Unlike his brothers, or those who had finished out the battle with the bear, he had been the least touched by the bear. A bruised shoulder from a buffet from the beast, but not any mark that would remotely scar. He must find her, though. He must move things forward, shift himself into her view.
Eloah.
He had seen the despair on Herschel’s face, his cry of his soulmate's name punctuating his contribution to the hunt. Sidriel, imprint of their pale brother; if such a bond could be so very clear-linked, he had to make it so that no such cry ever parted his own lips. His mind could not fathom feeling Eloah’s pain as his own, that she might ever be in such dire straits as to call on him through the link that bound them.
He is bloodied, but it is not his own. He is sore, but he will heal. He trots towards her home, her den, with intensity in his usually sweet blue eyes.
“Eloah, please, are you home?” His voice is concerned, pained even, as he searches within himself for some response to the tether that tied him to her. He is eager to lay eyes on his silver lady. “I must see you, please let me see you,” he pleads. It does not occur to him that such a thing might seem weak, might seem needy. He was always one to follow his heart more than his head.
He looks into the mouth of the den, barely able to restrain himself from charging in without notice.