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Oakfur, Lord of Salamandastron, died in his sleep on the fifteenth night since his accident.

He had clung to life for a long time, so many reckoned. Oakfur had ever been resilient in the face of trouble, and would not give up even if it killed him, which is of course exactly what happened.

He was laid to rest with honours befitting a wise and noble Badger Lord, as Oakfur had been to Salamandastron. He had won the loyalty of the hares countless times over, and was now leaving them to pass into the Dark Forest, where his sires would welcome him into their midst.

His funeral was magnificent. He was set in his finest armour, laid down in his place as a former Badger Lord of Salamandastron. Hundreds of Badger Lords had died and been laid to rest in the mountain. Their names lived on in the dark caverns and memories of those who dwelled there. Some lords had been burned, and had their ashes laid in secret places. Others had been buried on the mountain slope. Most, like Oakfur now, were laid in full armour to guard the mountain forever.

Roaveen had kept a straight face, grim with suppressed emotion, and to look upon his face was to see a place of no mirth. He stood aside, all in black, and said not a word, not even when he was asked to speak about his father.

Korari was far more open with his feelings. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and his voice was constricted in grief as he bade his father good bye for the last time.

Some hares had whispered that Thornback should be summoned back to the mountain to give his farewell to a father, but it was decided a bad idea. Thornback had made his goodbye to his father alone, and had immediately left the mountain the next day. No one knew what Thornback had said to his father, for neither ever mentioned it to anyone.

What even fewer hares knew was that Thornback had met with his father again, just before leaving the mountain. He had been called upon to hear his father's farewell to his second son.

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When Thornback had spoken his piece, he had left immediately, not giving his father a chance to speak what was on his mind. However, if Thornback had waited that day to hear his father's piece, then he would have been disappointed. Oakfur had been shocked by what his son had said to him. It had been so unlike the Thornback that had left the mountain in a proud rage. This was his second son grown up, and it had dismembered what he had been about to say.

So, when Thornback got up and left, Oakfur had not questioned it. He had lain in his bed and had been unaware of anything else. He was still thinking it over as Thornback and Roaveen had spoken for the last time, or so they thought.

After a while, Oakfur, past all his emotions, felt horribly cheated and regretful. His son had not matured as much as either of them had thought: for he had not allowed his father a chance to give his own farewell.

The next day, Oakfur had sent for Thornback as quickly as possible. Thornback came grudgingly, but knew that he was obligated to hear what his father had to say. However, it was a problem for Thornback because he knew he had made a serious error in not hearing what his father had to say. It was, after all, his father that had wanted to say something. Thornback had lost face and he knew it would be easy for his father to criticize him now.

So it was a stone-faced Thornback that once again sat down next to his father's bed.

Oakfur looked his middle son for a long moment in the eye, not saying anything. Thornback returned the gaze unflinchingly.

Finally Oakfur spoke, "I wept when you left the mountain."

Thornback blinked in surprise: he had not expected that coming at all. Oakfur never said such things in jest, nor did he use such devices to install guilt. He had actually wept when Thornback had left. And he had hardened his heart against his son's memory and never even named his second son anymore. The thought of the hurt his father must have been going through made Thornback feel guilty, adding already to his shame from prematurely leaving the room.

Oakfur shifted in his bed, "I could never have been able to act the way you wanted. The reasons are impossible to understand, and it would plague you forever." Even as he spoke, a small image in his head long suppressed resurfaced at last: that of a young badger dying in childbirth.

Oakfur froze in horror. He had hoped never to remember that. It was impossible to endure for him: he had loved Betony, damnit! Dunepaw was a name he had learned to fear and lock away from his mind.

Thornback stared at his father as Oakfur continued to say nothing. Thornback wondered what had happened in Oakfur's life to mold him to be this way.

Oakfur twitched his head as memories flooded his brain. Memories he feared, loathed, hid from. It was as though a great dam had been blocking off the river of his past life, and now as age had gone on, a crack had appeared somewhere in the dam and it had grown. The memories had started to trickle in, first of his admission to his past, and then with Dunepaw's final moments (Oakfur groaned as he remembered the cries of his beloved) and soon it was rapidly becoming a threat to the dam and structure of Oakfur's many years.

But it was too late to start to repair the damage: now he was being swept up in memories. Memories of his doomed love with Dunepaw, memories of his long stage of total grief, memories of his hardened, older self marrying a young replacement for Dunepaw, as though taking a wooden appendage to replace a limb of flesh and blood. Certainly he had treated it like a wooden leg, and Betony had known it immediately. A sour marriage meant only to produce the children that Dunepaw could never have given him.

Memories went back even further: memories of his training at Salamandastron, with heavy weapons that made him want to cry out as he lifted them. Memories of villainous sea rats massacring hares barely older than leverets. Memories of his home in the hall of his father, Lord Hemlock.

'No', Oakfur thought in a futile effort to shut his mind, 'not that. Please not that!'

He thought of his siblings, how they had resented him for being the chosen heir. He wanted to weep as they despised him for being born first. How could he have told them about the disadvantages of being the one the father critiqued most? How could they accept this truth when they resented him so? It had been so much easier to bottle his emotions for all this time... all this time...

Oakfur looked over his life and wanted to weep. What had he done? What had gone wrong? Why couldn't he have possibly been any different?

Finally, he produced something that he had ever been ashamed of and had feared emitting more than ever emitting blood or bile.

Tears.

Tears flowed down his weathered old cheeks, pouring from a well that had been left unattended for too long. They made rivets in Oakfur's face as they passed downwards. The first tears reached his jawline, and though his mouth was shut tight to keep the sobs inwards, he could taste the saltiness of the tears.

He felt horribly ashamed to have Thornback sitting there, seeing him at his weakest and most pathetic. He turned to look upon his second son, knowing the only thing worse than having his son see him this way was to look away in an effort to hide.

But Thornback was not alone. Roaveen and Korari had entered the room. And with them were Colonel Seahawk and Major Jackers, his old friends in war. His shame was redoubled as he looked at the looks on each of their faces.

Then another face slowly swam into his vision: a soft-looking female badger, smiling benevolently down upon him, and whispering, "Come back, Oakfur. Return."

Finally, as if the tears had finally purified him, Oakfur wept. He sobbed out loud and cried out.

He never did find out that Thornback had never been present. He had ignored his summons and had gone before his father had been able to call him back. Oakfur never knew that nobody had been with him as he had poured out his heart.

After that, in the days following up, there was nothing much left of Oakfur. His spirit had already passed on, moving away from the life he had lived. It was only the body, and a bit of his mind, that remained in the land of the living. He was barely aware of his own passing, which was probably the best scenario.

For a person that had spent his life running from pain, it was fitting that he suffered more from facing that pain rather than facing the ultimate escape.