Miles almost shakes Kurt off, almost kicks at them to send them sprawling into the mess of fluids on the ground -- but there's a different pitch to their pleas now, a sort of panic that makes him pause. Beneath the blood, he can see they're carrying differently, there's been a shift -- whether because of the fear or the pain or the bleeding out, something has irrevocably happened.
All business, tucking his spent cock back in his pants, Miles reaches out with one cool hand to press against Kurt's stomach. They're definitely carrying lower, the pup inside them having moved, ready to come out. Too soon -- he'd thought there'd be another few days, at least. The midwife he'd paid off is in town, won't venture up towards the cabin until he sends for her, which he'd planned to do -- damn it.
Too late now. "You're in labor," Miles offers bluntly, irritated, like the most frightening, horrific moment of Kurt's life is simply a major inconvenience to him. He feels their muscles go tight, contracting, then relaxing, times it mentally before standing. "Count how long between each contraction," he commands, going for the bandages, the washbasin, annoyance evident in every movement. When Kurt doesn't immediately comply, he smacks the side of their head, hard, repeating: "Count. If you're too far along, there's no time to get anyone else, you'll have to do it alone."
They're in labor. He says it so briskly, tone short and curt the way it usually is when he speaks to them. It's sounds so familiar, so mundane in its cruelty, that the true gravity of his words doesn't become apparent to them until another surge of painful contractions flings them into orbit. That's not how you tell someone they're in labor. It's too momentous an occasion, the first tenuous moments of what will become the very axis around which Kurt's existence will revolve forever. Surely the start of the rest of their life deserves more gravitas, more emotional weight than that.
But that's not the world they live in anymore. Here, it doesn't matter that they're scared. It doesn't matter that they have no idea how to give birth, what being in labor even means, how to have the child they're currently having without killing them or themself. Here, they're just an inconvenience to their Alpha. Their blistering pain and raw, confused panic just earns them a smack to the head and a stern command barked by the wolf responsible for it all.
Through a torrent of tears and gasped, keening sobs, Kurt tries to focus and count the seconds between each wave of pain. But it's hard—they don't even know which painful flutter or spasm or jerk of muscle is a contraction or not, whether what they're feeling is normal or a sign that something has gone horribly wrong. The sheer agony of their muscles working definitely feels wrong.
This can't be what it's supposed to feel like. This cold, lonely terror, this bewildering pain, like splintering from the inside. As they try to count, try to breathe, Kurt sobs out mindless, desperate pleas through their own blood and tears, "C-Can't, I can't, I can't d-do this alone, please, not alone, I c-can't do it, I can't do it alone, please not alone—!"
Miles is making a brief, dismissive sound, scornful and fed up, grabbing the washbasin and leaving it beside Kurt, within their reach. He won't doctor their wounds, won't even touch them, just leaves them to weep and bleed and panic. "You'll be fine. If it just started, you have hours yet," he says dismissively, going to the door and pulling his boots on. He won't look at them either, not as he grabs his coat, not as he strides out with a brief, "I'll be back."
Not as he leaves them alone, to live, to die, to whatever end. There's no strong hand holding theirs, coaching them through the contractions, soothing them with water or ice or just another presence. Just Kurt, alone, in their own blood, with the wind howling outside.
Except. Except they're not truly alone, not really -- there's that careful spark of awareness, a link Miles's cruelty hasn't been able to touch, guarded and shielded by Kurt's own body. Pure instinct and love and fear had built a wall between the hell they endured on a day-to-day basis and the budding consciousness of the child inside them. Whatever Miles did, whatever torture he administered, it didn't penetrate that wall. The baby doesn't know what's happened to it's mother, that it's been carried through agony and horror unscathed.
But it reaches out now, a soft stirring, a silent outreach of purely innocent, purely adoring connection, solely for Kurt, untouchable by anyone else. And there's nothing but love in that first touch of soul to soul, nothing but recognition and delight and wonder at being alive, at being so close to meeting. In it, there's something like Corrigan, like Naseer and Benji and Leo and Kai, fragments of their affection and warmth and love echoed in the child that had grown beneath their watchful eye for so long. In it, in her, the pack is there, albeit only in Kurt's mind. That's something.
It's everything. In the awful swirl of terror and betrayal and agony, watching Miles get dressed and leave them there when they need him most, feeling that tiny spark of connection through the pain is the only thing they have. The baby, they can feel them, they can feel her, right there under their trembling hands. She's right there. She's safe. She's theirs. Untouched by Miles' cruelty, she reaches for them for the first time, beautiful and unknowing, full of love.
It's the only thing that keeps Kurt moving, the knowledge that she's coming, that they have to keep her safe. It spurs them into action, to clean their face and chest and stomach of come and blood, to shakily clean and dress the wound on their neck, still throbbing and bleeding, the pain dizzying. Though when another wave of contractions hit and they double over on the floor, the pain at their neck becomes a distant memory.
They scream through every second of burning, earth-shattering pain, crumbled in a heap on the floor. To anyone passing by, the cabin must seem haunted by some tortured, wailing spirit, their howls shaking the walls before being carried on the wind. When the contractions subside, Kurt tries their best to stay calm, to focus on her, wiping the floors clean of their own blood and hair—they can't let the baby be born into this mess!—but as the hours pass, those moments of clarity and calm get shorter and shorter.
By the time Miles returns, the cabin is spotless, the washbasin is more blood than water, and Kurt is sprawled out on the bed, face twisted in agony. They know they're not supposed to be up there, but they just needed somewhere soft to lay, pillows to cushion their aching hips, warm sheets to cover them, firm bedposts to grasp while riding the burning waves. The pain is near-constant now, their skin covered in a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood down their chest, along their thighs, every muscle twitching and shaking. "Please, please, p-please," is all they can muster between sobs and harrowing wails. Any minute now. Please, God, any minute now...
Later -- much later, in a world that Kurt can't even conceive of then -- they'll be thankful that Miles wasn't there. That the pain and agony and world-shattering fear isn't witnessed, that there's no help, no comfort beyond what Kurt themselves can muster up, but also, when their daughter finally slides into the world, howling like a true wolf, Miles isn't there to see her. Those first instants, when the baby -- small, so small, but strong and kicking and wailing her indignation at being here -- is still covered in blood, still connected to Kurt, when her father should swoop in to praise and comfort and swaddle her are not Miles's. He isn't there.
