when clay returns to the singing hills, the sky is turning late. a mirage of beautiful tangerine and lotus, melding under feather clouds, stitched together by the dribbling heat of a fading sun. and his coat is sleek, freshly groomed. he had turned away the knots from the fur at his neck, his chest; a nervous habit of washing the grief and nerves and dirt from himself.
he did not want to show face to elk charm again looking as if he had just returned from a tenday of hunt. a terrible brother he was, he knew it. when she needed him most, he left. again! again! but things had broken, and clay felt at fault.
somehow. was it not his duty as a man of the sharadoii to safe-guard? he had allowed for sickness to take cloud lash. he had allowed for the others to scatter and disappear. a chieftain's son, and not a ounce of leadership to be had in his blood.
and cowardly, that he too left and abandoned his own sister. the more he walks, the more that anxiety stirs in his gut and hollows him. he feels the grip of nerves, their long and punishing digits slipping tight around his neck. soon, he has to stop, forced by his own mind and he considers not approaching the wetu of elk charm at all.
suddenly, he thinks that she would be better off without him. she would not need to worry after him.
he turns, swiftly, and begins to trace the path he had led here, hoping to go unnoticed into the approaching night. knowing that the rain would have washed away his scent come morning.
