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.
There's a quiet shimmer of sound behind him as Naseer sheds his wolf form, his bare feet making near no sound on the cold forest floor. The snow hasn't reached them yet, but it's getting close. That brings its own unique challenges, as the days get shorter and the temperatures drop, taking the wildlife with it, and the pack has to stay together in the cabin to keep warm. There's wood to chop and flint to gather, there's the slowly dwindling food storage to ration and refill, there's water collection to monitor and maintain, there are furs to tan, there are herbs to dry and process, there are repairs to do to the cabin before the weather turns...
Corrigan knows all of these things. He's usually the one to delegate responsibilities to the other wolves, knowing instinctively what to prioritize and how long each task will take and when to get started, so they never go into the harsh winter unprepared. The pack has always survived the winter.
But this time, Corrigan has been too sick with grief to work. He barely has the strength to take care of himself, to make it through each empty day. So it's been up to Naseer to keep the pack together. He's the one to organize hunts, to chop and dry wood for the fire, to delegate tasks and make decisions and discipline disobedience. He's the one to provide comfort and stability to a pack wracked with grief, being the rock they need when everything feels hopeless. He's the one to oversee the search parties.
And through it all, Naseer is the one to insist on giving Corrigan his space. The pack is in mourning together, yes, they all grieve the tremendous loss of their mate. But Corrigan grieves his firstborn on top of it all. The younger wolves can't begin to imagine that kind of loss.
Taking a seat next to his Alpha, Naseer pulls his knees up to his chest, gazing quietly into the rippling water for a moment. Benji's dam hasn't been maintained in several weeks. None of them have the strength for it. "Kai has returned," he says softly, not elaborating further. It's clear by the tone of his voice that the wolf's search was fruitless, yet again. There's been no sign of Kurt since they were taken. "He ran his paws bloody again. He won't be able to join the hunt for another week while he rests."
Naseer often does this, giving quiet status updates to his Alpha and providing some warmth by his side before leaving again, not expecting a response. Corrigan rarely speaks these days. The Beta would be lying if he said it wasn't getting lonely. "We're running low on food again, so we should hunt more frequently this week. Gather as much small game meat as we can before they all migrate south. We should avoid being dependent on the locals for trade." A beat, before he softly adds: "You should come inside."
A part of Corrigan -- a not-insignificant part, actually -- is deeply ashamed at himself for abandoning his pack, emotionally if not physically. He knows they need him, can feel their grief and loss and confusion through the link. Benji is a shell of himself, his own experience with Miles compounding with fear for Kurt's safety, knowing better than any of them how terrifying the former packmate can be. Kai is a ball of rage, taking out his grief by snapping at anyone and anything, shredding stumps and stones and bones whenever he isn't pushing himself on searches for his mate. Leo's withdrawn to be nearly as silent as Corrigan himself, obligingly letting Kai lash out at him, like he craves the punishment, like he blames himself for Kurt's loss. And Naseer...
Naseer's grief is a careful, many-layered thing, now as always. The Beta has always redirected energy that would normally be put into mourning or regret towards productive things -- the pack's survival, the practical needs of the day-to-day. He keeps them going, on the rare occasions when Corrigan is distracted. But the Alpha has never been so emotionally remote for so long, and he can feel through the link how it weighs on Naseer. He lost Kurt too, the same as any of them.
The benefit of the link is that Corrigan doesn't need to speak, or even particularly focus to communicate his emotions to the pack. The love he has for them, each and every one, is strong enough that it bleeds through without him even trying. Even now, senseless with loss, the sound of Naseer's voice prompts a soft pulse of affection, of gratitude through the link, one that smolders like a soft, tiny ember. It says I would be lost without you and I love you and I'm so sorry I'm like this, when Corrigan can't bring himself to speak the words aloud.
So he listens, and even leans slightly into the warmth of Naseer at his side. Corrigan conducts his own searches, sometimes for days at a time, running his paws bloody over terrain he's searched a thousand times already, seeking any sign, any trace of Kurt. After the earth-shattering destruction of their link -- theirs and the pup's, twined together, both helpless and vulnerable to Miles's influence -- the trail had vanished. There were a hundred ways Miles could've taken them, a thousand more with each day that passed without the pack finding any sign. By now they could be halfway across the world, oversea, even, beyond where the wolves could ever get to them. Corrigan's intense faith in Kurt, in their incredible strength and courage, wars every day with how long it's been. And the latter is winning, bit by bit.
For the first time, Corrigan feels the realization: he may never see them again. He doesn't even know if they're still alive, much less safe and free enough to find their way home. The wolf knows in his soul that Kurt would never give up trying to come home, just as the pack will never give up searching. But Miles's motivation is unclear, his grand plan a mystery. Would he want full control indefinitely over Kurt, toying and tormenting them day after day, or would he eventually grow bored? Would the wolves eventually be searching not for their beloved, but for bones in the earth?
A slow, shaky breath, and Corrigan closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is raspy: "I don't...know how to do this, 'seer. I don't know how to live a life without them."
Naseer can count on one paw the amount of times he's seen Corrigan break. Once when they were both very young, Naseer had suffered a panic attack, caught in an anxious spiral of memories from his childhood years with the human family that took him from his pack. Corrigan had been beside himself, struggling to understand how to help the Beta of his newly formed pack. The discovery of what Miles had been doing to Benji behind everyone's backs had also shaken the Alpha to his core, leaving him inconsolable for days after banishing the traitor. He'd only just started recovering from that before they lost Kurt.
