Though there may never ass a time the word touches upon their lips it has become such all the same, a loop cast about them, ensnared within what seems a dance they are both accustomed to, tired steps wore thin as the patience set between them. It is their routine, the eternal path of their life writ upon the hard surface of stone, carved deep until it seems words are present upon the curve of bone, familiar and, in some way, longed for.

So why is a faint haze of fear, a sense of forbidding settling about a heart quick in the beat it tattoos upon her ribs, she bares, a veil across fur toned in shades of white and silver. About a distracted mind words rise, a few beats all that is offered between each before another arises, casting aside its predecessor. There is no room, or need, for words to be expressed yet they find their place, lingering upon lips pursed into a thin line, barely holding back the want to chew upon it, further scar skin left delicate and thin, marred where teeth had pressed too hard.

“You need not bother with such useless things, they should not matter to you,” there is no need to attempt to disgust the disgust curdling a tone he might once have tried to pass of for something warmer, given the tones a father is meant to hold, but never had something been permitted to touch the stone encasing the sorry excuse he carries. More is there, bared by teeth given the frame of a grimace seeking to become something more, though she cares not to look focused upon her task.

Never had there been a need for burial, a rite so few had earned for it was deemed a privilege, yet there were ways to remember the lives of the departed, give them an ending befitting their life. Starched and stretched tight the sail seemed prepared to break apart, tip of a claw light as it ran over the swell of the slight piece of fabric. The construction before her was small, cobbled together with what driftwood she could claim without argument, yet he had grown weary, age and time catching up though he fought against it, shaped like a bowl. Within two candles sat nestled in dry hay and twigs, enough to catch light, simply waiting.

“I might say the same of you,” faint murmur, lips barely parting around the structure of words spoken without the aid of thought to propel them. Quiet moment passes, enough for the mind to catch up, realise the words she had spoken, the inhale of breath through teeth suspiciously like a laugh. There is much more, words lingering about the edge of a tongue as sharp and silver as the one he holds, if out of practice for there had proven no need, lessons gone to waste. “You pretend not to care and yet here you are.” Again.

Easy is it to recall the last interaction between father and child, moments of heated words shared with slurred tones marred by the heavy drink both stomached for they could not stand the other, barely containing their hatred for the one before them. Strange was it now, to feel his presence as he moved, easily shifting his weight from toes to the balls of his paws, a continuous movement at her back. He had shown his distaste for her practices early on, allowing the words to flow yet never did he leave nor move to interrupt, simply watching, waiting for a time it might be easiest to tarnish this moment. To mourn the loss of those close to her, those she had come to deem as her own children, was vile to him, this man who had orchestrated his own sons death.

“If you do not wish to be here then leave,” she speaks beneath her breath, voice barely audible enough for him to catch but she knows he does, faint growl enough of a warning, speaking of pain to come if she dare speak such to him once more. Light is the touch of flame to each wick, the burning match left within the mass of hay. All it takes is a single push, the back of a paw grazing along the curve of the make-shift boat, before it is slipping from her grasp. Onto the sea it floats, a small light she watches bob, following the current as it sweeps out towards the mouth of the fjord.

One, heart picks a pace quicker, driven into her ribs as hasty breath escapes. Two, maroon toned gaze finding the curve of her shoulder, lifting from it to find him. Three, dusky brown, so close to black, finding her within which she can find nothing. “I am not leaving with you, I am done...” Mistake, but one within a succession of so many, words that tremble as they part pale lips, driven back by fear so many times but now she allows them flight, keeps his gaze though it hardens.

She is afforded no warning, no chance to escape a punishment he sees befitting her crime. So easy is it to part the skin, delicate and stretched across finely boned features, gasp sounding as her weight shifts, pushed down until the sand cradles her back. The dribble of blood, running down her cheek, gathering upon the line of her jaw before it is falling, droplets of red as though she weeps the vital source of life rather than salty tears. The want is there, to allow herself to cry, but it hurts. Barely does she suppress the want to lift her paws, explore the skin he opened, already holding a good idea of what he had done.

From her forehead curving down to her left cheek the skin is marred, lengthy lines dug deep. Through the eyes they run, uncaring of the sight she has been robbed of, or at least such is what time will show her, blurry as she blinks, growing troubled as her sight fades. ”Fuck you,” edges faint, a whimper trailing her words as paw finds her chest, pressing atop her, a weight she is accustomed to but proves heavier for her own small stature. For a few seconds she regrets the change, her want to be rid of the past enough to allow her this small freedom, before claws latch into his own skin. Though about him scar tissue is common there is nothing here, age wearing the skin until it is paper, muscle easily tearing beneath teeth and claw alike.

“Yavaf! You little bitch,” she can feel the hot wave of breath, each word leaving it to waft over her. There is no time for thought merely a need to act, teeth latching onto the skin of his cheek, claws finding his forehead, moving down in search of his eyes. For a time she is weightless, lifted so easily as he rears back, shaking in a vein hope to remove her.

Salt coursed about the ruined flesh of her face, found each crevice he had made within, bubbles streaming from parted lips as she was forced to release. So sudden had it been, his want to be rid of her driving him to stumble back, engulfed in the waves by their side, permitted no warning. “Oh Nila,” about her the name rises, hazy and warm, familiar though the tone in which it is spoken seems almost spat, encased in a hatred felt in kind. There is no strength left in the serval as the paw fixes about her throat, so easily pushing her head under, barely able to struggle as he stands over her.

Oh how she wants to breath, suck in something though she knows all such would bring her is the salty tang of sea water, death within the frame of something she had come to love a great deal. And so she held on, cheeks puffed out as she desperately clawed at him, doing the best she could but there was little time left, the want building in the hollow of her chest.