Corrigan isn't either, but the child is unmistakably his -- curly dark hair, smooth skin a few shades lighter than the Alpha's, a strong, healthy, booming voice. His presence is there as the baby squirms and protests until she's curled up against Kurt's chest, adding to the layers of blood and blinking open her enormous eyes -- their eyes, the same color, the same shape, a perfect mixture of them and Corrigan.
Only then, does Miles return, sauntering in like he hasn't been absent for hours, like he hadn't just abandoned Kurt to suffer all alone. He pauses at the doorway, looking at the blood coating the sheets, the floor, Kurt -- anywhere but at the baby. "Done, then?"
It's an incredibly cruel, heartless thing to say, like this is all some great inconvenience. Like the way his day's been disrupted matters the most.
No Miles, no Alpha, not even a stranger as midwife to guide them through the most traumatic, debilitating pain of their life. But it doesn't even matter. As soon as she's out, writhing and screaming on the mattress, Kurt forgets all about the pain, the horror of their situation, the fact that they were left alone to endure this. She's perfect. Healthy, ferocious, beautiful. Finally getting to see her, hear her, hold her makes everything they have gone through worth it.
Still breathless and trembling, Kurt scoops her up and cradles her close, so close, not once letting her out of their sight as she opens her eyes to the world. Looking at her makes them feel like they're floating. All the pain is gone, the loneliness, the fear. The world doesn't exist outside of the little bubble shared between the two, the child hiccuping and whining unhappily at the chill of life, Kurt shakily wiping blood from her eyes.
She looks just like Corrigan. Their heart sings at the thought.
Not even Miles' cruelty can dampen their joy—though not for lack of trying. By the time he slithers back inside, the baby has already latched, curling up on their chest to eat while Kurt gingerly wipes them clean. The sight of him makes their blood run cold, a haunted but intense cast over their face when they meet his uncaring gaze. Unconsciously, their grip on the baby tightens. An instinct they can't articulate flares through them, ancient, fiercely protective, their guard already immediately up.
"Yes, Alpha," they manage, surprised by how strong and clear their own voice is even after hours of screaming. They may call him Alpha, but their body knows better, curling defensively around their daughter without conscious thought. He is a threat. "I'm done."
Miles can feel the slight shift in the air, the way Kurt sits up a little straighter, the way they hold the (small, but strong, unmistakably Corrigan's, making him want to reach out and wrench it away) pup closer. Even with his massive amount of power over them, Miles knows that threatening a wolf's young is a surefire way to get his throat torn out. Kurt no longer has to worry about guarding their own body to protect their child. That makes them vulnerable -- he can separate them now, use the baby as leverage -- but it also makes them intensely dangerous.
So he keeps his distance, slowly pulling a few things out of his bag -- salted meat, cheese, bread, the most fresh food he's offered in a while. Kurt's mainly been given watered down broths and soups and gruels, keeping them weak and compliant. But now he has a new agenda. "You need to get your strength up," Miles says, setting the food down beside the bed. "We'll be traveling within the fortnight, once you're strong enough."
He glances at the baby, then lifts his gaze to meet Kurt's calm, wary one. "You'll be able to carry again by the time we get there. If you rest and eat enough." That's his goal, then -- help Kurt recover so he can breed them full with his pup this time.
Kurt doesn't blink. Those huge, devastating eyes are fixed on Miles the whole time, watching his face, his hands. Their teeth are on edge, jaw set like they know that, should he reach for them, reach for the girl, they'll clamp down around his wrist and bite until it shatters. Having just given birth, Kurt was convinced they'd feel weak and exhausted. They're anything but. Instincts primed, nerves screaming, they'll stay sharp and protective like this until their body is fully convinced Miles won't hurt her. At this point, whether or not they'll let him touch her at all is a dangerous gamble.
The food is a surprise, but his words are not. They know full well what he intends to do with them. And for all their ferocity, Kurt still firmly knows their place as a wolf mate, knows what's expected of them. Barely breathing, they nod in agreement. "Then I'll eat and rest well. Thank you, Alpha," they say, words infinitely more placid than their gaze, burning holes into Miles. They'll let him knock them up right away, as long as he knows damn well they won't let him harm a hair on their daughter's head.
"Where will we go, Alpha? She's too small to travel very far just yet," they explain, fingers gingerly petting the baby's hair while she eats. All of their priorities are shifted now.
Miles moves around Kurt like a man trapped in a room with a wild animal -- cautious, careful, mindful. He retreats to his chair, crossing his arms like the sheer force of their gaze unsettles him. Maybe it does. He'd gotten accustomed to their compliance, their submission, but this is...not that. It's not that at all.
So he stays at a difference as the baby ferociously feeds, her eyes closed, long lashes fluttering against her cheeks as Kurt strokes her hair. There's a lot of it, curls and loops, a soft dark color exactly between both her parent's. She curls her tiny hands, tiny fingers against Kurt's chest, perfectly at peace, secure in the knowledge of her own safety.
And Miles stays far, far away. For the moment.
"There's a town, a few miles south, near the river. It's warmer there, a better place to wait out the rest of the winter." Before, Miles hadn't cared much for Kurt's comfort or warmth or even whether they were fed well enough -- perhaps a part of him had hoped they'd miscarry, that he wouldn't have to deal with Corrigan's pup. But now that she's out, now that they're open and ready for his pup instead, caution must be taken. "We'll stay there until the spring thaw."
Only a few miles. Good. They can manage a few miles travel, even with an infant, especially with the promise of warmth. Living by the river will be nice. They'll find a way to be okay with the nearby human settlement—maybe it'll be just distracting and stimulating enough for Miles to leave them alone most of the time. Having to take care of the baby will take up most of their time now, anyway.
Nodding their understanding, Kurt relaxes marginally into the pillows, though their gaze never leaves him for long. He's wise to keep his distance. Not even Kurt fully knows what they're capable of right now, but they know for a fact they could badly hurt him. They'd be lying if they claimed not to feel encouraged by this sudden sense of power. "Thank you, Alpha. That sounds perfect."
Their gaze immediately softens when they look down at the baby, a soft smile tugging at their lips. 'Perfect' doesn't even begin to describe her. Looking at her curled up in their arms, safe and healthy and breathtaking, Kurt doesn't have any regrets. They'd do it all again, put up with anything the universe could throw at them, just to be able to hold her like this. "Hear that? You'll get to play in the river, honey," they murmur, private and fond, only for her.