It's never been as bad as this. The agony of losing their mate has crushed all of them, leaving the pack fractured and hollow, barely held together. And Corrigan's pain is worst of all. Naseer can feel as much as see what losing Kurt has done to him, the howling cavernous void they'd left behind and how hard it's been for the Alpha to exist within it. The center of his universe is gone. There's nothing Naseer or anyone can do to ease that pain.
Except be there for each other, as he is now. "I don't know either," he says shakily, tentatively running a hand up and down Corrigan's back. His ribs are more pronounced now, the notches of his spine against the Beta's palm making him sick with worry. "But we have to keep going, somehow. We have to, Cor. For them. When they come back to us," when, Naseer always says when, even though every day it feels more and more like an if, "they'll need us to be strong for them."
Easier said than done. Naseer can feel himself cracking under the pressure of being strong for everyone, terrified beyond words that what he's doing will be for naught, that it's hurting more than helping. But this is what a leader does. "We don't have a choice, my love. Kurt needs us, and we need each other."
There's a brief inhale at the touch -- one of the first Corrigan's let himself accept in this entire time, a part of him just like Leo, wanting to punish himself somehow for letting Kurt be taken. He knows rationally it isn't his fault, that Miles is a conniving, manipulative, sneaky fucking bastard who knew exactly how to get close enough to tear the pack's heart out with his bare hands, and yet... He knows it was him Kurt would've cried out for, him they would've begged and pleaded for, every time Miles hurt them, every time they were afraid. His mate, his beloved, his heart and soul and life and breath would've called for him in vain, over and over, because he wasn't there to save them or their child.
The guilt of that weighs almost as heavily as the sense of loss, of emptiness. Corrigan is supposed to protect his pack, and he's failed twice over -- first by losing Kurt and again by losing himself. There's no possible way for him to heal from the first, he knows that deep in his bones. The wound of Kurt's loss will remain until they're back in his arms, bleeding and raw and as painful as it had been the day they disappeared. There's simply nothing to be done, there.
But he's pushed away the others he loves in his senseless grief, and that isn't fair to them. Every wolf in the pack is suffering, suffering alone. Corrigan knows the grief will never leave, but he cannot allow his pack to continue feeling it alone. Kurt wouldn't want that. Kurt would be indignant at the very thought, would lecture and scowl and get right up in Corrigan's face to remind him who he is and what he needs to do. Kurt wouldn't let him give up.
So, even though he wants to recoil, wants to curl back up in his mourning and let time and the world pass him by, Corrigan slowly turns, rests his chin on the jut of Naseer's shoulder, breathes in his scent. Faithful, courageous, weary and brave Beta, his first love, his right hand, his soulmate now as when they were pups themselves. Slowly, Corrigan reaches out, slides an arm around Naseer's waist, feeling how he's also reduced in size -- all of them starving, all of them putting more energy into searching than hunting, all of them unaware of their body's needs.
"I'm sorry I left you alone in this, beloved," Corrigan murmurs, mouth pressed to the warm spot where neck and shoulder meet, where he's hidden a thousand times in his life, both in jest and genuinely. "I don't -- want to wake up, but I know I must. I can't let Kurt return to a pack in splinters. They need us strong. They'll -- both need us strong." Saying it has a pang of agony rippling through his body, his soul, because even if Kurt can return, Corrigan doesn't know if their pup will be there. There are some sacred rules for every wolf, some absolute laws -- never harm a pup is one of them, even if it belongs to a rival Alpha. Children are sacred, beloved, to be protected and cared for above all, regardless of parentage.
Yet alongside that law is another: never harm another Alpha's mate. And Miles has already violated that sacred standard. Who's to say he won't do it again, with Corrigan's child?
Naseer had approached his Alpha by the riverbank as the evening started creeping upon them not expecting a single word from him, fully prepared to return to the cabin all by himself to silently doctor Kai's wounds before letting sleep take him. They have all been too lost in their own grief to do much else for weeks. Ill omens for the already devastating winter. But instead, Corrigan turns to him like the first flower of spring turns toward the sun, slow and tentative, still brittle from the howling cold, but braving the terror of living despite it all.
His lungs seize for a moment, a shuddering gasp as Corrigan's arm wraps around him, as his breath warms his skin. He softly apologizes, and it's all Naseer can do to not fully break down in his arms. It's been so lonely. Losing Kurt, losing the baby, losing Corrigan, the constant fear of losing everyone to reckless grief...
The Beta has barely held it together, persevering solely because he knows the pack needs him to. It's only with his Alpha's permission that he lets himself crumble.
"Y-Yes, they will. Both of them w-will need us," he somehow manages, squeezing his eyes to stem the flood of tears, the relief and grief and agony washing over him too much to bear. His hands tremble when they reach for Corrigan and pull him close, holding on for dear life. It might be too much too fast—he's been so averse to touch for so long—but Naseer just needs him too much. He needs the comfort of his love, his king, his soulmate. Just this once.
