The fox walked.
His paws limped over the dark ground, stumbling over roots and undergrowth, heedless of brambles that caught at his fur, snarling and tearing at the silky coat. His proud brush dragged against the dry dirt, the pride beaten from its usually-jaunty length. With dark eyes glazed and unseeing the fox walked, a cacophony of blame and doubt, guilt and fear yammering in his ears, gleeful vultures finally come to pick at the carcass of his wounded psyche, no longer held at bay by stubborn will and desperate need.
He could not afford to fall apart. He could never afford to fall apart. He was the strong one, the proud one, the tough one, fierce words and sharp smiles and sharper-toothed magic dancing on his tongue, coaxing and cajoling and supporting those who needed him--
He had failed them. When they had needed him, he had not found the right words. When they had slipped he had not caught them, not strong enough, not wise enough, not enough, in the end. Not ever enough.
And in the end, his failure had been the death of them.
And it was happening again. Again, again, again he had not found the right words, had been honest when he should have been sly, had been weak when he should have been strong, had failed to find the answers and he would hurt, yes, but in the end it wouldn't be him paying the price, would it? Always, always it fell to those he cared for to pay it for him.
A human problem, a human failing, and they would twist him into a human mold if it killed him, because he was not human, and perhaps there was only one being in all the world who understood that. Or at least... tried to. As he had tried to use human tools and human knowledge and he had come up empty-handed from the books and the limits of what humans here had known. He had spoken with the oldest and most powerful Fae he knew of... and her hands had been empty as well.
And where did that leave him now?
The fox had not realized when he had stopped moving, stumbling into the side of a half-rotted stump and sinking down against it. Soft, panted whines escaped his swollen throat, tongue lolling as he curled himself into as small a ball of misery as a fox could get as he shivered and tore viciously at his own mind, sinking further into a spiral of despair and condemnation he had lost the strength to fight against.
His paws limped over the dark ground, stumbling over roots and undergrowth, heedless of brambles that caught at his fur, snarling and tearing at the silky coat. His proud brush dragged against the dry dirt, the pride beaten from its usually-jaunty length. With dark eyes glazed and unseeing the fox walked, a cacophony of blame and doubt, guilt and fear yammering in his ears, gleeful vultures finally come to pick at the carcass of his wounded psyche, no longer held at bay by stubborn will and desperate need.
He could not afford to fall apart. He could never afford to fall apart. He was the strong one, the proud one, the tough one, fierce words and sharp smiles and sharper-toothed magic dancing on his tongue, coaxing and cajoling and supporting those who needed him--
He had failed them. When they had needed him, he had not found the right words. When they had slipped he had not caught them, not strong enough, not wise enough, not enough, in the end. Not ever enough.
And in the end, his failure had been the death of them.
And it was happening again. Again, again, again he had not found the right words, had been honest when he should have been sly, had been weak when he should have been strong, had failed to find the answers and he would hurt, yes, but in the end it wouldn't be him paying the price, would it? Always, always it fell to those he cared for to pay it for him.
A human problem, a human failing, and they would twist him into a human mold if it killed him, because he was not human, and perhaps there was only one being in all the world who understood that. Or at least... tried to. As he had tried to use human tools and human knowledge and he had come up empty-handed from the books and the limits of what humans here had known. He had spoken with the oldest and most powerful Fae he knew of... and her hands had been empty as well.
And where did that leave him now?
The fox had not realized when he had stopped moving, stumbling into the side of a half-rotted stump and sinking down against it. Soft, panted whines escaped his swollen throat, tongue lolling as he curled himself into as small a ball of misery as a fox could get as he shivered and tore viciously at his own mind, sinking further into a spiral of despair and condemnation he had lost the strength to fight against.
