look at the stars

Age had gotten the better of the once-marauder. Time had a funny way of doing that. It was strange, really. Deion knew damn well that he was not supposed to have lived a long life. A reckless, feckless beast such as he was. Prone to running headlong into danger, putting himself at risk for nothing more than entertainment. And yet. Here he was. Laid up in bed, the ache of his joints barely soothed by the heady mixture of alcohol and drugs that seemed to flow through his veins more than his own blood some days. There was some awful, rattling cough in his chest that only cropped up when the humidity got overwhelming. The crypt was a balm in itself, cool and dry most times.

That stupid crow crept into view, beady eyes fixed on him in the firelight. He snarled at it, as he always did. But it was half-hearted. He was tired. The little beast flapped awkwardly out of sight, and instead the entryway to his little cavern was filled with the hulking figure of his son. Newly minted battle wounds adorned him, half scarred already. His heart swelled with pride, and he sighed to himself. "Good evening, my boy. Come in, sit with your old man for a while." he grunted, patting the space beside himself. He spoke in his mother tongue, it was so much easier and it brought him great comfort. This was half invitation, half command. As the aurora-painted man settled- and he was a man now, there was no way to deny it. Young and full of bristling energy. In some ways, he reminded Deion of his young days. Though Valerian was not nearly as sociable, he had not made the lifelong bonds that Deion had by this age. Troubling.

"I'm dying," he said it. Blunt, without any of the sentiment that a weaker soul might offer with the statement. He lifted a large paw to quell the protests from his son. "None of that. It is the truth, and I am not troubled by this. I've outlived everyone I knew from the old days, almost twice their age now. I've grown older than my mother was when she died. This is not how it was meant to be, for a man like me." the words fell from dark lips easily, and the furrow in his brow was one of concern. Crimson-mauve gaze lifted to meet the pale gold of his son's. He smiled mournfully. "I am sick, I am too old to be healthy now. I do not care for living like this." he admitted, and the humour in his voice was bittersweet. He cleared his throat of the burgeoning emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. "I am glad you've visited, my boy. I wanted to see you all before I die, but I don't think I will have that chance. You must tell your siblings, if I do not see them, that I love them dearly. They are, all of them, pieces of my heart." he was thankful that his son had fallen silent, dutifully listening to the drunken ramblings of an old man. He flicked his bright eyes over to his son, waiting for him to accept this fateful task. After a beat, he took the wordless acceptance as a cue to continue.

"Do not bury me. I want the warrior's pyre. When my body is ash, do what you will. Spread those ashes somewhere that makes you happy, or leave them in the pyre, it matters not to me. You should try and take that stupid bird with you, too. Give it some task, a name, whatever you wish. It has been loyal, in some odd way. It should follow my son as it followed me, I think." these were instructions, meant to be followed by the dutiful little warrior that he had raised. As willful and ornery as the boy was, he would obey his father, in the end. Always did. He waited a few moments, letting the morbid conversation dissipate as the crackle of flames and the lungs of massive wolves filled the silence. Finally, he cast a warm smile to his boy and let his plush tail beat a few times on the ground. "I'm sure you did not travel all this way to listen to your old man bore you with his final wishes, so tell me your tales. There should be something to eat on the shelves, help yourself." there was mirth in his gravelly voice, finally. Fondness in his heart.