"Cor," he whimpers, sounding so much like the frightened young pup he'd been a lifetime ago. Unmoored and unsure how to even be a wolf, let alone a partner, a pack Beta, terrified of what that fear meant. "I c-can't do this alone anymore."
This was the part Miles had never understood -- not when he'd challenged Corrigan for the role of Alpha or the countless times he'd challenged Naseer for Beta. He hadn't fully grasped how the roles fed into one another, how one wasn't complete without the other, how a true Beta would fill in the gaps of a true Alpha without question, without hesitation, and vice-versa. Miles had wanted Beta as a consolation prize, because he was physically incapable of defeating Corrigan for Alpha. But he never would've had the courage, the guts, the willingness to sacrifice himself as a true Beta would. As Naseer had.
So Corrigan tucks closer against his Beta, arms around his waist, nuzzling into the side of his neck and letting him collapse, letting him fall apart the way he hadn't been able to for months. Later, he'll feel guilty for being so remote, for disappearing while his body had stayed, silent and untouchable. But now there's nothing but comfort, love, adoration and gratitude pouring through their link as he finds his old scarred mark on Naseer's neck and kisses it softly.
"You won't need to, not anymore," he murmurs, grip tightening, eyes closed as he meets Naseer's grief with strength, something he'd been incapable of before. His grief is still there, limitless, endless, but he'd been given enough time by Naseer's bravery to build up a small amount of his own again. He kisses Naseer's neck again, reaches up and turns his face enough that he can kiss his mouth as well, soft, an apology. "Never again. All right? I'm -- not going to leave us again. Not again. We'll survive this, 'seer. I'm not leaving you again."
For the first time since Kurt was taken from them, Naseer feels almost whole again. It's not the same, of course, and it probably won't ever be, but Corrigan giving him permission to fall apart within his embrace is the closest he'll get until their mate has returned to them. Corrigan was the first shift of his gravity, after all, the center of his world until Kurt came into their lives. Now that he's returned to him, Naseer sobs quietly into his shoulder, clinging to him, the strength of his Alpha permitting him this weakness.
"Th-Thank you," he hiccups, hands trembling against Corrigan's cheeks as they reach up to cradle his face. The kiss breathes life into him once more. It's much easier to believe they will pull through when his Alpha proclaims it. He's sure the younger wolves will agree. "You're right. W-We'll survive this. Together."
And it's good they have each other, for the woods are a treacherous place, nature hiding her secrets well even from her most beloved children. One can live their whole life in the forest, reverent of its delicate balance, always giving as much as taking, but it only takes one bad day for the woods to turn her back on you. As Naseer cries, wrapped up in his Alpha, he hears the quiet snap of a twig off in the distance, closer to the tree line, far enough away to still be hidden when he turns to look. It's not someone from the pack, nothing communicated through the link. Whoever it is smells like foreign territory, snow and dust and sweat and horseback and blood, and underneath it all... something almost familiar.
"Careful," he murmurs, stilling his breathing almost instantly, sobs forgotten. The smell... it's throwing him off. Naseer almost doesn't allow himself to hope.
It'll be an effort, near insurmountable, but Corrigan feels for the first time in so...so long that he might be capable of it. That he might survive this. He can turn his thoughts and energy to supporting and being with his pack, keeping them safe and strong and loved, making their house a home again. Until Kurt comes home. Because they have to come home -- Corrigan can't allow himself to think otherwise, or he'll be lost.
He wants it so desperately, so fervently that he almost thinks he's imagining the curl of scent that reaches him on the crisp wintry air. Corrigan knows there's nothing there in the link, but he reaches out anyway, even though he knows encountering the shattered remnants of where Kurt once was will only hurt him. They ache, like an old wound, like a broken bone that healed wrong, that throbs with pain when the rain approaches. He reaches for them anyway and even though it's dead, it's gone, he almost -- almost feels something.
Maybe it's the link, maybe it's his soul itself, recognizing that presence with something deeper than human or wolf senses could explain. His reason for existence, the center of his universe, found in this world (and, perhaps, in a hundred thousand others) and tying him to it and always, always meant to return to him. Corrigan stands with a shaky jerk, his very being singing and straining towards the sound, the scent at the treeline. He can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but wait to see if the humming in his chest is real, if the sense of familiarity, of recognition is true or just a desperate wish.
He says it with every bit of hope in his soul, a prayer and a wish and a plea: "Kurt?"
"Careful," Naseer repeats in a hiss, following his Alpha up to stand, an arm going protectively over his chest to stop him from rushing headfirst into danger. The sound of his voice when he calls for their lost mate breaks his heart, but he would be cruel to deny Corrigan that swell of hope he can feel reverberating through the link.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't also hope. It hasn't been so long that Naseer has forgotten the sweet allure of Kurt's scent. It could be them, masked under all those layers of unfamiliar smells, slowly approaching from behind the tree trunks. But it could just as well be Kurt's father, or someone from the human village, or Miles, the little human's scent still clinging to him after months of captivity. He would be a fool not to consider the danger here. The pack is already so vulnerable. Should they lose their Alpha too...
When the dying bushes part and the figure steps forward into the waning daylight, Naseer almost doesn't believe his eyes.