Over the next couple weeks, Miles does something he hadn't, thus far, displayed -- he keeps his word. He doesn't touch Kurt, doesn't come near their baby, just brings food and tiptoes around and spends most days and nights away from the cabin. It's still cold there, but he ensures there are fires always burning, and the chill is mostly kept out -- he even stops chaining Kurt to the wall, if only because he knows that the baby wouldn't survive an escape attempt, not newborn and so intensely vulnerable, not with the bitterest part of winter still in full force.
But slowly the weather shifts, the snowdrifts begin to melt and the sun is out more and more. The nights are still frigid, but the day Miles decides to leave dawns bright and clear. It's one of the rare nights where he'd slept at the cabin, in his chair, watching the slowly dying fire. The meager belongings he'd stowed in the creaky cupboards are packed by the door, ready for loading into the wagon, ready to go.
Miles rouses himself at dawn, along with the first chirps of birdsong, and slowly rises, stretching luxuriously and glancing Kurt's way, seeing if they're awake. If their careful scrutiny of him has abated at all.
Kurt is still out cold, eyes closed, breaths deep and even, fingers limp against the secure swaddle wrapped around their also sleeping baby. She's a surprisingly calm little thing, especially considering her circumstances—born into the harsh cold, kept inside at all hours, with only the supplies her mother is able to fashion by their own hand—but she's still a baby. She still cries at night when she's hungry or itchy or confused or needs changing, and Kurt is always right there, on a hairpin trigger, forgoing their own rest to make sure she's comfortable again.
This had been one such night—and, seeing as Miles was sleeping over, they were especially vigilant not to irritate him, staying up with her for hours before they dared closing their own eyes. But maybe they hadn't needed to be so vigilant. Miles has been...good lately. A strange sentiment. Miles is never good. But he's left them alone, left the baby alone, only coming to the cabin to feed them and hand off fabrics and soaps from the village before being on his way again. It's been weeks since the flaying, since he hacked off their hair (still short and choppy, but no longer a priority), since he terrorized them into delivery. And while that feeling lingers, it gets more and more distant every day he keeps his hands off them.
So their guard is never fully down. But, deep in sleep for the first time all day, there's little they can do. Exhausted new mothers need their rest. And since their daughter barely stirs by their side, unaware of the danger creeping up to the bed, the danger waiting outside by the wagon, they're not likely to wake anytime soon.
All this time, Miles has been waiting, biding his time, building up to hurt Kurt one last devastating, resonant time. He listens to their even breathing, the steady beat of their heart, lulled by exhaustion into letting down their guard. Miles has been good, has been careful and respectful and cautious. Even if Kurt's body remembers his cruelty, their mind is so desperate to believe that this is real. That it can stay. They long to rest in their Alpha's protection -- it's instinct. It's what they're meant for.
So when Miles creeps up, silent and stoic and not even breathing, then bends to gently scoop up Kurt's daughter, moving so slowly that the baby barely fusses. She's tired too, weary from the busy work of growing and eating and learning the world around her. The entire world is her mother, their warmth, their comfort, their voice.
But for that instant, enough for Miles to scoop her up, the baby doesn't stir. Until she registers the change in the air, the wrong scent and feel and presence. The wolf link in her mind is connected to Kurt and Kurt alone, and this -- the first time it's been tested by distance -- has the pup waking and squirming, letting out a soft, wavering whimper.
For a long, nervewracking moment, it seems the girl's sleepy whimper might be enough to rouse Kurt from their slumber. They've been so attentive, after all, so attuned to their daughter's every move and sound, every flickering thought of a slowly forming consciousness, that they would be at her side the moment anything was tipped even slightly off balance.
But they're so tired. It's been weeks of barely any sleep, pockets of rest here and there, the paranoia of a new parent coupled with their fear of Miles, keeping them on their toes every single moment, waking and not. Now that they're finally getting more than an hour's rest, Kurt's sleeping too deeply for even their daughter's voice to reach them, hopelessly gone.
The girl notices. Mom is always there, ready to scoop her up and coo gently into her ear, play with her hair, put their finger into her little palm so she can squeeze and hold on tight. But now, there's only the stranger, the man who makes mom's heart thump so fast and hard, whose scent scares mom half to death, picking up her swaddled form and taking her away from her mother with slow, creeping steps. The whimpers continue, a soft hiccup turning into a long, shivery cry, her limbs wrapped up too tight for her to wriggle free. Kurt twitches, but falls back asleep in the same breath, not moving under the sheets.
Small favors. Miles knows he doesn't have much time, that even Kurt's exhaustion won't delay the inevitable for long -- soon they'll launch awake, reach instinctively for their baby, find her missing and then there'll be hell to pay. He shakes the whimpering little girl roughly, getting a confused whimpering sob -- mom doesn't do that, mom doesn't shake or hiss or exude hatred and malice. Though she's only a baby, mere weeks old, she knows in her very soul when someone is safe -- and when they're dangerous. This man is dangerous.
But he's also at the door, pulling it open and then closing it quickly, quietly, behind him before the chill rush of wind can alert Kurt. He shifts the baby in his arms, looks across the snowy clearing towards the wagon. The wolf in him is on alert, mistrusting humans on principle, but -- well. These are desperate times after all.
So he nods curtly at the man, strides forward, purposefully. He's confident that the mere sight of this person will be enough to send Kurt into mindless, desperate terror, enough to completely nullify any attempts at retaliation. "Sorry for the delay."
Desperate times indeed. He never thought he'd see the day where he'd be making deals with ferals. If the circumstances weren't so...delicate, he would've shot Miles on sight. Maybe he still should. The hunting rifle strapped securely to the saddle of his horse is unloaded, for now, but that can change. Miles knows that full well. He's certain the savage feels just as uneasy as him.
Still, there's a part of Gunnar that needs to see this through. When the strange feral reached out to him, explained what was going on, what he wanted from him, the man hadn't believed him. But Miles' descriptions of his son—presumed dead, perhaps hoped dead—were too accurate, too detailed to be fabricated. Call it morbid curiosity. He had to see for himself.
"You are certain that's my son in there?" he says, voice low and tinged with a foreign accent, his cadence almost melodic. Gunnar watches the savage approach him, carrying a wriggling baby in his arms. His first granddaughter. The thought of how she came into this world makes him feel ill. With the butt of his pipe, Gunnar pushes the wild curls out of her face, frowning as he studies her features. "She looks almost...human."
The man's scorn is easy to see, but Miles wouldn't have gotten where he is now if he cared that deeply about what humans thought of him. He's learned to pass among them, paid or threatened or otherwise manipulated enough of them into silence that he can maintain a home in a settlement close to the river, as he'd said. The house is small, one bedroom, just enough for him and Kurt and their own pups. Not Corrigan's.
