[ P ] Savior Complex

Tybalt Aetós

His stomach was angry. He should have known better than to eat that lizard he had caught earlier in the morning. It had been green with shiny blue stripes running along its back, and it made his tongue feel all itchy when he caught it. But the pup had been hungry, and it had seemed worth the risk at the time. Now Tybalt wasn’t so sure. The gurgling in his gut was noisy and relentless, and the boy moaned in discomfort where he sat alone beneath an evergreen laden with heavy snow. Dark clouds obscured any hope for sunshine that wintry afternoon, and the normally vibrant forest looked dismal and dreary.


Tybalt was half a year old now, and life was predictably unpredictable. He saw Dad here and there, and did not yet think to question where it was Tiberius disappeared to most evenings, or why the scent of feminine strangers seemed to always accompany his presence. It was simply normal. There were others he interacted with like The Lady, but she was rather bossy, and The Girl, but he hadn’t seen her for a while. Mostly, Tybalt explored on his own, just as he always had.


Today was different, though, as he had already emptied the contents of his stomach in the bushes until there was nothing left and he felt exhausted and weak. Emerald sights stared straight ahead. If a stranger happened upon him, maybe they would know how to make his stomach feel less angry and less agonizing. He would never make it to the villages on his own accord, so he watched the snow-dusted road hopefully.



@Savard

Funny… how selfish it made him feel to be worried. It seemed everybody these days had lost somebody. Some had the decency to get closure, an army soldier telling a wolf that their lover, their father, their mother, wasn’t coming home. Others got them back in bits and pieces, broken, shattered, disillusioned. They had fought, and it all been for nothing, but it had cost them everything. At least, alas, there were at least some wolves who had others in their lives who would remember them before all this, for what they were, not for what they are now. They would be mourned, they would be loved, they would be remembered. Some might be lofted to a higher memory, deemed heroes, when they never really were, all because it made others feel better. The soldier might tell the widow that their lover died fighting two Jacobites at once, and in a year, two would become three, three would become five, five would become ten. When all along, they fell in battle to a Jacobite, scared, crying out for the heavens or their families in anguish. It was the great lie that all wolves tell one another in times of crisis. And yet, there were wolves that went into the flurry of teeth and claws and disappeared, never to be heard from again, to be remembered by nobody. It was one such wolf that Savard had occupied himself with, his stressful stretch of months only exacerbated by the absence of a wolf he looked after, from time to time. Wolves talk, but in truth nobody knew what had happened. All that he knew for certain was that Blythe, not one to ever run from a fight, never made it back home. She liked to think she hid from this world well enough but… she couldn’t hide from Savard. Except for lately, that is. Ever since that job he did for her, his life had changed, his terrible deeds for once in his miserable existence used for good. And now, all that remained of her was a rumor, a whisper. Savard was never one to mourn for the dead, after all for all his years it was all he knew. But sometimes, its the absence of a memory well-deserved that gave him pause, from time to time. Getting through to the Highlands was impossible, even for him. The Imperial presence up there was marked, but even still, his contacts spoke little of her presence north of the border. And he had exhausted each and every lead he had of her in the south. Every safehouse he knew for her, including the one he set up for her, every place they had crossed paths, all exhausted. Even the Redwood forest, a place she was known to sometimes seek solace in, was empty of her presence. With each visit, his worry grew, even if he never showed it to anyone else. To find her alive or to find her dead, Savard had grown weary of having no answer for any of it. To be deprived of an answer to a wolf no one would ever mourn or understand the life of in any semblance was a burden difficult to bear. All he wanted was a sign, some part of her to put his soul to rest, even if hers had already been put to rest. Of course… the sound of retching was about the only thing he had heard. He scanned the snowdrift ahead of him, spotting a young wolf, seemingly all alone. Naturally, his guard was raised, as there would be few honest wolves finding themselves in such a place at such a time. It could have been a set-up… a good one at that. But the smell that came from the wolf’s direction hardly made him beg to differ. And besides… it was in those very trees not long ago that he had had similar luck. A drunk brigand ripping a pup’s tail clean off, nothing he couldn’t handle. And yet… the odds of coming across a pup in distress were slim, though far from zero. Was he a fool for falling for a trap, or was he always a sucker for looking out for wolves seemingly in need of care? It didn’t matter either way, because as far as he was concerned, he had nothing to lose either way. Locking eyes with the wolf, Savard approached, seeing how rough the kid looked, feeling compelled to take pity on him, if only as a distraction from what ailed him. “You’re unwell,” Savard said, his tone gruff, “what is it?” Despite his concern, Savard was prepared, just in case the wolf, or any friends nearby if he had them, tried anything. He had been there before, and yet, maybe part of him was prepared for it to be the end if it was. On the other… maybe he’d have a purpose to himself beyond that of his aimless wanderings.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

