14. Penance

I have observed that all cultures, no matter their origin, have a holiday like this one. One where  gifts are given and dances are had; fertility rites performed. It is a celebration of life (or its creation) and all with one, abiding message: that Love, fertility, children, the lot of it-- is to be celebrated.

I feel guilt, at not being able to find as much joy in the season as I should. It will all seem rather empty, when I see others paired off, and must stand alone in the solitude of the fate I've chosen for myself...

. . .

My thoughts so often go to you, John.
Do you languish as I do-- grasping for distractions in the name of duty and honor?
I am sure that you do, and yet-- I sense that you have departed from me.

No one can claim to know the heart of another... for hearts, like thoughts, are something that cannot be seen with the eye or felt with the hand.

The heart breaks, and then it heals. Growing back slightly more crooked each time.

I wonder how long it will be until mine simply stops beating, in protest. 

 
So whilst my friends, packmates, and fellow Garou busy themselves in the celebration of life... I will be in the business of  death...for in this time, my heart dies ever the more slowly.

Penance demanded;  a price, willingly paid.

Love is a crime that begins with a glance,

And ends, in eternity.