Kurt is nearly unrecognizable. Partially covered by tattered skirts and a sling tied firmly around their chest, covered in dirt and bandages and old dried blood, their hair messily shorn short and hanging limply around their face, they emerge into the river clearing like a ghost of their former self. But they're not a ghost. Underfed and filthy and haunted, yes, covered in unfamiliar scars both outside and in, but alive. They're alive, they're here, rosy-cheeked and near breathless from their trek through the woods from where they'd secured their horse and wagon, along the first stretch of trees they actually recognized after over a week on the road.
And they're not alone. From within the wrap sling there's a shock of dark curly hair hiding the sleeping face of an infant, their tiny hand curled up and resting against Kurt's chest, a gorgeous contrast to the pale skin of their mother. The baby. The baby made it.
Kurt almost can't believe it themself. This whole time, they barely let themself hope that the pack would still be here, would still be together by the time they made it, but they are. Whatever shattered remnants of that old cherished bond remains are lit aflame, soaring to life within them as they finally lay eyes on Corrigan and Naseer, watching them approach on bare bloodied feet with disbelief, and for the first time in too long, Kurt breaks into a brittle, tearful smile. "Alpha."
They only get one or two steps into the clearing, maybe not even that many. Corrigan isn't sure how he makes it to the treeline so fast, only that he does -- maybe he flies there, maybe he just reappears closer through sheer force of will, who knows. All he's conscious of is those wide, haunted, gorgeous eyes locking with his, their chapped lips calling for him, forming the title he'd all but abandoned after losing them.
And then he's there, he's scooping them up without thinking, without pausing, not caring about the grime or the blood or their shorn hair and hollow cheeks. He softens his grip only so he won't crush the baby (another miracle, something Corrigan's mind can't even take in yet, even as his instincts are singing with joy and delight, thrumming messages of love and welcome and pure happiness towards the tiny bundle between them). He cradles Kurt against his own diminished form, feeling how fragile they are, smelling layers of blood -- their own, Miles, an unfamiliar human's -- and beneath it smelling them, just as they were the day he lost them.
Corrigan might be weeping. He might be laughing. He might be both, it's hard to really tell with his face pressed to Kurt's neck, feeling the bandages against his cheek, smelling the old blood, the new flesh that had knit over the wounds there -- a horror that part of him wants to recoil from, the notion that Miles had stolen even the physical reminder of the pack's link with their mate. But later, all of it later, every nightmarish moment, ever monstrous act. Now Kurt is alive and warm and soft in his arms, fitting there perfectly, beautifully, like they'd never been gone.
"Kurt, Kurt, you're here, you're here," Corrigan repeats it over and over, the joy of it singing through every fiber of his being, singing in the link, and he can feel the disbelief and wonder and hope of his pack like an echo in the back of his mind. Nothing exists except Kurt, though, except their bright, teary eyes, their soft cheek beneath his palm when Corrigan finally pulls back, presses their foreheads together and breathes them in. "You're home."
Kurt bursts into tears the second Corrigan's hands find them again, sobbing brightly into his shoulder, joy and relief and agony all pouring out of them all at once. It feels too good to be true. So many nights they'd dreamt of this moment, only to wake up cold and shackled and alone, and part of them is terrified that will happen to them this time too.
But it won't. They know it won't. Too many days and nights have passed, too many miles separate them from the corpses and ghosts they'd left behind, they've sacrificed too much to get back to the pack that loves them. To the man, their Alpha, their love, currently weeping into their neck in a twisted beautiful mirror of themself. They're both skinnier now, smaller, weaker, but nothing has changed the love between them.
That, if anything, has only grown stronger.
"I'm here, A-Alpha, I'm home," they hiccup, laughing between chest-wrenching sobs as Corrigan presses his forehead to theirs. They're vaguely aware of their surroundings—Naseer has fallen to his knees by the riverbank, needing a moment to catch his breath from the violent force of his relief, there's the distant pounding of feet running through the woods from the cabin, the pack already on their way—but they only have eyes for Corrigan right now. Just for now. His first. His Alpha.
All the crying and squeezing and hurried, fervent words make the baby pressed skin-to-skin against Kurt's chest stir awake, a burbling coo coming from her as those huge eyes blink open. This is the first time she's seen another person since the bad men, but this time, even though her mother is crying, there's no distress. So when she fixes her enormous eyes—Kurt's eyes, stormy blues and greens and greys—on Corrigan, there's only curiosity in them.
Between sobs and bursts of relieved, exhausted laughter, Kurt looks between the baby and their Alpha, the smile on their face growing wider. "C-Corrigan, this is Holly." The first time they speak her name to anyone but her. "Your d-daughter."
Their sobs wrench at part of Corrigan's heart, because he can hear the pain, the exhaustion in each echoing sound. He can feel their ribs, the way they're shaking and shuddering in his protective grip, and he knows -- there's so much left to be done, so much hurt to heal, physical and within Kurt's soul. But they're home. They're safe in his arms, and he's never, never letting them go again. That'll be enough.
Corrigan would be content to curl up like this -- also on his knees, somehow, cradling Kurt against him and breathing them in, their scent, their voice, their beautiful, perfect face, perfect even despite the new hollows in their cheeks, the haunted look in their eyes. He's aware of the rest of the pack stumbling into the clearing, freezing alongside Naseer and staring. He can feel their soaring, blazing joy, like a caress to his soul, their relief, their eagerness to also be reunited with their mate.