Tybalt Aetós

The path was nearly deserted today, which did not bode well for young Tybalt as he waited for assistance that might never have come. Possessing little understanding of death, with the exception of the kills he had eaten, Tybalt began this new notion, to ponder that he, too, could wind up like one of his meals. They were alive… until they weren’t. Maybe he wouldn’t die from being eaten by a wolf like prey, but instead, because he ate a lizard.

When hope seemed lost, a stranger appeared. As Tybalt looked up, he saw a man dressed in tones of pale russet coming nearer. There was no fear in the boy’s countenance – had Tybalt felt better, he would have been quite pleased to have garnered the stranger’s attention, and equally unconcerned. Sometimes, an entire day could pass without anything taking notice of the boy. But these were desperate times, and all that he could really feel was the agony of the poison that still churned in his system.

Honey-hued sights found the emerald orbs of the child, and a gruff voice questioned: “You’re unwell, what is it?” Tybalt looked up with mournful eyes, an expression filled with deep regret. The man was only a little shorter than Dad, with scars decorating his facade, but Tybalt didn’t think anything of these battle wounds. Where the stranger was very cautious, the boy was lacking any semblance of awareness, even when he didn’t feel as if he were dying. The pup heaved a deep sigh and explained his predicament in two words: ”Bad lixzard.” His English was still not perfect, since the woman who had given him life had addressed him in the ancient tongue of the northlands – a move intended to irritate the father who would take him away to raise on his own. He patted his gurgling stomach for further emphasis. ”No good.”

Tybalt had never felt so terrible in the months he had existed, and he didn’t know how to fix it. But maybe this wolf would. His mouth felt dry as a desert. ”An bhfuil uisce agat?” He would ask in his first language, but he caught himself and hurriedly repeated the question in the right way as he croaked, ”D’ye ‘ave water?” The lilt in his voice was obvious, even if he had been banned from speaking his first tongue by his father. His accent was more characteristic of the old Highlanders, suggesting the boy was out of place in Rionna. ”I’m Tybalt. I'm a good boy,” he offered with a forced grin, trying to appear worth helping.

