The words are familiar, threats from a long childhood lived in debilitating fear of damnation, threats spoken by their father, their pastor, their grandparents in a language they only barely comprehended. Kurt knows only enough of their ancestor's tongue to recognize the meaning—you're a demon from Hell—but the terror behind them is universal. Their father is afraid of them.
Good. For all the years he's frightened and beaten and demeaned his young child for simply existing in a way he deemed unpalatable, he should be afraid of them. Because Kurt isn't afraid anymore. When they look upon the man who once scared them senseless, who continued to haunt them even months after breaking free of his oppression, they only see a spineless whelp. Too weak, too impotent, too pathetic to stare down the frothing mouth of a beast and make it out alive. Wolves know these things in their bones. Such weak creatures cannot be permitted survival.
"Your God isn't here, pappa," they snarl, readjusting their grasp on the knife as they advance on him, each step decisive and firm. The handle is slick with Miles' blood, but their grip is secure. The man they once called their father is frightening their precious daughter. They know what must be done. "Hope you've made your fucking peace."
If he tries to run, he doesn't get far. Kurt sets on him just as they had Miles, not caring where the knife plunges into him as long as it does. Over and over, two decades of ceaseless horror poured into a bestial blitz of blows, Gunnar's body soon obliterated by their cruel blade. Only when the snow runs red with blood in a perverse halo around him does Kurt stagger away, watching impassively as their father's life drains away, before they scurry to the wagon. The knife clatters against the seat as they scoop up their pup, cradling her close to their blood-drenched chest, undoing her tight swaddle with soft coos and shushes.
"I'm here, I'm here now, you're safe," they intone, pouring that intention into the link so she'll understand without question. They're never letting that happen to her again.
Kurt spends just enough time inside the cabin that was once their prison, fashioning a wrap sling for the baby out of one of their useless dresses so she won't be out of sight for even a moment, before pilfering as many supplies as the wagon can carry. Food for themself and the horses, cloth, furs, bandages, water skins, tools, weapons, all things they will need for the long journey ahead. The corpses in the snow barely get a passing glance as Kurt takes their place in the wagon seat, grasping the reins, and with a kiss to the top of their daughter's head, they set off down the mountain.
Finally, led by the stars, their heart, and the latent pull of a bond long broken, they're going home.
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Date: 2023-12-26 05:40 pm (UTC)Good. For all the years he's frightened and beaten and demeaned his young child for simply existing in a way he deemed unpalatable, he should be afraid of them. Because Kurt isn't afraid anymore. When they look upon the man who once scared them senseless, who continued to haunt them even months after breaking free of his oppression, they only see a spineless whelp. Too weak, too impotent, too pathetic to stare down the frothing mouth of a beast and make it out alive. Wolves know these things in their bones. Such weak creatures cannot be permitted survival.
"Your God isn't here, pappa," they snarl, readjusting their grasp on the knife as they advance on him, each step decisive and firm. The handle is slick with Miles' blood, but their grip is secure. The man they once called their father is frightening their precious daughter. They know what must be done. "Hope you've made your fucking peace."
If he tries to run, he doesn't get far. Kurt sets on him just as they had Miles, not caring where the knife plunges into him as long as it does. Over and over, two decades of ceaseless horror poured into a bestial blitz of blows, Gunnar's body soon obliterated by their cruel blade. Only when the snow runs red with blood in a perverse halo around him does Kurt stagger away, watching impassively as their father's life drains away, before they scurry to the wagon. The knife clatters against the seat as they scoop up their pup, cradling her close to their blood-drenched chest, undoing her tight swaddle with soft coos and shushes.
"I'm here, I'm here now, you're safe," they intone, pouring that intention into the link so she'll understand without question. They're never letting that happen to her again.
Kurt spends just enough time inside the cabin that was once their prison, fashioning a wrap sling for the baby out of one of their useless dresses so she won't be out of sight for even a moment, before pilfering as many supplies as the wagon can carry. Food for themself and the horses, cloth, furs, bandages, water skins, tools, weapons, all things they will need for the long journey ahead. The corpses in the snow barely get a passing glance as Kurt takes their place in the wagon seat, grasping the reins, and with a kiss to the top of their daughter's head, they set off down the mountain.
Finally, led by the stars, their heart, and the latent pull of a bond long broken, they're going home.