The urge had been there to simply drop the whelp somewhere in the icy woods, let it starve to death or be taken by beasts, but without their child, Kurt would be careless, senseless with grief. Miles wouldn't have any way to control them -- they'd have nothing left to lose. If the babe lived -- far away, under the control of her grandfather -- there was enough leverage that Miles could keep Kurt compliant and submissive, as they had been.
So he doesn't recoil from Gunnar's scornful voice, his careless look downward. He'd been agreeable enough to the idea of a second chance, a child to raise that he could keep in line, an opportunity to correct the mistakes he'd made with Kurt. Miles simply smiles blandly, shifting the child awkwardly in his arms. "She is. Half, at least. I can assure you that enough wolfsbane will suppress her ability to change. There are plenty half-breed who've had it beaten out of them, too, if that's what you prefer."
It certainly isn't ideal, but for Gunnar, even the thought of raising a half-breed is more appealing than raising Kurt ever was. He hadn't wanted a child in the first place. If he'd had a choice, he would've shipped the infant off to be with his irresponsible mother the moment she took off. But propriety demanded otherwise. Gunnar's own parents wouldn't stand for him abandoning his unwanted son. So he'd been saddled with the unruly child, mercurial and headstrong, a constant embarrassment.
Perhaps with this girl, he can do it right. Using discipline from an early enough age, keep her compliant with wolfsbane and the threat of her parent's safety, keeping her firmly in line. Gunnar hums thoughtfully, pulling gently from his pipe, considering the girl. She already looks frightened. Good. "In that case, I am certain a combination of both will be sufficient," he says, before looking up at Miles.
He also looks distressingly human. He'd known savages could disguise themselves, take on a more humanoid form, but he'd had no idea they could pass so convincingly. No wonder folks are paranoid about beastmen. With how human Miles looks, anyone could be a feral. "And what exactly will you do with my son? I need no details," he hurries to add, uncomfortable enough with the situation as it is. "Just an idea of whether I should expect a burial. I don't know how your kind does things, but Kurt was raised a Christian. He will be buried like one."
Miles keeps his wan smile on, trying not to inhale the man's scent too deeply -- with Kurt, at least, it's buried under layers of wolf scenting, months and months of it, to the point where their own body had altered. Enough to carry and birth a child, enough to smell less like a human and more...natural. Gunnar has no such changes, and his acrid stench is already making it difficult to breathe.
The baby whimpers, trying to wiggle her tiny hands free, letting out a thing wail as Miles sets her down roughly on the seat of the wagon. Even touching her too long feels loathsome, goes against his own instincts, which demand he claim and breed Kurt himself, put his own pup in their belly. The sooner he can get rid of this one, the better.
"Not for some time," Miles says flatly, wiping his hands on his pants. "I have other plans that require Kurt to be...alive." Even if he didn't, he wouldn't share with Gunnar -- the sooner he leaves, the better. Arching both eyebrows, Miles adds: "No desire to say a farewell, then, I take it?"
"None whatsoever," Gunnar concedes, satisfied enough with the exchange and the surface level information. He's said his piece, made his peace with the Lord, and wants to leave sooner rather than later—the wolf may be placid and good at hiding his intentions, but it's not hard to tell he wants him gone too. Suits him just fine. He has wolfsbane to purchase. "I would say it was a pleasure, but I was taught not to lie. You can give him my regards, should you feel so inclined."
And that would be that. A clean break, the final devastating hurt dealt. Except as Gunnar turns to collect the baby, there's a ruinous shrieking wail from within the cabin, startling a flock of birds that immediately take flight, followed by the sound of heavy furniture clattering against floors and walls, rattling the windows. The human can only stare, pale skin getting paler. Whatever is in there doesn't sound human.
It's all the more shocking then to see his son—barely recognizable, his hair mutilated and wild, his form under the coarse dress somehow that of a woman's—slamming the door open and running towards them, his face twisted with wild fury. It barely even registers that he has a knife in his hand. All he can hear is the voice of his son, always so high and lilting, infuriatingly feminine, roaring an inhuman "Where is she?!"
It's almost instantaneous, the part of Miles that knows he's doomed. That rough, forced link he's made with Kurt, forced into their fragile, violated mind like an invasive virus, digging it's tendrils deeper and deeper -- that recoils in terror at the blazing, scourging rage that blisters forth from the small human. Even as Miles steps forward, like Kurt is still that terrified, easily-controlled broken creatute they'd been, he knows in his soul he's already lost. He's taken a pup from a mother wolf, and in doing so, signed his own death warrant.
Still, he reaches out, commanding and firm, trying to exert his Alpha influence even now. "None of that, so need to cause a scene," he begins, even as his inward self shrieks and recoils in mindless fear. "We can settle this rationally--"
Miles is cut off by another thin wail from the baby, who's wiggling and squirming on the wagon seat. The cry is accompanied by the child's innocent, earnest presence reaching through the link towards Kurt, towards her mother, expressing a sudden thrill of fear for the first time. She's sensed their terror, their panic before, but she's always been shielded from the full force of what it feels like.
But now, alone and cold and confused, she feels it for herself, crying out on every level for Kurt to come save her, protect her, make the scary things and hands and voices go away.
His voice has no effect. His influence is useless, no longer touching them. Miles knows now he's made a fatal miscalculation, vastly underestimating the little human's strength and conviction. Where he'd perhaps expected them to beg, to grovel, to weep and comply and fold to his cruel demands like cheap cloth—or, like a true coward, hoped they'd just sleep through it all—they're instead alight with vengeful fury, their parental instinct to protect overriding any fear they ever felt towards the wolf. He is no longer their Alpha. He is a threat to their daughter.
Their daughter who wails and cries for them, reaching through her link for them, articulating what she doesn't have the words or comprehension to express by any other means. And Kurt, so fundamentally changed in every way by having her, reacts the only way they can. They clench the heavy handle of the knife—stupidly, carelessly left locked in the bedside drawer the way Miles always does when he sleeps, the drawer now left ripped open in a pile of splinters inside the cabin—and lunges at Miles with a boneshaking roar.
The knife glides through flesh like water, the meticulous care Miles took to sharpen the blade now coming back to haunt him. The very instrument he'd used to torture them, terrorize them, is now turned on him as Kurt indiscriminately stabs and slashes his body, the knife plunging between his ribs, into his stomach, cutting open arms raised in defense, splitting his throat in a single devastating swipe. The blade does half the job. Kurt's blinding rage does the rest.