But they linger, for a bit, for a moment, allowing their Alpha to have his reunion first, the very sight of it healing something within the pack. Wolves love their leaders the most, seek their Alpha's contentment and peace above everything else. Kurt's loss had devastated the pack, but Corrigan's grief had gutted them, to see their beloved ALpha, their center, their ruler and king and god so thoroughly miserable, day after day.
So Corrigan has that moment to hear the soft cooing burble, to feel the spark of something knitting itself together in his chest as he looks down into the eyes of the baby. His baby. His daughter. She's everything good, everything perfect and wonderful and near-holy, looking up into his eyes with a silent recognition. Just as Kurt's link to their child had come effortlessly, without caution or hesitation, so too had Corrigan felt the soft, warm, bright presence somewhere in his mind since she'd taken her first breath. He'd scarcely been able to feel it during the cold, empty days, so lost in his own grief, senseless with it -- yet every time he slept, Corrigan dreamed of the sun. Had that been her, all this time? Waiting to meet him, secure in her faith that she would?
"Holly," Corrigan repeats in a soft voice, reaching out one careful finger to smooth down one round, soft baby cheek. Holly wiggles a little, yawns enormously and blinks her bright, stunning eyes. "She's -- Kurt, she's so perfect."
"Y-Yes, she is." Of course she's perfect. She's Corrigan's. From the very first moment Kurt felt Holly growing within them, she became their sole reason for living, their divine purpose now to bring her into this world and keep her safe within it. Hadn't it been for her, they wouldn't be alive right now. It was to protect her that Kurt did what they did, freeing them both from Miles' clutches, their love for her giving them enough courage and strength. She saved them.
And now they get to watch Corrigan, the man who saved them first, finally meet her. Their perfect daughter. The greatest gift he's ever given them. His face goes all soft when he looks at her, tears welling in his eyes, breath almost catching in the Alpha's throat with wonder as he touches her, achingly gently, fingers so careful against her face. The sight is breathtaking, pride and joy and love surging through Kurt's whole body.
Corrigan will be the perfect father.
Cradled so firmly in his lap, their weak limbs finally able to rest secure in his embrace, Kurt presses forward—mindful of the baby—and kisses the Alpha for the first time in months. Their lips tremble against his, emotion and exhaustion both overwhelming them, but the kiss is no less fierce, searing and heavy with promise. This is it. This is forever. They're never leaving him again.
Never leaving any of them, the rest of the pack approaching the pair timidly then all at once, surrounding the Alpha and their mate. Everyone's crying, caressing them, kissing them, proclaiming their love and relief, crowding Kurt with the most love they've ever felt in their life. They really are home. Holly is home, fearless and protected and safe, surrounded by so much uncompromising love. It feels too good to be true.
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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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Corrigan knows all of these things. He's usually the one to delegate responsibilities to the other wolves, knowing instinctively what to prioritize and how long each task will take and when to get started, so they never go into the harsh winter unprepared. The pack has always survived the winter.
But this time, Corrigan has been too sick with grief to work. He barely has the strength to take care of himself, to make it through each empty day. So it's been up to Naseer to keep the pack together. He's the one to organize hunts, to chop and dry wood for the fire, to delegate tasks and make decisions and discipline disobedience. He's the one to provide comfort and stability to a pack wracked with grief, being the rock they need when everything feels hopeless. He's the one to oversee the search parties.
And through it all, Naseer is the one to insist on giving Corrigan his space. The pack is in mourning together, yes, they all grieve the tremendous loss of their mate. But Corrigan grieves his firstborn on top of it all. The younger wolves can't begin to imagine that kind of loss.
Taking a seat next to his Alpha, Naseer pulls his knees up to his chest, gazing quietly into the rippling water for a moment. Benji's dam hasn't been maintained in several weeks. None of them have the strength for it. "Kai has returned," he says softly, not elaborating further. It's clear by the tone of his voice that the wolf's search was fruitless, yet again. There's been no sign of Kurt since they were taken. "He ran his paws bloody again. He won't be able to join the hunt for another week while he rests."
Naseer often does this, giving quiet status updates to his Alpha and providing some warmth by his side before leaving again, not expecting a response. Corrigan rarely speaks these days. The Beta would be lying if he said it wasn't getting lonely. "We're running low on food again, so we should hunt more frequently this week. Gather as much small game meat as we can before they all migrate south. We should avoid being dependent on the locals for trade." A beat, before he softly adds: "You should come inside."
now that i am FREE from the HOLIDAYS AT LAST
Naseer's grief is a careful, many-layered thing, now as always. The Beta has always redirected energy that would normally be put into mourning or regret towards productive things -- the pack's survival, the practical needs of the day-to-day. He keeps them going, on the rare occasions when Corrigan is distracted. But the Alpha has never been so emotionally remote for so long, and he can feel through the link how it weighs on Naseer. He lost Kurt too, the same as any of them.
The benefit of the link is that Corrigan doesn't need to speak, or even particularly focus to communicate his emotions to the pack. The love he has for them, each and every one, is strong enough that it bleeds through without him even trying. Even now, senseless with loss, the sound of Naseer's voice prompts a soft pulse of affection, of gratitude through the link, one that smolders like a soft, tiny ember. It says I would be lost without you and I love you and I'm so sorry I'm like this, when Corrigan can't bring himself to speak the words aloud.
