beautiful and perfect! His eyelids slid closed and he curled his head down to gingerly press his nose to her crown, holding onto what little strength he had left to share this moment with her and his wife. Manea reminded him that she needed a name and Alastor gave a heavy breath in response. He was so far past thinking at this point. He was mentally, physically, and emotionally drained more than he'd ever felt before in his life. But for his daughter, he'd find the strength to give her this. "She needs something fiery like her fur... something graceful and powerful for the little fiery one," he murmured in his half-conscious state. The drugs were pulling his mind further and further away from him, but he held on just a little longer. Her paw on his foreleg brought his eyes halfway open again, glancing up to his smiling mate with a little smile of his own to try and reassure her that he was still here and still himself.

"Alastor Mendacium"