Odd. That was the first word, and only word, that came to Savard’s mind as he studied the kid. The pup seemed to feel almost scolded, recoiling as he did as the question was asked. As if he had done something wrong. He didn’t seem to be a local if that were the case, for vomiting was a wolf’s fourth favorite pastime in a place like Rionna, outside of drinking, fighting, and dying. It would be a truly dark and desperate day for the city’s inhabitants if King Adamh declared that any wolf caught puking would be arrested, after all. Of course… one other manner that ought to go punished, but was in fact not, was that of irresponsible parents. There were a lot of those across Rionnach. He was a product of such a crime gone unpunished… and so seemed this kid. At least all this kid had done wrong, to his knowledge, was participate in Rionna’s fourth favorite pastime. He couldn’t say his soul was as clean. But the pup’s parents? Nowhere to be found… something he was, shame to say, seeing quite a lot of these days. Whether it be the true cost of war, or whether it be lazy indifference… nobody but the starving youngster seemed to suffer. The polychrome youth gave his answer, in a strong accent. Highlander, without a doubt, Savard thought to himself. He was surprised to see that the kid spoke both tongues, albeit his native tongue surely better. Savard had his concerns, to be sure. How a pup could come to be so starved and ill-cared for? How a Highlander pup could make it on his own? And what the hell was a lixzard? After a moment… he realized that the pup likely meant a lizard, but he must have either struggled to pronounce the word correctly, or had had a bit of it still lodged somewhere in his throat. His Highlander was far more graceful… something that the politics of this place would spell bad things for him, if heard by the wrong wolf. Things were really starting to paint a picture of this wolf, a muddled, confused, and concerning one at that. With the situation at the border being as it was, the separation of land from land, and distrust all around, what was a pup doing all on his own so far from home? Forced to eat lixzards in order to survive? It all made no sense… and smelled afoul of something that ought to avoid. But he remembered, then, how it felt to look after that pup the last time. It felt almost… good, like he had done a proper deed. He hadn’t really… expecting pay and a reward that would never come to him. No, the pup’s rich father was all too happy to thank him and promise him he would repay his kindness, only to disappear. But still… he felt at least a little pride for saving the pup’s life. Maybe this time… it could be more of the same? The wolf asked for water, something to drink. That was a simple enough request, something he could abide by. Most of the time, the wolves trying to swindle him wanted to get him somewhere secluded, out of the way, and he would always be led somewhere, never the other way around. And pups like him, suffice to say, knew better than to take a chance on a wolf like him, for the years had not been kind to his appearance, nor his heart. And of course, who could argue with the wolf’s self-assessment? He was Tybalt. He was a good boy. “No,” Savard replied, almost as cold as the air around him, “but I know where we can go. Come on.” With an almost rigid gait, Savard turned around from the boy without so much as a gesture or a signal, and looked around. Memories came to mind of the taverns along the way, and the wolves he’d seen there. Not too many would be an appropriate place. He got into his first fight at the age of four months, lost badly. He’d seen wolves maimed, killed outright in places a lot like them when he was too young. He knew better than to pass things like that down to others. He remembered, then, a certain tavern, not a fairly traveled one, but a good enough one nonetheless. He knew it wouldn’t be good either way, but for the pup’s sake, it would perhaps be the least scarring.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art

Tybalt Aetós

The grown-up regarded him with frosty tones, but this didn’t bother Tybalt one bit. This was what he was accustomed to – cold indifference. Whether it was a stranger or someone known, the same reaction seemed to follow the boy, lifelong so that he knew no other way. The man would find no hesitation there, nor suspicion. Tybalt was still naive to just how unkind his world could be. But he was learning, one interaction at a time. For now, for this encounter, there was little choice but to trust. The scars that marred the stranger’s facade didn’t frighten the boy, who had no context for the violence required to earn those decorations. If it was a clue, any indication that putting faith in such a suspicious character was unwise, this never occurred to the child. Here was someone who sort of, almost wanted the masked pup around. That was enough.

And so Tybalt followed the nice wolf as closely as a shadow cast near noontime, nearly tripping over the grown-up’s back paws in his eagerness to keep up. Tybalt didn’t ask where they were going, didn’t even think to inquire, for wherever it was, it was sure to be better than sitting alone, sick in the snow. The big wolf didn’t offer his name – another occurrence that was commonplace for Tybalt in his interactions with strangers, so much so that he didn’t think twice about it. They were each meant to remain strangers, it seemed.