It doesn't matter if he's still alive when he hits the ground like so much useless meat, crumbling with a pathetic gurgle of blood in what remains of his throat. He won't survive for long. It's only then that Kurt even seems to notice their father, eyes wild when they find him, their entire blood-soaked body turning to face him, now the sole focus of their savage wrath. "You."
In the clapboard churches down in the human villages, hewn together with rough boards and piety and the deep conviction that their ways are righteous and holy and right above all, the preachers speak of demons and ferals in the same breath. Messengers from the devil, they're called, emissaries from Satan himself, put on this earth to tempt guiltless innocents and torment righteous men. No matter how civilized one may pretend to be, there is no place in heaven for the beastmen or their kind.
Once, Gunnar had stood alongside Kurt in these churches, set his heavy hand on his son's neck and ensured there was no distraction, that the words of the hymnal were followed, that the words of fire and brimstone were listened to unflinchingly, in hopes that they'd penetrate deep into the child's mind and soul. Once, he'd believed that was enough to ensure Kurt's salvation.
But now -- now, the demons from hell that the preacher had warned about, had railed and spat and slammed the pulpit regarding, were here. Now the pits of hades itself had split open, spewing out the creature who sets upon Miles, shreds him to bits without flinching. Kurt, who had once shied away from killing rabbits and squirrels, his strange, different, unconventional child, too sensitive, too soft, too irregular -- Kurt turns on him now and Gunnar forgets to pray.
"Jævel," he croaks out instead, stumbling backwards, jostling the wagon. The baby whimpers again, and if Gunnar were a wiser man, he would've known to reach for her, attempt to leverage her safety for his own. But he isn't. He simply fumbles for the cross around his neck, eyes wide, wild, pathetic in his terror. "Du er ein jævel frå helvete...back, s-stay back!"
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.
You can live without a lot of things. Blood can be drained, bones shattered, muscle and sinew wrenched apart -- all temporary, all able to heal with enough time and rest and patience. Limbs themselves can be wrenched off, eyes or ears or tongue torn away in battle, and life continues to go on without them, as you learn to adapt. You walk a bit slower, you rely more on other senses, you find a way to keep putting one foot in front of the other, a way to keep going. This is the role of an Alpha, to find that way, even when the pack is lost and aimless. This is what being a leader is -- wrapping yourself around that gap, that ache, that absence and filling it with your own presence.
Corrigan knows this, in his bones. He was born to leadership, understanding of the privileges and responsibilities that go along with it. He has never once faced an obstacle that he wasn't able to surmount through sheer force of will -- able to carry his pack forward with him, guide them through to the other side. That's his job. That's his entire life's purpose, his heart's destiny. If that fails, the pack fails.
But he'd had no idea. He hadn't even begun to comprehend the agony that would come if he were to lose something more precious than sight or sound or his own hands or legs or heart. It might've been less painful to carve out each organ, piece by piece, lay them out before him and force him to rend each bit of pulsing, throbbing, bleeding meat to shreds with his own hands. Corrigan would've done that a thousand times, rather than felt that splintering, blistering, destructive agony he had on that day, months before, when Kurt had been taken from them.
He hadn't moved for days afterward, consciousness and unconsciousness equally unbearable. Kurt was the pack's, their mate, their life and light and soul, but they'd carried Corrigan's pup inside them. Corrigan had been first to claim them, first to feel their unsure, shy, trembling body pressed to his, first to set them alight with pleasure as he bred and knotted them, first in line always to claim that privilege over and over. Without them, he was halved, his very essence carved out and ground into bits, unrecognizable. It took nearly a week for him to even be aware of his surroundings, of his grieving pack, all of them feeling the shattered link to Kurt. Corrigan had known he should be horrified at himself, should loathe his own weakness.
But simply breathing, standing, moving, feeding and resting his body had been enough to take every last bit of his attention. If he didn't let the wound within him stay numb, untouched, he would go mad. It was only the pack that kept him sane, and even then just barely. Corrigan moved about like a ghost, silent and pale and scarcely eating or sleeping, almost never speaking. Only Naseer could get through to him at all, and even that was scarce.
Kurt was gone. Kurt was gone, and in the wake of that horror, the world was howling and empty and dead. Yet Corrigan lived still, sitting by the riverbank, staring into the water, letting it lull his mind into silence once more. He did this often, letting something repetitive dull his senses enough so that the agony of his mate's loss was blunted, slightly. It kept him from reliving that day, again and again and again, that instant when his soul bond with his beloved, his life, his delight, had been brutally broken.
The sun moved across the wintry horizon, and still Corrigan sat, senseless and silent with a grief so terrible the trees themselves seemed to freeze. He would stay there indefinitely, until Naseer gently woke him up from his reverie, coaxed him back to the world of the living. And even then, his Beta would only get perhaps half of who Corrigan had been, two months before. Maybe.
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All business, tucking his spent cock back in his pants, Miles reaches out with one cool hand to press against Kurt's stomach. They're definitely carrying lower, the pup inside them having moved, ready to come out. Too soon -- he'd thought there'd be another few days, at least. The midwife he'd paid off is in town, won't venture up towards the cabin until he sends for her, which he'd planned to do -- damn it.
Too late now. "You're in labor," Miles offers bluntly, irritated, like the most frightening, horrific moment of Kurt's life is simply a major inconvenience to him. He feels their muscles go tight, contracting, then relaxing, times it mentally before standing. "Count how long between each contraction," he commands, going for the bandages, the washbasin, annoyance evident in every movement. When Kurt doesn't immediately comply, he smacks the side of their head, hard, repeating: "Count. If you're too far along, there's no time to get anyone else, you'll have to do it alone."
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But that's not the world they live in anymore. Here, it doesn't matter that they're scared. It doesn't matter that they have no idea how to give birth, what being in labor even means, how to have the child they're currently having without killing them or themself. Here, they're just an inconvenience to their Alpha. Their blistering pain and raw, confused panic just earns them a smack to the head and a stern command barked by the wolf responsible for it all.
Through a torrent of tears and gasped, keening sobs, Kurt tries to focus and count the seconds between each wave of pain. But it's hard—they don't even know which painful flutter or spasm or jerk of muscle is a contraction or not, whether what they're feeling is normal or a sign that something has gone horribly wrong. The sheer agony of their muscles working definitely feels wrong.