So he listens, and even leans slightly into the warmth of Naseer at his side. Corrigan conducts his own searches, sometimes for days at a time, running his paws bloody over terrain he's searched a thousand times already, seeking any sign, any trace of Kurt. After the earth-shattering destruction of their link -- theirs and the pup's, twined together, both helpless and vulnerable to Miles's influence -- the trail had vanished. There were a hundred ways Miles could've taken them, a thousand more with each day that passed without the pack finding any sign. By now they could be halfway across the world, oversea, even, beyond where the wolves could ever get to them. Corrigan's intense faith in Kurt, in their incredible strength and courage, wars every day with how long it's been. And the latter is winning, bit by bit.
For the first time, Corrigan feels the realization: he may never see them again. He doesn't even know if they're still alive, much less safe and free enough to find their way home. The wolf knows in his soul that Kurt would never give up trying to come home, just as the pack will never give up searching. But Miles's motivation is unclear, his grand plan a mystery. Would he want full control indefinitely over Kurt, toying and tormenting them day after day, or would he eventually grow bored? Would the wolves eventually be searching not for their beloved, but for bones in the earth?
A slow, shaky breath, and Corrigan closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is raspy: "I don't...know how to do this, 'seer. I don't know how to live a life without them."
FREEDOM!!!
It's never been as bad as this. The agony of losing their mate has crushed all of them, leaving the pack fractured and hollow, barely held together. And Corrigan's pain is worst of all. Naseer can feel as much as see what losing Kurt has done to him, the howling cavernous void they'd left behind and how hard it's been for the Alpha to exist within it. The center of his universe is gone. There's nothing Naseer or anyone can do to ease that pain.
Except be there for each other, as he is now. "I don't know either," he says shakily, tentatively running a hand up and down Corrigan's back. His ribs are more pronounced now, the notches of his spine against the Beta's palm making him sick with worry. "But we have to keep going, somehow. We have to, Cor. For them. When they come back to us," when, Naseer always says when, even though every day it feels more and more like an if, "they'll need us to be strong for them."
Easier said than done. Naseer can feel himself cracking under the pressure of being strong for everyone, terrified beyond words that what he's doing will be for naught, that it's hurting more than helping. But this is what a leader does. "We don't have a choice, my love. Kurt needs us, and we need each other."
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The guilt of that weighs almost as heavily as the sense of loss, of emptiness. Corrigan is supposed to protect his pack, and he's failed twice over -- first by losing Kurt and again by losing himself. There's no possible way for him to heal from the first, he knows that deep in his bones. The wound of Kurt's loss will remain until they're back in his arms, bleeding and raw and as painful as it had been the day they disappeared. There's simply nothing to be done, there.
But he's pushed away the others he loves in his senseless grief, and that isn't fair to them. Every wolf in the pack is suffering, suffering alone. Corrigan knows the grief will never leave, but he cannot allow his pack to continue feeling it alone. Kurt wouldn't want that. Kurt would be indignant at the very thought, would lecture and scowl and get right up in Corrigan's face to remind him who he is and what he needs to do. Kurt wouldn't let him give up.
So, even though he wants to recoil, wants to curl back up in his mourning and let time and the world pass him by, Corrigan slowly turns, rests his chin on the jut of Naseer's shoulder, breathes in his scent. Faithful, courageous, weary and brave Beta, his first love, his right hand, his soulmate now as when they were pups themselves. Slowly, Corrigan reaches out, slides an arm around Naseer's waist, feeling how he's also reduced in size -- all of them starving, all of them putting more energy into searching than hunting, all of them unaware of their body's needs.
"I'm sorry I left you alone in this, beloved," Corrigan murmurs, mouth pressed to the warm spot where neck and shoulder meet, where he's hidden a thousand times in his life, both in jest and genuinely. "I don't -- want to wake up, but I know I must. I can't let Kurt return to a pack in splinters. They need us strong. They'll -- both need us strong." Saying it has a pang of agony rippling through his body, his soul, because even if Kurt can return, Corrigan doesn't know if their pup will be there. There are some sacred rules for every wolf, some absolute laws -- never harm a pup is one of them, even if it belongs to a rival Alpha. Children are sacred, beloved, to be protected and cared for above all, regardless of parentage.
Yet alongside that law is another: never harm another Alpha's mate. And Miles has already violated that sacred standard. Who's to say he won't do it again, with Corrigan's child?
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His lungs seize for a moment, a shuddering gasp as Corrigan's arm wraps around him, as his breath warms his skin. He softly apologizes, and it's all Naseer can do to not fully break down in his arms. It's been so lonely. Losing Kurt, losing the baby, losing Corrigan, the constant fear of losing everyone to reckless grief...
The Beta has barely held it together, persevering solely because he knows the pack needs him to. It's only with his Alpha's permission that he lets himself crumble.
"Y-Yes, they will. Both of them w-will need us," he somehow manages, squeezing his eyes to stem the flood of tears, the relief and grief and agony washing over him too much to bear. His hands tremble when they reach for Corrigan and pull him close, holding on for dear life. It might be too much too fast—he's been so averse to touch for so long—but Naseer just needs him too much. He needs the comfort of his love, his king, his soulmate. Just this once.
