She has always been accommodating to me. It is something I am glad for even if I am aware that it means she is not upholding her position here in Iromar. I am sure Aithne knows I come and go and I often wonder how she takes such information. This woman is, after all, one of her highest ranked wolves. To think that she consorts with other alphas without the explicit company of Iromar’s own leader. I should respect that, perhaps, and summon her to the borders and yet, I prefer to allow her the comforts of her home. She is, after all, one of the few that has talked to me without ulterior motive. She does not pry and she does not come knocking on the borders of Glorall with the sole intention to deliver messages. That in itself is something I appreciate. How odd, it is, to be treated like a wolf and not a king.

I can feel tension from her even now, however, though it is an… unusual one. I cannot place the source for I see no injury upon her and Iromar has been safe from what I can tell; at least, nobody has demanded the attention of its alpha in an effort to take control. It seems unusual that she is tense in that case. I cannot help but feel tense in response, my skin prickling along my spine in anticipation as she settles down to be seated before me. I see the way she seems to sink into the position, her head low. It is barely a position fitting of a wolf of her calibre and rank. It makes my lip twitch in response, though it seeks only to rise over my teeth with a hiss as she speaks.

I am tempted in this moment to find Aithne myself and flay her. Perhaps it is a misdirected anger and yet, I do not understand the sentiment of forcing her to see such a wolf each day and eat his wares. She ought to devour him long before she takes anything else from him. I do my best, however, to compose myself, my eyes sliding shut as I inhale deeply. My breath is hot with desire, though it is not one I am able to so openly indulge in. It is the simplest of them all: cull the weak. Perhaps some may see the flaw in that thought – should she not be considered the weak to be subdued so easily? Maybe and yet, there is no weakness greater than those that cannot satiate their own thoughts and hungers. This male, their Servitor, is but a wolf too weak to succeed by any other means and as such, he has proven that with this action alone.

I wait with a heavy breath for a moment as I consider her words, finding my own words tangled in my throat; they are caught up with the memory of blood’s taste and red hot frustration. Soon, though, they are uttered, dry and grating. ”I ought to bring you him to you like a hare,” I speak coldly, my eyes flickering briefly to the tangled mass of fur and innards at her den, ”but perhaps I ought to allow you the pleasure of the hunt.” It would be, after all, the best remedy. If she were to kill him then perhaps she could kill her misdirected shame, too.

I pause for several moments as I consider the child within her den then, my eyes roaming to her resting place. I wonder, then, what it feels like to care for an infant with such blood. Blood means so little and yet, others see importance within it. Does she feel shame for the child? Or hatred? I am half tempted to claim the child for my own, a false figure for her to claim as a father lest she need somebody to blame. I am content being negligent. I am content being uninvolved and yet, that would be surely better than carrying the burden of her true father’s pathetic existence. I am half tempted to make such an offer and yet, for now, I remain in silence, offering the woman all the space she could need. If she wishes to grow angry then I will take that anger for her; if she desires to be alone, too, then so be it. I can do little more than exist for her convenience under these circumstances.