This can't be what it's supposed to feel like. This cold, lonely terror, this bewildering pain, like splintering from the inside. As they try to count, try to breathe, Kurt sobs out mindless, desperate pleas through their own blood and tears, "C-Can't, I can't, I can't d-do this alone, please, not alone, I c-can't do it, I can't do it alone, please not alone—!"
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Not as he leaves them alone, to live, to die, to whatever end. There's no strong hand holding theirs, coaching them through the contractions, soothing them with water or ice or just another presence. Just Kurt, alone, in their own blood, with the wind howling outside.
Except. Except they're not truly alone, not really -- there's that careful spark of awareness, a link Miles's cruelty hasn't been able to touch, guarded and shielded by Kurt's own body. Pure instinct and love and fear had built a wall between the hell they endured on a day-to-day basis and the budding consciousness of the child inside them. Whatever Miles did, whatever torture he administered, it didn't penetrate that wall. The baby doesn't know what's happened to it's mother, that it's been carried through agony and horror unscathed.
But it reaches out now, a soft stirring, a silent outreach of purely innocent, purely adoring connection, solely for Kurt, untouchable by anyone else. And there's nothing but love in that first touch of soul to soul, nothing but recognition and delight and wonder at being alive, at being so close to meeting. In it, there's something like Corrigan, like Naseer and Benji and Leo and Kai, fragments of their affection and warmth and love echoed in the child that had grown beneath their watchful eye for so long. In it, in her, the pack is there, albeit only in Kurt's mind. That's something.
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It's the only thing that keeps Kurt moving, the knowledge that she's coming, that they have to keep her safe. It spurs them into action, to clean their face and chest and stomach of come and blood, to shakily clean and dress the wound on their neck, still throbbing and bleeding, the pain dizzying. Though when another wave of contractions hit and they double over on the floor, the pain at their neck becomes a distant memory.
They scream through every second of burning, earth-shattering pain, crumbled in a heap on the floor. To anyone passing by, the cabin must seem haunted by some tortured, wailing spirit, their howls shaking the walls before being carried on the wind. When the contractions subside, Kurt tries their best to stay calm, to focus on her, wiping the floors clean of their own blood and hair—they can't let the baby be born into this mess!—but as the hours pass, those moments of clarity and calm get shorter and shorter.
By the time Miles returns, the cabin is spotless, the washbasin is more blood than water, and Kurt is sprawled out on the bed, face twisted in agony. They know they're not supposed to be up there, but they just needed somewhere soft to lay, pillows to cushion their aching hips, warm sheets to cover them, firm bedposts to grasp while riding the burning waves. The pain is near-constant now, their skin covered in a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood down their chest, along their thighs, every muscle twitching and shaking. "Please, please, p-please," is all they can muster between sobs and harrowing wails. Any minute now. Please, God, any minute now...
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Corrigan isn't either, but the child is unmistakably his -- curly dark hair, smooth skin a few shades lighter than the Alpha's, a strong, healthy, booming voice. His presence is there as the baby squirms and protests until she's curled up against Kurt's chest, adding to the layers of blood and blinking open her enormous eyes -- their eyes, the same color, the same shape, a perfect mixture of them and Corrigan.
Only then, does Miles return, sauntering in like he hasn't been absent for hours, like he hadn't just abandoned Kurt to suffer all alone. He pauses at the doorway, looking at the blood coating the sheets, the floor, Kurt -- anywhere but at the baby. "Done, then?"
It's an incredibly cruel, heartless thing to say, like this is all some great inconvenience. Like the way his day's been disrupted matters the most.
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Still breathless and trembling, Kurt scoops her up and cradles her close, so close, not once letting her out of their sight as she opens her eyes to the world. Looking at her makes them feel like they're floating. All the pain is gone, the loneliness, the fear. The world doesn't exist outside of the little bubble shared between the two, the child hiccuping and whining unhappily at the chill of life, Kurt shakily wiping blood from her eyes.
She looks just like Corrigan. Their heart sings at the thought.
Not even Miles' cruelty can dampen their joy—though not for lack of trying. By the time he slithers back inside, the baby has already latched, curling up on their chest to eat while Kurt gingerly wipes them clean. The sight of him makes their blood run cold, a haunted but intense cast over their face when they meet his uncaring gaze. Unconsciously, their grip on the baby tightens. An instinct they can't articulate flares through them, ancient, fiercely protective, their guard already immediately up.
"Yes, Alpha," they manage, surprised by how strong and clear their own voice is even after hours of screaming. They may call him Alpha, but their body knows better, curling defensively around their daughter without conscious thought. He is a threat. "I'm done."
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So he keeps his distance, slowly pulling a few things out of his bag -- salted meat, cheese, bread, the most fresh food he's offered in a while. Kurt's mainly been given watered down broths and soups and gruels, keeping them weak and compliant. But now he has a new agenda. "You need to get your strength up," Miles says, setting the food down beside the bed. "We'll be traveling within the fortnight, once you're strong enough."
He glances at the baby, then lifts his gaze to meet Kurt's calm, wary one. "You'll be able to carry again by the time we get there. If you rest and eat enough." That's his goal, then -- help Kurt recover so he can breed them full with his pup this time.
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The food is a surprise, but his words are not. They know full well what he intends to do with them. And for all their ferocity, Kurt still firmly knows their place as a wolf mate, knows what's expected of them. Barely breathing, they nod in agreement. "Then I'll eat and rest well. Thank you, Alpha," they say, words infinitely more placid than their gaze, burning holes into Miles. They'll let him knock them up right away, as long as he knows damn well they won't let him harm a hair on their daughter's head.
"Where will we go, Alpha? She's too small to travel very far just yet," they explain, fingers gingerly petting the baby's hair while she eats. All of their priorities are shifted now.
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So he stays at a difference as the baby ferociously feeds, her eyes closed, long lashes fluttering against her cheeks as Kurt strokes her hair. There's a lot of it, curls and loops, a soft dark color exactly between both her parent's. She curls her tiny hands, tiny fingers against Kurt's chest, perfectly at peace, secure in the knowledge of her own safety.
And Miles stays far, far away. For the moment.
"There's a town, a few miles south, near the river. It's warmer there, a better place to wait out the rest of the winter." Before, Miles hadn't cared much for Kurt's comfort or warmth or even whether they were fed well enough -- perhaps a part of him had hoped they'd miscarry, that he wouldn't have to deal with Corrigan's pup. But now that she's out, now that they're open and ready for his pup instead, caution must be taken. "We'll stay there until the spring thaw."
