They had exchanged distant pleasantries in their duties since Sreda's arrival. A few shared nods, some dismissive flicks of the tail; they crossed paths but did not readily speak. Alder would shy away by default, the blood of their grandfather still fresh on his tongue, still staining his thoughts. He was not ready to speak of it, not for a long time, until at last it was unavoidable and she summoned him like the undead from the grave and he felt bidden to respond.
Perhaps he was already dead, in some ways.
Sreda, he said mechanically, legs moving toward her in spite of himself. She'd always had a strange hold on those around her, seemingly able to command them with just the sound of her voice. She must have gotten it from Amaranth.
It's been... a while, he said, shifting awkwardly on his paws. It was an understatement. They hadn't spoken in months, maybe a year or more by now, and he couldn't decide whose fault it was or if she even cared at all. The way she looked at him felt like she was peeling back the layers of his soul, and he bristled reflexively. Protectively.
Sreda would notice.
A lot has happened. Surprised to see you here.
A long pause. He felt as if he still reeked of Cypress and the urge to plunge himself into the river was almost uncontrollable.
