To say he was disorientated was a complete understatement. It took him many months to achieve more than the basic survival necessary for each day that passed. In the beginning, he could simply do nothing besides seek water and some form of sustenance, typically in the form of scavenging from others. Eros always made certain to avoid contact with others in these instances, for associated with them was an intense as well as irrational fear that had threatened to consume him in an all too familiar way.
As the days drew on, the dark wolf found continuous comfort in the fact that he was truly and utterly alone with himself. Gone was the constant presence of the entity that is Sore, and it seemed as if it had taken him one whole full year to properly draw in his very first breath. It had seemed that if he had done it any sooner, he would choke and lose himself; lose all rationale of his mind and body, as well as the wolf he had never gotten to be. His life had been stolen from him, first by his Mother and then by the Clan. There was no expectation to gain any lost time back, for it took everything inside of Eros to simply move forward. There had been no room for anything else.
It was only in the last couple of months that he finally ventured from inland and to the coast. However he did not go to the sand he knew, instead he had kept to the thickets and the marsh, a place he could exist unbothered and undisturbed and yet parallel to the place that he knew. His memory of that day just after his arrival was bright as always in his minds eye, and the result was his immense reluctance to return back. He did not know what awaited him there, though he truly wanted to know. He did not know who awaited him there, though he truly wanted to know. Still he continued to keep his distance, and while normally he kept as deep as he could within the swamps without disturbing the border of the swampland pack, it would seem that his place there was not meant to last.
Continuous immense downpours had flooded the moors and bogs alike, amplifying the already soft soil and mud that covered the place. Footing in the marshes could already be treacherous and the increased erosion in certain places made passing impossible. Thus Eros ventured north during one more particularly fierce deluge, following the river that fed the bogs only to eventually dump into the ocean. A part of him told him to go the other way, to find a safe passage until the familiar dunes could be felt beneath his paws. But he does not go there, for he cannot, not just yet, and with a grim determination on his face he braces himself as the wind brings a fresh sheet of rain down to particularly drench him. Almost as if the fates are chastising him for his decision, or perhaps distracting him from it, he rolls his shoulders as he mentally brushes off the intrusive thoughts.
He has gone this long without returning, and though his mind and bones are weary, he goes on until he feels his body going up a gentle slope. Upon reaching the top of the embankment, Eros is startled when he finds himself staring at a stranger, though this stranger has no eyes for him. Perhaps that is why he does not simply bolt, as is his first most innate and primal instinct. She is looking at the river, its swirling currents dancing in their engorged state containing debris floating within. It is a powerful sight, and yet the hammering of his beating heart in his chest feels more powerful yet. Feeling nauseous and unnerved in the same breath, he’s rooted to the spot and he is unsure if it is from his intense fear or sudden surprise. He really hadn’t expected anyone else to be out here, let alone in the pouring rain and not to mention on an embankment of a particularly rampant river. His large dark charcoal paws dipped in russet fidget uncomfortably, shifting his weight back and forth, and back again as he contemplates his options.
He doesn’t know what to say and even if he did, he had no idea if he could say it. It had been over ten years since he had uttered a single word that was his own, and even then Sore had never been much of a conversation partner. He didn’t know if he could do it all on his own, just like that, and truly he hadn’t even tried. The opportunity had never presented itself, never mind the fact that he had avoided all such opportunities at all costs. A victim of his own circumstance to be sure, but it was his reality all the same. One could call him damaged goods, if they so willed it, though currently he held little capacity to fathom such things. Even now his nerves seemed particularly unwilling to accept the situation that had suddenly appeared and blindsided him. He began to see a distorted version of the wolf in front of him, and though his mind knew it not to be true, he saw his sister as he had known her in front of him. She was light and dark in some places, much like his sister had been, and though they truly shared no real similarities his mind was quick to conjure up the image all the same.
A defense mechanism of his fragile mind as a result of years upon years of trauma. Eros was only still in the very beginning of his recovery and while even the presence of his sister did very little to change the situation for him, it would appear to have done something for him. For while he no longer feels the need to run and vacate the area, he is still incredibly anxious and fearful of the unknown and of the stimulation that threatens to come with an interaction. He must do something, though, for the feels the seconds pass and the image of his pale grey sister shimmer and fade, revealing cracks of the stranger that lay beneath the mirage.