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Nodding their understanding, Kurt relaxes marginally into the pillows, though their gaze never leaves him for long. He's wise to keep his distance. Not even Kurt fully knows what they're capable of right now, but they know for a fact they could badly hurt him. They'd be lying if they claimed not to feel encouraged by this sudden sense of power. "Thank you, Alpha. That sounds perfect."
Their gaze immediately softens when they look down at the baby, a soft smile tugging at their lips. 'Perfect' doesn't even begin to describe her. Looking at her curled up in their arms, safe and healthy and breathtaking, Kurt doesn't have any regrets. They'd do it all again, put up with anything the universe could throw at them, just to be able to hold her like this. "Hear that? You'll get to play in the river, honey," they murmur, private and fond, only for her.
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But slowly the weather shifts, the snowdrifts begin to melt and the sun is out more and more. The nights are still frigid, but the day Miles decides to leave dawns bright and clear. It's one of the rare nights where he'd slept at the cabin, in his chair, watching the slowly dying fire. The meager belongings he'd stowed in the creaky cupboards are packed by the door, ready for loading into the wagon, ready to go.
Miles rouses himself at dawn, along with the first chirps of birdsong, and slowly rises, stretching luxuriously and glancing Kurt's way, seeing if they're awake. If their careful scrutiny of him has abated at all.
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This had been one such night—and, seeing as Miles was sleeping over, they were especially vigilant not to irritate him, staying up with her for hours before they dared closing their own eyes. But maybe they hadn't needed to be so vigilant. Miles has been...good lately. A strange sentiment. Miles is never good. But he's left them alone, left the baby alone, only coming to the cabin to feed them and hand off fabrics and soaps from the village before being on his way again. It's been weeks since the flaying, since he hacked off their hair (still short and choppy, but no longer a priority), since he terrorized them into delivery. And while that feeling lingers, it gets more and more distant every day he keeps his hands off them.
So their guard is never fully down. But, deep in sleep for the first time all day, there's little they can do. Exhausted new mothers need their rest. And since their daughter barely stirs by their side, unaware of the danger creeping up to the bed, the danger waiting outside by the wagon, they're not likely to wake anytime soon.
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So when Miles creeps up, silent and stoic and not even breathing, then bends to gently scoop up Kurt's daughter, moving so slowly that the baby barely fusses. She's tired too, weary from the busy work of growing and eating and learning the world around her. The entire world is her mother, their warmth, their comfort, their voice.
But for that instant, enough for Miles to scoop her up, the baby doesn't stir. Until she registers the change in the air, the wrong scent and feel and presence. The wolf link in her mind is connected to Kurt and Kurt alone, and this -- the first time it's been tested by distance -- has the pup waking and squirming, letting out a soft, wavering whimper.
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But they're so tired. It's been weeks of barely any sleep, pockets of rest here and there, the paranoia of a new parent coupled with their fear of Miles, keeping them on their toes every single moment, waking and not. Now that they're finally getting more than an hour's rest, Kurt's sleeping too deeply for even their daughter's voice to reach them, hopelessly gone.
The girl notices. Mom is always there, ready to scoop her up and coo gently into her ear, play with her hair, put their finger into her little palm so she can squeeze and hold on tight. But now, there's only the stranger, the man who makes mom's heart thump so fast and hard, whose scent scares mom half to death, picking up her swaddled form and taking her away from her mother with slow, creeping steps. The whimpers continue, a soft hiccup turning into a long, shivery cry, her limbs wrapped up too tight for her to wriggle free. Kurt twitches, but falls back asleep in the same breath, not moving under the sheets.
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But he's also at the door, pulling it open and then closing it quickly, quietly, behind him before the chill rush of wind can alert Kurt. He shifts the baby in his arms, looks across the snowy clearing towards the wagon. The wolf in him is on alert, mistrusting humans on principle, but -- well. These are desperate times after all.
So he nods curtly at the man, strides forward, purposefully. He's confident that the mere sight of this person will be enough to send Kurt into mindless, desperate terror, enough to completely nullify any attempts at retaliation. "Sorry for the delay."
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Still, there's a part of Gunnar that needs to see this through. When the strange feral reached out to him, explained what was going on, what he wanted from him, the man hadn't believed him. But Miles' descriptions of his son—presumed dead, perhaps hoped dead—were too accurate, too detailed to be fabricated. Call it morbid curiosity. He had to see for himself.
"You are certain that's my son in there?" he says, voice low and tinged with a foreign accent, his cadence almost melodic. Gunnar watches the savage approach him, carrying a wriggling baby in his arms. His first granddaughter. The thought of how she came into this world makes him feel ill. With the butt of his pipe, Gunnar pushes the wild curls out of her face, frowning as he studies her features. "She looks almost...human."
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The urge had been there to simply drop the whelp somewhere in the icy woods, let it starve to death or be taken by beasts, but without their child, Kurt would be careless, senseless with grief. Miles wouldn't have any way to control them -- they'd have nothing left to lose. If the babe lived -- far away, under the control of her grandfather -- there was enough leverage that Miles could keep Kurt compliant and submissive, as they had been.
So he doesn't recoil from Gunnar's scornful voice, his careless look downward. He'd been agreeable enough to the idea of a second chance, a child to raise that he could keep in line, an opportunity to correct the mistakes he'd made with Kurt. Miles simply smiles blandly, shifting the child awkwardly in his arms. "She is. Half, at least. I can assure you that enough wolfsbane will suppress her ability to change. There are plenty half-breed who've had it beaten out of them, too, if that's what you prefer."
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Perhaps with this girl, he can do it right. Using discipline from an early enough age, keep her compliant with wolfsbane and the threat of her parent's safety, keeping her firmly in line. Gunnar hums thoughtfully, pulling gently from his pipe, considering the girl. She already looks frightened. Good. "In that case, I am certain a combination of both will be sufficient," he says, before looking up at Miles.
He also looks distressingly human. He'd known savages could disguise themselves, take on a more humanoid form, but he'd had no idea they could pass so convincingly. No wonder folks are paranoid about beastmen. With how human Miles looks, anyone could be a feral. "And what exactly will you do with my son? I need no details," he hurries to add, uncomfortable enough with the situation as it is. "Just an idea of whether I should expect a burial. I don't know how your kind does things, but Kurt was raised a Christian. He will be buried like one."
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The baby whimpers, trying to wiggle her tiny hands free, letting out a thing wail as Miles sets her down roughly on the seat of the wagon. Even touching her too long feels loathsome, goes against his own instincts, which demand he claim and breed Kurt himself, put his own pup in their belly. The sooner he can get rid of this one, the better.
