Work Text:
All tales end in this way, they would reckon. In the way where the wolf burns his belly swallowing the sun, or Icarus flies into it. All tales end in ache of some kind.
Which would explain the persistent, steady gnawing in their chest, an ever tightening ball.
The distractions were easy at first. It was easy to throw themselves headlong into the hunt, crashing through the trees and their own winding thoughts until they met the end of the trail. It was easy to drown sorrows in victory and glory. But in the quiet moments in between, where every snap of a branch and every blanket rustle in bed reminds them of his warmth, his laugh, and his scent, there is very little room to hide from their grief.
They spare no seconds in the limelight and media, despite winning season after season. They waste not a minute with their fellow legends, instead preferring to sequester in their room with Artur buried snugly in the crook of their neck. It was easier to mask grief in this way, wrapped up in leather and furs and solitude. There is something about grief that is worn in the shape of the body, impossible to hide under any mask or respirator.
When the nights are even more cold and bitter than usual, even away from Talos, they find themselves glaring up at the mess of stars in the sky. They search as if they expect him to appear out of thin air, falling in the same way he did into the bloodied sand of the arena. Squinting until they blink away sharp tears, they curl into themselves and a sigh hisses through their respirator. It was better this way, they supposed. It was better to know this pain and wield it in the way they wielded their uncle's axe and the grief it too carried. In the end, they always knew their path was made to be walked alone, though that knowledge did little to soothe the throbbing ache they felt in their heart.
All tales end this way, they considered. All tales end in grief and mortal sorrow.