He should be better than this. But he wasn’t. He should have moved on from this. But he hadn’t. It’s been exactly seven years since his father had disappeared from his life. Since he woke up, ran to his father’s quarters to find it looking as if he never had existed. Even the staff had been quiet about it, avoided their ‘young master’ when he asked questions. Those questions resulted in physical reprimanding from the alpha at the time. Disciplined when he asked where he was. There was a moment in his life that he wondered if his father was real. If the scarf he was given was just a figment and that the skull that sat on his bureau was something he had come across in the garden. Deep down he fought the denial and the constant assurance that the monster never existed because he had memories of his father. He had memories of the monster holding his hand as they left the manor, beyond the gardens, and up into the forests on the mountains to spend time together. He had memories of running through the forests with his father. How he was treated when he got hurt. How they would both be scolded when they returned the following morning. These memories felt real enough for him. Therefore, he had existed. It’s been exactly two years, eighteen days, and, roughly, three hours since he was told that his father was truly gone and by the hands of his uncle. He did not believe it then. Admittedly, it shook him when his mother had used the statement mid fight. It was a tactic to distract him, to have him lose his focus. It had worked. It’s been three weeks since he and Brenna been told again that the Alpha Umbra was dead. Again, the words shook them. They’ve been told this. They had not seen him since his disappearance from the manor. But now, it was being told again by a complete stranger that they could assume was from the Umbra pack – their father’s pack.

Three times he was told his father was gone. He should have moved on the first time. He should have accepted it the second time. He should not have gone to find that answer for the third time. Now, it is all but truth, there was no alternative.

Every year, something inside breaks. Sometimes he doesn’t realize it the day before, sometimes it just happens before he is even awake. It just happens. His demon knows it long before he does. Today was that day, seven years later, two years and eighteen days and three hours later, three weeks later. Uru’baen had woken up a different outlook of his home. The scents that he woke up to was stronger than when he had fallen asleep. The sound was louder – well, it was more of a constant dull hum than anything else. He knew of it, the hum that was ever present if he ever tried to focus on it. It was there. But today, he woke up shapeshifted, nested deep in his bed and pillows. It’s happened before and he knew why. It was slow at first, the emotions swirling to sadness, mournfulness, loss. It felt heavy, like his core had fallen deep in his chest. Normally he could smell the emotions that one gave off, but not this. He could not smell anything or taste the morning bile in his mouth. It smelled heavy and it made his chest tighten and hurt. He let out a painful whine as he shuffled in the sheets further, his ears laid flat against his head. He did not want to wake up today. This was not an in-morning day. This was a day that should not exist for him.

Damien has witnessed this part of him. At first it was confusing and concern, a lot of worrying on the monster hellhound’s part. He did not know what to do with the big demon that had appeared in the bed beside him. How the demon shuffled closer to the boil seeking that comfort, the company that could push away the sadness he had been experience, the sadness that was going to consume him again. The monster would hush sweet words of comfort, to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that the monster was here. There had been a reason why the inner demon shapeshifted the boil on this day. It was because he was not able to communicate. He could not speak in this form. He did not want to. He couldn’t bring himself to. The second time, it was a start in the middle of the night. He had remained in his humanoid form, sweat drenched and panting in the dark. A night terror like experience triggered by nightmare. It was a case that his demon was aware of what day it was before he had. The realization had dawned on him after he had awoken the monster boil. And just as before, the boil took the demon into his arms and whispered caring words. They had built a lot of trust in one another. He had trusted the monster with every fiber of himself. Whatever walls he had, the monster had since overcame. They stayed up to talk about it until they had fallen asleep again.

The green-eyed boil wasn’t here today. The monster may not even know what today meant. He could blame him for it. He’d never blame the monster. Uru whined softly as he planted a paw on the cold floor. His nest wasn’t enough. He needed more. He knew where he could get more. Slowly he dragged himself from the bed, the dark, cotton sheets that clung around his form, cascading off his form until his tail was free. Slowly he made his way out of the room into the open living space, his head down and eyes forward. His large hulking form moved in long, heavy strides toward the boxes that stood stacked up in the corner of the house. He hadn’t unpacked everything, opting to only take what he needed as he went. There was much left including all the pillows for the sectional, the throws, the extra blankets, and extra sheets. It was time to unpack. Fifth box from the top, third row in.

An aroma of stale, black coffee hit him from the kitchen. Almost instantly he wanted to curl into himself as he winced. His memories flooded him of times he was picked up in his dad’s arm. He drank coffee. A lot. He smelled of the stuff that it had become a natural association with the alpha’s scent. Sometimes he drank coffee just to recall a scent he had begun to forget. Uru whined with a glance to the coffee cup in the unfinished kitchen before pressing his way to the boxes.

The box stood at the unkempt bed. Inside were neatly folded bedding and pillows. The demon hellhound stood upright and emptied the entirety of the contents onto the mattress before burying himself beneath it. With some adjustments, he finally settled with a dissatisfied huff. Buried. Blocked out from the outside world. Alone. This is where he would stay until the world decided it was done with the day. Soft, painful whines would echo the house for the rest of the day.

A knock at the door.