"Not for some time," Miles says flatly, wiping his hands on his pants. "I have other plans that require Kurt to be...alive." Even if he didn't, he wouldn't share with Gunnar -- the sooner he leaves, the better. Arching both eyebrows, Miles adds: "No desire to say a farewell, then, I take it?"
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And that would be that. A clean break, the final devastating hurt dealt. Except as Gunnar turns to collect the baby, there's a ruinous shrieking wail from within the cabin, startling a flock of birds that immediately take flight, followed by the sound of heavy furniture clattering against floors and walls, rattling the windows. The human can only stare, pale skin getting paler. Whatever is in there doesn't sound human.
It's all the more shocking then to see his son—barely recognizable, his hair mutilated and wild, his form under the coarse dress somehow that of a woman's—slamming the door open and running towards them, his face twisted with wild fury. It barely even registers that he has a knife in his hand. All he can hear is the voice of his son, always so high and lilting, infuriatingly feminine, roaring an inhuman "Where is she?!"
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Still, he reaches out, commanding and firm, trying to exert his Alpha influence even now. "None of that, so need to cause a scene," he begins, even as his inward self shrieks and recoils in mindless fear. "We can settle this rationally--"
Miles is cut off by another thin wail from the baby, who's wiggling and squirming on the wagon seat. The cry is accompanied by the child's innocent, earnest presence reaching through the link towards Kurt, towards her mother, expressing a sudden thrill of fear for the first time. She's sensed their terror, their panic before, but she's always been shielded from the full force of what it feels like.
But now, alone and cold and confused, she feels it for herself, crying out on every level for Kurt to come save her, protect her, make the scary things and hands and voices go away.
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Their daughter who wails and cries for them, reaching through her link for them, articulating what she doesn't have the words or comprehension to express by any other means. And Kurt, so fundamentally changed in every way by having her, reacts the only way they can. They clench the heavy handle of the knife—stupidly, carelessly left locked in the bedside drawer the way Miles always does when he sleeps, the drawer now left ripped open in a pile of splinters inside the cabin—and lunges at Miles with a boneshaking roar.
The knife glides through flesh like water, the meticulous care Miles took to sharpen the blade now coming back to haunt him. The very instrument he'd used to torture them, terrorize them, is now turned on him as Kurt indiscriminately stabs and slashes his body, the knife plunging between his ribs, into his stomach, cutting open arms raised in defense, splitting his throat in a single devastating swipe. The blade does half the job. Kurt's blinding rage does the rest.
It doesn't matter if he's still alive when he hits the ground like so much useless meat, crumbling with a pathetic gurgle of blood in what remains of his throat. He won't survive for long. It's only then that Kurt even seems to notice their father, eyes wild when they find him, their entire blood-soaked body turning to face him, now the sole focus of their savage wrath. "You."
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Once, Gunnar had stood alongside Kurt in these churches, set his heavy hand on his son's neck and ensured there was no distraction, that the words of the hymnal were followed, that the words of fire and brimstone were listened to unflinchingly, in hopes that they'd penetrate deep into the child's mind and soul. Once, he'd believed that was enough to ensure Kurt's salvation.
But now -- now, the demons from hell that the preacher had warned about, had railed and spat and slammed the pulpit regarding, were here. Now the pits of hades itself had split open, spewing out the creature who sets upon Miles, shreds him to bits without flinching. Kurt, who had once shied away from killing rabbits and squirrels, his strange, different, unconventional child, too sensitive, too soft, too irregular -- Kurt turns on him now and Gunnar forgets to pray.
"Jævel," he croaks out instead, stumbling backwards, jostling the wagon. The baby whimpers again, and if Gunnar were a wiser man, he would've known to reach for her, attempt to leverage her safety for his own. But he isn't. He simply fumbles for the cross around his neck, eyes wide, wild, pathetic in his terror. "Du er ein jævel frå helvete...back, s-stay back!"
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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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Corrigan knows this, in his bones. He was born to leadership, understanding of the privileges and responsibilities that go along with it. He has never once faced an obstacle that he wasn't able to surmount through sheer force of will -- able to carry his pack forward with him, guide them through to the other side. That's his job. That's his entire life's purpose, his heart's destiny. If that fails, the pack fails.
But he'd had no idea. He hadn't even begun to comprehend the agony that would come if he were to lose something more precious than sight or sound or his own hands or legs or heart. It might've been less painful to carve out each organ, piece by piece, lay them out before him and force him to rend each bit of pulsing, throbbing, bleeding meat to shreds with his own hands. Corrigan would've done that a thousand times, rather than felt that splintering, blistering, destructive agony he had on that day, months before, when Kurt had been taken from them.
He hadn't moved for days afterward, consciousness and unconsciousness equally unbearable. Kurt was the pack's, their mate, their life and light and soul, but they'd carried Corrigan's pup inside them. Corrigan had been first to claim them, first to feel their unsure, shy, trembling body pressed to his, first to set them alight with pleasure as he bred and knotted them, first in line always to claim that privilege over and over. Without them, he was halved, his very essence carved out and ground into bits, unrecognizable. It took nearly a week for him to even be aware of his surroundings, of his grieving pack, all of them feeling the shattered link to Kurt. Corrigan had known he should be horrified at himself, should loathe his own weakness.
But simply breathing, standing, moving, feeding and resting his body had been enough to take every last bit of his attention. If he didn't let the wound within him stay numb, untouched, he would go mad. It was only the pack that kept him sane, and even then just barely. Corrigan moved about like a ghost, silent and pale and scarcely eating or sleeping, almost never speaking. Only Naseer could get through to him at all, and even that was scarce.
Kurt was gone. Kurt was gone, and in the wake of that horror, the world was howling and empty and dead. Yet Corrigan lived still, sitting by the riverbank, staring into the water, letting it lull his mind into silence once more. He did this often, letting something repetitive dull his senses enough so that the agony of his mate's loss was blunted, slightly. It kept him from reliving that day, again and again and again, that instant when his soul bond with his beloved, his life, his delight, had been brutally broken.
The sun moved across the wintry horizon, and still Corrigan sat, senseless and silent with a grief so terrible the trees themselves seemed to freeze. He would stay there indefinitely, until Naseer gently woke him up from his reverie, coaxed him back to the world of the living. And even then, his Beta would only get perhaps half of who Corrigan had been, two months before. Maybe.
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now that i am FREE from the HOLIDAYS AT LAST
FREEDOM!!!
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