---

The earth was beginning to thaw. Francis thought something within him had begun to thaw, in kind. The hallways of the castle echoed with fewer murmured voices, fewer familiar scents - but not all were gone. Francis had begun to recognize that the ache of Chantilly and Kairos' disappearances and Nikolai's death had begun to occupy the same place Helene's did. The grief never left, but he knew he could grow around it. It was all he could do.

The Prince meandered through his morning routine much the same as he ever did - stretching, grooming his pelt into order, before padding down the halls of the overgrown castle, reassuring himself of the Concord's safety and presence by scent and sound. The morning was sleepy, springtime bringing the sun over the horizon earlier but the chill still clinging to the stone and making the man less eager to start his day. Still, there were chores to attend to. One thing that wasn't a chore was pausing, as he sometimes did, by one of the larger windows almost entirely rid of its glass, dry, brown vines curved over the windowsill. In the gardens sprawling beneath the window, his pricked ears could catch the sound of birdsong warbling from every tree and bush - warring for territory or announcing their strength or serenading a mate, perhaps. He didn't understand the intricacies of the birds, only appreciated the beauty of their songs.

Another thing that was most certainly not a chore: Takala.

The guilt for her injury was an ever-present weight at the back of his mind, but Francis carried enough guilt for ten lifetimes. A little more would not be the straw to break his back, he told himself.

Like any other Concord wolf, she had been given free choice of the many available, abandoned rooms and nooks and crannies of the ruined castle. Francis needed only follow her scent, a pleasant blend of sweet, sharper mulberry and indulgent honey, through the chilly hallways that the sunlight had not yet reached. Miss Takala? He called mildly as he approached where her scent was strongest. I hope I didn't wake you.

Where she once lay bleeding, now stood cold stone.

In a haze too thick to sequester, she would blink away a fog of color and sharp, penetrating scents that were all too unfamiliar to try to distinguish. In the room she inhabited, a symphony of birdsong rang just outside. Their song of unabashed freedom felt like ridicule.

As the she-wolf began to stir, memories of the previous night began to roll through her memory. So vivid it was palpable on the tongue.

The sharp pain where crimson once bloomed.
Now, her thigh was wrapped tight in a strange, web-like bandage, the long white tresses tucked neatly beneath its folds, a carefully-crafted knot pressing against the outer side of her leg. Before she could get a chance to acclimate to her surroundings, however, a familiar face popped into the entry of the room.

'Miss Takala?'

'I hope I didn't wake you'

Her ears instinctively flattened to the tenor of Francis' voice. What a fool she must have appeared to be. Fumbling under the weight of the ewe. Moreover, they had nothing to show for it. Crushed under the weight of the ewe — and for what? A scar, and a failure that would not be so easily forgotten.

And there she lay— a weak, pitiful fool.

"No,"

The word left her low and rough, the rest catching like a stone in her throat. Questions, apologies, anger, all of which entangled themselves until there was nothing distinct enough to form on the tongue.

Takala cast her pale eyes to the light that entered the room. A flat, vertical threshold. The architecture of this place was like nothing she'd ever seen, and certainly not one built by the paws of wolves. Or rather, no wolves she'd know. After all, this world had mystified her before. Individuals with the ability to make finery such as this could be commonplace here.

She looked back toward Francis, watching as he busied himself with something unseen. His back turned, it was easier to find her voice.

"How bad is it?"

---

If he'd been less self-flagellating in the confines of his mind, he'd have interpreted her weary visage as a likely side effect of the woman's recent ordeal and still-healing body. As it was, Francis saw resentment or perhaps righteous anger within the lavender wolf's demeanor. He took no offense; he deemed it rightfully aimed at him for his mistakes during the hunt. He was somewhat inexperienced - months of hunting and training in this body had significantly improved his skills, but he knew that was no substitute for experience. He'd been so confident - overly confident. Sheep were easy prey, in the right circumstances. But his experience as a whole and her novelty to the dangerous edges of the woolen creatures had stacked higher odds against them than usual, it seemed.

Francis should have thought of that and adjusted accordingly, not been distracted by his pleasant conversation and the enchantingly determined air around Takala.

He wasn't going to stand here and cower or snivel beneath the weight of his guilt, though - he did not want her pity. He entered the room with the same smooth gait he employed everywhere, gaze skipping along her frame and landing on the bandaged wound for a few seconds probably too long. Not as bad as it could have been, He replied, distracted still by his own thoughts. The hallways in the castle were mostly overgrown, although the chill had turned them mostly brown and dry for now. Come spring, the halls would be verdant jungle cut through with the clean-cut remains of the castle that had once stood, pristine and untouched.

Francis was rather fond of it in this state. However, he'd set about the task of nudging aside some of the thicker vibes that lay across the threshold of the doorway to Takala's room. He doubted she'd be down for very long, even if resting was probably wise. Better to make it easier for her to come and go. The motions cleared some of the miasma of foul guilt on his conscience, and he turned back to her with a pensive expression. I'm sorry - I ought to have been specific. You should keep your weight off of it for at least a week - maybe two - and take things slow for a while after. As long as we keep it from getting infected, though, you should recover fully. He paused, taking a seat and curling his tail around his flank. I wanted to see if I could fetch you anything, or...I thought you might like to stretch your legs; we have a garden, although it's a little lackluster this time of year. Francis offered a small, lopsided smile, a hint of humor in his tone. I'd gladly play the role of the humble crutch, if you wished.

