It felt unusual to leave Taviora but perhaps even more unusual to know that he did not mean to return, at least, not as a formal member. No, he had shed the title of their mender. He had buried his den with dirt and leaves. He had buried the pieces of himself that remained there. Something had changed, after all. In the night, he had awoken to the sensation of a great string stretching from his very core out into the dark world beyond. It had captivated him, this feeling. At the opposite side of the string, he knew the black woman from the moors existed. Yet, it continued to stretch and stretch, further and further, a fine thread that quivered in the breeze. He knew she had left. It was not a break that he felt but a piece of him stretched so far beyond the horizon that he could not be so sure he had not lost that fragment.
One day, perhaps it would break. But he wondered in silence - how far could the thread stretch? How many steps would she take until he would feel it break? And when it did break, what would be left of him?
It was in that night that he had decided he needed to leave. Something had changed in the world and he needed to be there for it. Or, he needed to change too. Asteraia had lost their monster and the dark shadow that followed her and a new king had risen - the prince, he knew, that he had met above the graves of Taviora.
It was not just these feelings that drove him however. No, it was a simple fact: he had to maintain Grimoire's safety. He knew that when a death had occurred, she would appear and he knew she would not be able to resist the trophies that now lay at rest in Asteraia. He wanted to be there when she came for them.
He had been honest with Halcyon. He had told him frankly: he had little formal use. He could heal but he could barely teach, could barely direct; he could watch the dead, at least. It was never out of lack of skill. No, he simply did not wish to burden others with his oddities. If he were to teach, they might come to know how fragmented he was, might come to doubt their own knowledge through doubting his. His failures were seldom out of his own causation but out of fear. Even now he feared how he might bode in the vast plains of Asteraia. He had nowhere to hide, nowhere to cower, and as the sun began to set, he became acutely aware of how infinite their expanse could feel.
The moon was full as it began to peek from behind the horizon, illuminating the spring sky with blood and violet. He stood motionless by the graves Halcyon had erected, their stone faces staring him down from within the shadows. He felt their eyes on him, these wolves, wolves he had come to watch over. Perhaps it was the monster he felt the most for, a wolf of his imprint's blood who he now had taken beneath his watch. For her, he supposed, he ought to keep her safest, a private bias that caused his eyes to linger the most on the caved in den's mouth.
He sat himself there then, watchful before he laid himself down to rest by their presence. He had no den now, reclined to sleep with those he felt closest to this night and yet, he seldom truly slept. Instead, he watched up at the stars as they began to peek out, his pale form illuminated like a ghost among the shadows and tall grass, as inviting as it were eerie. He wondered if any others would come to this place, come to visit those that had passed beyond the veil.