As they walked along, Tybalt babbled to himself, as children sometimes do, in the language his mother had taught him, that his father had forbidden him to speak: ”Tá an saol aisteach.” It was a phrase his mother, a true Highlander, had often used. Life is strange. Usually, the woman who had birthed him would mutter these words to herself wistfully. He had asked once what the words meant, before he had been Tybalt and was simply called child, but she hadn’t answered him, only offering a mysterious smile and the shake of her head. He would learn its true meaning someday, on his own. The pup thought of the white wolfess infrequently, but when he did, like in this instance, it was with vague curiosity and a hint of something else, a sadness that he couldn’t put a name to or begin to understand. She had been there… And then she wasn’t. It was another phenomenon familiar to Tybalt. No one ever seemed to stay.


@Savard

Like a wind-up toy, the young lad seemed to waste no time in following Savard. Doing as he was told… polite, all the tropes of a wolf who had never tasted freedom before. Most wolves would grow up to rebel, to pretend to be self-sufficient… but it seems that this wolf had been dealt a different hand. Most wolves would have been at least a little more apprehensive, but not this one. Was that what being a good boy meant? That you didn’t object or question to do as you were told? When Savard was his age, he thought to himself, he already knew practically every cuss word there was, used them too. But that’s a standard puphood in Rionna, for those that might not be so familiar with it. Savard might have also considered that this wolf knew what was best for him… but the way he seemed, from showing up in hostile lands, to being all alone, to starving himself, this wolf was not the type to take good care of himself. It was sad to say… but wolves that didn’t play their cards close to themselves, that behaved as every wolf should, were never the ones to live to see adulthood. These were dangerous times for good and honorable wolves, and in as a dangerous place as one can be no less. It satisfied Savard enough to see the kid fed, warmed, and sent back where he came back. And yet… four little words changed all of that. Tá an saol aisteach. For some reason, that phrase itched his brain. It was a common phrase, at least in terms of his life, but where had he heard it? As if he were incapable of doing two things at once, Savard momentarily stopped his walking, indexing his memory to make sense of the deja vu. He knew it not from somewhere, he realized… but from someone. It was a stock phrase that a wolf he knew repeated over and over, to the point of almost absurdity. And considering the dialogue, and the fact that he only had so many Highlander contacts he was close enough with to pay mind to their stock phrases, his list of explanations soon narrowed down. He remembered it then. The night he, for one of the few times in his life, he took a job not for the Renown but because it was the right thing is do. He remembered when he explained his stance to the wolf, one whose face he never seemed to forget. She said it, then, a mutter that was somewhere between stress and joy. What did it mean, Savard asked her. Life is strange, came the reply. He remembered it again, some time later, just before he did what it did. He had seen him before, the wolf told Savard, too proud to beg for mercy. He would have killed him on looks alone if only he hadn’t made the mistake that he had. Life is strange that way… Savard said. And in a moment, it was over, and nobody ever so much at remembered Sable after that. That is… except for her. Was it a coincidence that this youngster happened to say those words? Or was there something about Blythe that even Savard himself was not privy to. There was hardly the resemblance between them, from the way they looked, the way they acted. He only had the faintest scent of her on his pelt, not enough for him to be sure. A bastard, perhaps? Blythe had been free to live the last of her life, free even from Savard’s watchful glance. And yet… how could he be so sure that this strange pup was who he said he was? Would someone perhaps know for sure? Would the pup even so much as remember his mother’s face, were she indeed his mother? Questions, for another time, all of them. Saying no word or even so much as hinting that the phrase wrapped around Savard’s mind like a ghastly frost, the wolf made his way to the brightly-lit tavern some ways down. Only a handful of patrons were there, owing perhaps to the establishment’s less than stellar accommodations. But it would be good enough for a wolf like Tybalt. “Inside,” Savard said, gently, “I can get you some hot food and room. Then you can tell me who your parents are and where they are. Stupid of them not to be here.” Savard wondered, of course, that if indeed this were one of Blythe’s products, if the boy knew what had happened. He stuck out sore enough, someone had to know something he didn’t. He knew the right wolves to ask of course… but still, he was guarded about scaring the pup about anything he so knew. It seems that even he was not one to change his ways, even when he surely ought to.

everything he touched fell apart

code // art