"Cor," he whimpers, sounding so much like the frightened young pup he'd been a lifetime ago. Unmoored and unsure how to even be a wolf, let alone a partner, a pack Beta, terrified of what that fear meant. "I c-can't do this alone anymore."
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So Corrigan tucks closer against his Beta, arms around his waist, nuzzling into the side of his neck and letting him collapse, letting him fall apart the way he hadn't been able to for months. Later, he'll feel guilty for being so remote, for disappearing while his body had stayed, silent and untouchable. But now there's nothing but comfort, love, adoration and gratitude pouring through their link as he finds his old scarred mark on Naseer's neck and kisses it softly.
"You won't need to, not anymore," he murmurs, grip tightening, eyes closed as he meets Naseer's grief with strength, something he'd been incapable of before. His grief is still there, limitless, endless, but he'd been given enough time by Naseer's bravery to build up a small amount of his own again. He kisses Naseer's neck again, reaches up and turns his face enough that he can kiss his mouth as well, soft, an apology. "Never again. All right? I'm -- not going to leave us again. Not again. We'll survive this, 'seer. I'm not leaving you again."
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"Th-Thank you," he hiccups, hands trembling against Corrigan's cheeks as they reach up to cradle his face. The kiss breathes life into him once more. It's much easier to believe they will pull through when his Alpha proclaims it. He's sure the younger wolves will agree. "You're right. W-We'll survive this. Together."
And it's good they have each other, for the woods are a treacherous place, nature hiding her secrets well even from her most beloved children. One can live their whole life in the forest, reverent of its delicate balance, always giving as much as taking, but it only takes one bad day for the woods to turn her back on you. As Naseer cries, wrapped up in his Alpha, he hears the quiet snap of a twig off in the distance, closer to the tree line, far enough away to still be hidden when he turns to look. It's not someone from the pack, nothing communicated through the link. Whoever it is smells like foreign territory, snow and dust and sweat and horseback and blood, and underneath it all... something almost familiar.
"Careful," he murmurs, stilling his breathing almost instantly, sobs forgotten. The smell... it's throwing him off. Naseer almost doesn't allow himself to hope.
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He wants it so desperately, so fervently that he almost thinks he's imagining the curl of scent that reaches him on the crisp wintry air. Corrigan knows there's nothing there in the link, but he reaches out anyway, even though he knows encountering the shattered remnants of where Kurt once was will only hurt him. They ache, like an old wound, like a broken bone that healed wrong, that throbs with pain when the rain approaches. He reaches for them anyway and even though it's dead, it's gone, he almost -- almost feels something.
Maybe it's the link, maybe it's his soul itself, recognizing that presence with something deeper than human or wolf senses could explain. His reason for existence, the center of his universe, found in this world (and, perhaps, in a hundred thousand others) and tying him to it and always, always meant to return to him. Corrigan stands with a shaky jerk, his very being singing and straining towards the sound, the scent at the treeline. He can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but wait to see if the humming in his chest is real, if the sense of familiarity, of recognition is true or just a desperate wish.
He says it with every bit of hope in his soul, a prayer and a wish and a plea: "Kurt?"
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He'd be lying if he said he didn't also hope. It hasn't been so long that Naseer has forgotten the sweet allure of Kurt's scent. It could be them, masked under all those layers of unfamiliar smells, slowly approaching from behind the tree trunks. But it could just as well be Kurt's father, or someone from the human village, or Miles, the little human's scent still clinging to him after months of captivity. He would be a fool not to consider the danger here. The pack is already so vulnerable. Should they lose their Alpha too...
When the dying bushes part and the figure steps forward into the waning daylight, Naseer almost doesn't believe his eyes.
Kurt is nearly unrecognizable. Partially covered by tattered skirts and a sling tied firmly around their chest, covered in dirt and bandages and old dried blood, their hair messily shorn short and hanging limply around their face, they emerge into the river clearing like a ghost of their former self. But they're not a ghost. Underfed and filthy and haunted, yes, covered in unfamiliar scars both outside and in, but alive. They're alive, they're here, rosy-cheeked and near breathless from their trek through the woods from where they'd secured their horse and wagon, along the first stretch of trees they actually recognized after over a week on the road.
And they're not alone. From within the wrap sling there's a shock of dark curly hair hiding the sleeping face of an infant, their tiny hand curled up and resting against Kurt's chest, a gorgeous contrast to the pale skin of their mother. The baby. The baby made it.
Kurt almost can't believe it themself. This whole time, they barely let themself hope that the pack would still be here, would still be together by the time they made it, but they are. Whatever shattered remnants of that old cherished bond remains are lit aflame, soaring to life within them as they finally lay eyes on Corrigan and Naseer, watching them approach on bare bloodied feet with disbelief, and for the first time in too long, Kurt breaks into a brittle, tearful smile. "Alpha."
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And then he's there, he's scooping them up without thinking, without pausing, not caring about the grime or the blood or their shorn hair and hollow cheeks. He softens his grip only so he won't crush the baby (another miracle, something Corrigan's mind can't even take in yet, even as his instincts are singing with joy and delight, thrumming messages of love and welcome and pure happiness towards the tiny bundle between them). He cradles Kurt against his own diminished form, feeling how fragile they are, smelling layers of blood -- their own, Miles, an unfamiliar human's -- and beneath it smelling them, just as they were the day he lost them.
