2/9/2026, 9:01 AM
Time was a strange concept, the way it ebbed and flowed, constantly moving around him. Sarge didn’t like it. Life felt too fleeting, too brief.
The little ones were growing. Eyes open. Ears pricked. Hungry as could be. Sometimes, when they were snuggled close, a small smile would tug at his lips and he would feel a rare sense of peace.
Peace that was quickly shattered by the presence of his wife.
She was handling motherhood well, more than well. It looked incredible on her. Wisp moved with a quiet confidence, a natural grace that made his chest ache. She was still healing from his attack, something that forced his eyes away from her every time she crossed his vision. He would never live it down.
So weak.
So fickle.
So unreliable.
That was all he seemed to be anymore.
When she was present, he gave her space. He didn’t press close. Didn’t linger. He didn’t want to prove himself a threat to her or their children. Sleep remained elusive. He couldn’t remember the last night he hadn’t jolted awake from a nightmare, heart racing, breath ragged. It was driving him mad.
Why now?
Why these memories?
When he’d first arrived in Mythris, he’d been fine. Numb. Functional.
Part of him resented Wisp for that.
She had softened him. Melted away the numbness he’d hidden behind, and now he was left raw, forced to feel everything he’d buried. Most nights found him stretched out in front of the door, body tense, bristling at every sound. Other times, he fled the safety of the inn altogether, throwing himself into the cold.
He told himself he was stretching his muscles. Hunting for his partner. Keeping watch.
He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.
He was running.
Not from her. Not from them. From himself.
Another morning. Another early rise. Another quiet disappearance before Wisp could notice.
He managed to snag a hare this time, carrying it carefully as he made his way back to the cabin. Standing outside their room, he hesitated. His gaze dropped to the floor as he lifted a paw and knocked softly before slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.
Still, he moved to her side and placed the hare within her reach before leaning down to check on their little ones. A quiet murmur slipped from him.
A rhetorical question. He already knew the answer. They were safe, warm, and thriving beneath their mother’s capable paws.
Satisfied, he backed away, turning toward the door. Settling himself down beside it, he curled protectively into place, eyes half-lidded, body ever alert.
Guarding.
Watching.
Staying.
The little ones were growing. Eyes open. Ears pricked. Hungry as could be. Sometimes, when they were snuggled close, a small smile would tug at his lips and he would feel a rare sense of peace.
Peace that was quickly shattered by the presence of his wife.
She was handling motherhood well, more than well. It looked incredible on her. Wisp moved with a quiet confidence, a natural grace that made his chest ache. She was still healing from his attack, something that forced his eyes away from her every time she crossed his vision. He would never live it down.
So weak.
So fickle.
So unreliable.
That was all he seemed to be anymore.
When she was present, he gave her space. He didn’t press close. Didn’t linger. He didn’t want to prove himself a threat to her or their children. Sleep remained elusive. He couldn’t remember the last night he hadn’t jolted awake from a nightmare, heart racing, breath ragged. It was driving him mad.
Why now?
Why these memories?
When he’d first arrived in Mythris, he’d been fine. Numb. Functional.
Part of him resented Wisp for that.
She had softened him. Melted away the numbness he’d hidden behind, and now he was left raw, forced to feel everything he’d buried. Most nights found him stretched out in front of the door, body tense, bristling at every sound. Other times, he fled the safety of the inn altogether, throwing himself into the cold.
He told himself he was stretching his muscles. Hunting for his partner. Keeping watch.
He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself.
He was running.
Not from her. Not from them. From himself.
Another morning. Another early rise. Another quiet disappearance before Wisp could notice.
He managed to snag a hare this time, carrying it carefully as he made his way back to the cabin. Standing outside their room, he hesitated. His gaze dropped to the floor as he lifted a paw and knocked softly before slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.
Still, he moved to her side and placed the hare within her reach before leaning down to check on their little ones. A quiet murmur slipped from him.
Still doing well?
A rhetorical question. He already knew the answer. They were safe, warm, and thriving beneath their mother’s capable paws.
Satisfied, he backed away, turning toward the door. Settling himself down beside it, he curled protectively into place, eyes half-lidded, body ever alert.
Guarding.
Watching.
Staying.