"Not as bad as it could have been,"

Takala scoffed lowly.

She averted her eyes. Not because she was unwilling, but because she couldn’t stand the reflection she might find in them.

How could it have been any worse? She was a huntress, she always has been. Her father would have been embarrassed to see her flail and whimper under the hooves of the beast. Worse yet, she was determined to prove herself in this damned, green hellscape. There was nothing to show for it. An empty stomach, a bruised ego, and a leg that would not see the light that shone through that stupid window for at least a few moons. Moons she would have spent looking for a way back Home.

"Not as bad as it could’ve been," she repeated, the words low, bitter—not at him, but at herself. "That seems to be the running theme."

I'm sorry - I ought to have been specific. You should keep your weight off of it for at least a week - maybe two - and take things slow for a while after. As long as we keep it from getting infected, though, you should recover fully

Though her eyes had been cast aside, his slender frame was caught in the corner of her eye as he shifted. He ensured he was politely and properly affixed in front of her as he continued.

"I wanted to see if I could fetch you anything, or...I thought you might like to stretch your legs; we have a garden, although it's a little lackluster this time of year."
"I'd gladly play the role of the humble crutch, if you wished."

Sadness ebbed at the corners of his lips, yet all she felt was a twisted, heavy anger that welled in her throat.

Takala exhaled sharply through her drying nose and lifted her gaze to him at last. Her expression wasn’t harsh. It was tight.

"I knew better," she said, voice quieter. "I should have known better."

"I've hunted elk in snowstorms and come out clean. But sheep? That’s how I end up... like this?" Takala's voice abandoned its softened tenor in favor of one that was far more incredulous.

A breath shivered out of her. It wasn't his fault. He was trying to help. And she got them into this mess.

"Don’t apologize," she added cooly. Her ears tipped back, and she finally met his wet gaze. "I’m not made of glass, Francis. I’m not looking to be coddled." Despite the words that filtered through her teeth, her tone was gentle.

"If you want to help," she said, turning to him now with a steadier look, "...let's take a look at this garden. Not as my crutch. Just — until my leg remembers what to do."

---

His efforts at apology, at navigating his perceived sin and resulting penance appropriately did not fall onto deaf ears. But it did falter and fizzle in the face of the huntress' sharp, icy gaze as she rebutted Francis' smothering.

An elk in a snowstorm was a feat he wasn't going to fail to take seriously. Francis found his expression faltering. The gilded mask of the golden prince, guilty but determined to charmingly whisk her away from her worries, slipped. Uncertainty revealed itself in the gaps; in the furrowed dip of his brows, in the pensive set to his mouth, in the expressive depths of his amber gaze, lingering on Takala's cooler features.

Don't apologize, and he snapped his jaw shut in response, for he'd been about to do just that. It was his fault she was hurt like this, that he'd had her cooped up recuperating instead of seeking her home. Even if it was a futile effort, as he so believed, he wanted to believe in Takala's ability to somehow reshape her fate to succeed all the same. The man lifted his chin, a considering frown creasing his expression as he mulled over her decree. She was as she said: a skilled hunter, with experience that likely rivaled his own. He had seen her in action and knew her skill to be formidable, and he recognized that acting otherwise due to an accident outside her control was rude. I will apologize, but only for the insult I've caused. You are right, of course, my lady. He met her gaze, and allowed the sincerity with which he delivered his apology to gleam within.

He wished he could remove the blame she held upon her shoulders, for he did not wish to see anything he knew to be so vile weigh her down, but Francis didn't know how - not without being an entire hypocrite, for he'd gladly shoulder the blame instead and didn't quite realize how to absolve them both of it. He put the issue out of his mind, and determined to instead focus his efforts on avoiding his prior mistake: underestimating the lavender lady.

Very well - I shall give you the grand tour, if you'll follow me? The prince sidestepped toward the door, tail swaying behind him. He was looking forward to showing off the castle, in truth - he'd put quite a bit of work into making it comfortable for wolfkind, and they didn't often have guests.

She braced her bruised pawpads widely on either side of her before she shifted her hips from her side to propped beneath her. Satisfied with the weight that regained balance once more, the splinted leg obeyed, more or less. A dull throb pulsed through the bones and her teeth, ebbed only by the harsh grinding of her canines.

"Fine, then." Takala's voice steadied. "If I stay here any longer, I'll turn into an oak log,"

A scoff perforated out of her nose — self-mockery more than insult.

The woman's ears flickered, her chin gesturing curtly for him to fulfill his pledge of being used as her balance. Once he met her side, she made a point of not leaning too heavily.

His figure was tall, lean. Warm. Much warmer than the cold, smooth stone she felt against her paws. He steadied her easily enough, absorbing the scant weight she grudgingly surrendered. Her joints begged to lean fully into him, to let her battered bones rest, but her jaw was set, spine stiff. She refused to surrender herself more than she already has.

She’d hop if she must. She'd even crawl if pride required it.

"Onward. I'm eager to see what this 'garden' is,"

Just as long as this surprise wasn't anything like the sheep.

The edges of her lips almost betraying a grin before it flattened into a line.

"And if I spot any more of those beasts," she warned dryly, "you’ll tie me to the damn tree before I make another fool of myself."

A quiet moment passed as she caught his eyes fully now. The truth glimmered there, behind the usual frost: thank you.

But Takala had never been good at saying the words plainly.