Corrigan might be weeping. He might be laughing. He might be both, it's hard to really tell with his face pressed to Kurt's neck, feeling the bandages against his cheek, smelling the old blood, the new flesh that had knit over the wounds there -- a horror that part of him wants to recoil from, the notion that Miles had stolen even the physical reminder of the pack's link with their mate. But later, all of it later, every nightmarish moment, ever monstrous act. Now Kurt is alive and warm and soft in his arms, fitting there perfectly, beautifully, like they'd never been gone.
"Kurt, Kurt, you're here, you're here," Corrigan repeats it over and over, the joy of it singing through every fiber of his being, singing in the link, and he can feel the disbelief and wonder and hope of his pack like an echo in the back of his mind. Nothing exists except Kurt, though, except their bright, teary eyes, their soft cheek beneath his palm when Corrigan finally pulls back, presses their foreheads together and breathes them in. "You're home."
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But it won't. They know it won't. Too many days and nights have passed, too many miles separate them from the corpses and ghosts they'd left behind, they've sacrificed too much to get back to the pack that loves them. To the man, their Alpha, their love, currently weeping into their neck in a twisted beautiful mirror of themself. They're both skinnier now, smaller, weaker, but nothing has changed the love between them.
That, if anything, has only grown stronger.
"I'm here, A-Alpha, I'm home," they hiccup, laughing between chest-wrenching sobs as Corrigan presses his forehead to theirs. They're vaguely aware of their surroundings—Naseer has fallen to his knees by the riverbank, needing a moment to catch his breath from the violent force of his relief, there's the distant pounding of feet running through the woods from the cabin, the pack already on their way—but they only have eyes for Corrigan right now. Just for now. His first. His Alpha.
All the crying and squeezing and hurried, fervent words make the baby pressed skin-to-skin against Kurt's chest stir awake, a burbling coo coming from her as those huge eyes blink open. This is the first time she's seen another person since the bad men, but this time, even though her mother is crying, there's no distress. So when she fixes her enormous eyes—Kurt's eyes, stormy blues and greens and greys—on Corrigan, there's only curiosity in them.
Between sobs and bursts of relieved, exhausted laughter, Kurt looks between the baby and their Alpha, the smile on their face growing wider. "C-Corrigan, this is Holly." The first time they speak her name to anyone but her. "Your d-daughter."
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Corrigan would be content to curl up like this -- also on his knees, somehow, cradling Kurt against him and breathing them in, their scent, their voice, their beautiful, perfect face, perfect even despite the new hollows in their cheeks, the haunted look in their eyes. He's aware of the rest of the pack stumbling into the clearing, freezing alongside Naseer and staring. He can feel their soaring, blazing joy, like a caress to his soul, their relief, their eagerness to also be reunited with their mate.
But they linger, for a bit, for a moment, allowing their Alpha to have his reunion first, the very sight of it healing something within the pack. Wolves love their leaders the most, seek their Alpha's contentment and peace above everything else. Kurt's loss had devastated the pack, but Corrigan's grief had gutted them, to see their beloved ALpha, their center, their ruler and king and god so thoroughly miserable, day after day.
So Corrigan has that moment to hear the soft cooing burble, to feel the spark of something knitting itself together in his chest as he looks down into the eyes of the baby. His baby. His daughter. She's everything good, everything perfect and wonderful and near-holy, looking up into his eyes with a silent recognition. Just as Kurt's link to their child had come effortlessly, without caution or hesitation, so too had Corrigan felt the soft, warm, bright presence somewhere in his mind since she'd taken her first breath. He'd scarcely been able to feel it during the cold, empty days, so lost in his own grief, senseless with it -- yet every time he slept, Corrigan dreamed of the sun. Had that been her, all this time? Waiting to meet him, secure in her faith that she would?
"Holly," Corrigan repeats in a soft voice, reaching out one careful finger to smooth down one round, soft baby cheek. Holly wiggles a little, yawns enormously and blinks her bright, stunning eyes. "She's -- Kurt, she's so perfect."
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And now they get to watch Corrigan, the man who saved them first, finally meet her. Their perfect daughter. The greatest gift he's ever given them. His face goes all soft when he looks at her, tears welling in his eyes, breath almost catching in the Alpha's throat with wonder as he touches her, achingly gently, fingers so careful against her face. The sight is breathtaking, pride and joy and love surging through Kurt's whole body.
Corrigan will be the perfect father.
Cradled so firmly in his lap, their weak limbs finally able to rest secure in his embrace, Kurt presses forward—mindful of the baby—and kisses the Alpha for the first time in months. Their lips tremble against his, emotion and exhaustion both overwhelming them, but the kiss is no less fierce, searing and heavy with promise. This is it. This is forever. They're never leaving him again.
Never leaving any of them, the rest of the pack approaching the pair timidly then all at once, surrounding the Alpha and their mate. Everyone's crying, caressing them, kissing them, proclaiming their love and relief, crowding Kurt with the most love they've ever felt in their life. They really are home. Holly is home, fearless and protected and safe, surrounded by so much uncompromising love. It feels too good to be true.
They can finally rest.
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