It was a damn pity that Moth passed away. Really, it was. She was a staple member of the community, choosing the path of medicine so that she could dedicate herself to aiding others. Full-blooded Tanglers looked out for each other, no matter what - and, as a medic, she was easily one of the truest ones there was.

The general regrets not seeking proper retribution for every transgression that was perpetrated against her throughout her relatively short life. The way he treated the Pitt following her abduction was not harsh enough. What he should have done was cut down the cowardly Kydobi where he stood for allowing such a crime to occur, as well as failing to provide a name for the kidnapper. That pathetic jaguar's days were numbered now, on account of his criminal negligence and general incompetence. An atrocious stain on the earth, it would not be long before him and his creed were put to the sword.

Moth's death wasn't Kydobi's doing, though. She fell victim to the crumbling ground, which violently convulsed to the point of overturning her home on top of her. It was brief, and totally unavoidable. Nobody could have foreseen the cosmic events that'd occurred on that morning, so pointing fingers served no purpose. Doing so made it easier to cope, the wolfhound understood, but in the end, it only made everything that much worse. The fallen medic is survived by her former lover and their children; perhaps it'd be more beneficial to focus on helping them recover.

Funerals. They weren't his forte. No matter how pretty the decorations, no matter how good the food, there was always an overwhelming atmosphere of gloom and dreariness. This made total sense, of course, as it was an occasion linked to one's demise. Leroy, however, preferred to celebrate one's life - like what Aurum had done for Feza. The sadness that ensued someone's death was inescapable, but commemorating their livelihood was much better than sulking in their loss, he found. Despite his personal preference, though, the wolfhound wanted an event dedicated to Moth to be as respectful as possible. Hence, her life would be revered at a funeral, rather than a party.

Word was passed around throughout the tribe regarding the burial, and how it'd transpire at the base of the flower fields near the territory's edge. Undeterred by the troubles that she faced, Moth lived a beautiful life; thus, a beautiful setting only made sense. As the field was a fair distance from the town, there wasn't a point in hauling out decorations for the occasion. Besides, the scenery was quite dazzling. It'd be unnecessary to compete with its allure with embellishments and ornaments. Therefore, the sole things present that weren't there before was the coffin (generously borrowed from the graveyard) that contained the former doctor, as well as the profound hole that she'd be lowered into.

Sadness had not overtaken Leroy's mind. Standing behind the coffin, a gentle late spring breeze gusting across his spine, the hound's mind fixated on one feeling, and one feeling alone. Disappointment. For the first time in quite a while, he felt rather disappointed in the brutality of the world. One with a heart as pure as the fallen healer did not deserve to succumb beneath the weight of an entire building. That was a fate justified for an individual of the canine's stature - someone who'd committed various offensive actions. Moth should have lived a long and healthy life. Yet, hers was cut short. And today, he had to speak on her behalf, as well as anyone else who felt the need to do so.

Oh, how everything should have went differently.

//tl;dr: moth's funeral is being held at the flower fields. 

Mama's boy always came first. Always running to her side, begging for her attention and assisting her in even the littlest of tasks throughout the day. Today was no different. This time though, Atticus would need to lay by her side and help himself. She was no more. Her light had faded and so had his own. The boy, the grieving child, had yet to process her death properly. Running away to The Pitt, fiending with Sweeney and perusing the territory endlessly, was merely a distraction. His escape was merely a way to get away from all... this. All the sadness. Hell, the dreary despair that had fallen over his father and family. Not to mention the guilt. Oh lord, the culpability he felt.

Watching his mother die in front of him took a toll, especially when Atticus was 'the cause.' Once the eccentric golden child, now known as the failure who ran. 'The one who held symbolism,' as Ivan would say. The guilt that reminisced in his mind had taken control of him, ruthlessly leading him down a dark path. Haunting thoughts plucked at his brain, pushing him to the world's end. Slashing back at Ivan, heisting from Tanglewood's library, and intermingling in the devious deeds of The Pitt... But truth be told, did her death trigger these ideas? Or did he have them all along? With no mother peeking over his shoulder or an expectation to uphold, was he now running rampant? Only Atticus would know.

For as much as the proclaimed delinquent didn't want to show his face in Tanglewood, others grieved faster than him. The funeral procession was planned. They had moved on... from her... from him. An invite was given and the child felt obliged to go, despite his new reputation. At the very least, he expected to be unacknowledged when arriving. It was only respectful, especially on her death bed.

Pushing through the field, the flat plain of land came into view and the grey tabby wearily moved forward. Amber eyes zoned in on the coffin, tears beginning to bask in his eyeline. His gaze staggered towards Leroy, bright hues begging for mercy. They were alone so far. Judgement was almost nonexistent, but Leroy's position intimidated him. His new alliance didn't assist either. Nevertheless, he felt free to release. Ivan couldn't say anything. Selby wouldn't shame him. Alice wasn't here to plead for his return (if they even wanted it by now), nor was anyone else.

He meandered ahead, tears trickling down his cheeks now. A small paw inched towards the casket, resting on it's top. Atticus let out a choking gasp, heaving for air as he sobbed. 'It's my fault,' the boy reasoned. 'It's all my fault.' His head lowered onto the casket's side and golden eyes closed, letting himself grow loose. As he leaned on the coffin, he let out a cry.

"I'm sorry."

It was unclear whether he meant his actions or was acknowledging his guilt. Perhaps both.

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When Ivan caught word of his mother's funeral, it made his entire day sludge to a stop. For hours, he stood and paced in a strain as if he were harnessed to some invisible weight. He scrabbled at the hollow in his soul. It had always been there, but Ivan felt that it had surely grown wider and deeper, so much more difficult for him to climb out of.

As he was taciturn in his first moments with his mother, he was taciturn in his last parting moment. He did not even cry once during the funeral.

Ivan approached the fields, and the way he stood so still and quiet, could be passed off as reluctant acceptance. But his mind swelled in an awful inferno, and was not going to allow himself to speak at all. It did not seem right. For all his arrogant staunchness, his snide intellectual atheist bent — there was a certain pleasure he took in tearing apart notions of goodness and immortality. It was his form of justice and revenge for the brutal world he had been born into. He rejected his faith in love even though it was shown quite clearly in front of his face by the model of his parents. So how could he sit there and speak about his mother?

He failed his mother, but not as Atticus did. They were quite different and Atticus had the privilege of being part of the physical cause. Ivan recalled his journey with Beck to the graveyard. He had said something so utterly stupid of him then, though at the time he thought he was so clever. Ivan proclaimed that "bodies die but words live on forever". Moth was no grand general or leader. She was simple in the best way, the way a mother and doctor should be. She hadn't deserved such a fate and for Ivan to think that only the great live on felt like a spit towards all those poor souls who served their entire life. They were the unsung heroes who stood in the background as those in power and mobility shaped the world in their own interests. This unsung took that world and raised sons. Sons that didn't even appreciate or love them until it was too late.

Ivan watched Atticus approach the casket with eyes sunken low into his skull. He thought he must be hallucinating. The desire to give his own brother the beating of his life once more possessed Ivan so strongly that a strange and wicked smile tugged his lips. There was no reason for it, and Ivan eventually quelled himself, lowering his head in shame. He banished all thoughts from his mind, if only for a moment, hearing only the dull sobs and apology of his brother.