The sky had been dreary and grey all day, up until they had finally made it home. Cornelius was rushed to the Medicine tree, bleeding heavily from a stab wound he had been given during the heated clash, his limp obvious each time he would take a step across the village. The Shamans took good care of those who were hurt, and with Krissa there to help, things just felt right again. Slate spent most of the night after having the bullet in his shoulder removed, the process taking hours of excruciating pain and digging. Afterwards, in the waning hours of dusk, Slate stiffly submerged himself under the steady stream of brook-fed water, allowing the tumbling water to be cut off from its usual connection to the mouth of water below as it collided with the top of his head. He leaned his cranium back and embraced the icy cold. Slowly but surely, the crystalline flow turned a faint shade of ghastly rust; with the assistance of the ravenette he cared for so much, he gradually became clean, her hands working across his muscular frame, removing what she could. Her touch was so relaxing after such a long, horrible afternoon that he sighed deeply every now and then as she went along.

The glue-like gore that soaked his abdomen and arms washed away, disappearing over the pool's edge and falling into the trees below, landing out of sight within the valley. By time Krissa had finished up her job, her teeth were chattering and she herself had stains of garnet upon her hands that seemed to be ground into the lines of her hands and digits. Whether the blood had been from his limbs or from her own personal battles, he didn't know. He simply followed the young woman where ever she took him, walking numbly, deaf to those around him. He looked to her for guidance, for comfort, much like a child would from another female after losing his mother. An odd comparison when speaking about siblings, sure, but it had to be the closest connect he could make.

By time they were inside of the hut, the two curled up, each on their own moss-and-stick nest, the soft deer skins beneath and over top of them keeping them well-insulated for the long, cold night to come. They spent perhaps the span of a half an hour before he heard the pelts part on the other side of the room and felt the young woman's weight press into the other side of the bedding. His eyes, wide awake now, opened, finding her face only a few inches away, just as close as she had slept to him the evening after he had told her all about Koba's short and horrible story. It finally felt right, that night, as they entwined their hands and looked at one another, carefully studying each other's faces as if it would be the last time they would see each other. Krissa whispered to him something as they drifted off, something he hadn't caught.

They stretched out their limbs, pulling the hide back and preparing for the day to begin, when she stood, sighed, combed her hands through her hair and then laced her fingers together in order to cradle the back of her neck. "I'm proud of you," she groaned, arching her back and cracking it in a few places. Her slim head turned upon its joint to face him and he studied the swelling outline of her blackened eye, surrounded by a dark ring of violet and accented with the faintest shade of green and sickly yellow. It looked almost like some sort of grotesque form of war-paint. "For taking a stand. For doing what you did."

Slate, in response, simply grunted in his throat and walked to the entrance of their now-shared hut, listening to the faint call of a loon from the lake off in the distance. If it hadn't been him, it surely would have been someone else. The fact that Cornelius had left Pine to him had been both a privilege and a great burden, for as the evening before the battle would approach closer, he had found it harder and harder to get to sleep. 'It's over now,' he signed sorely, trying to ignore how his arm screamed in protest with each tiny movement. 'That's what matters.'

"Still," the raven beauty uttered, her voice low and soft in her throat. Her feet scuffled as she stepped closer, coming to hover beside him. Her hot breath reached the back of his uninjured shoulder and he felt her limbs snake around his waist, earning a slight prickle of heat that shot up his spine as she drew him close. Perhaps he had become desensitised from being alone and untouched for so long. Slate sighed, relaxing slightly at her touch and allowing his hand to snake up, caressing her own. "I'm sure it wasn't... easy."

No, it hadn't been easy. What hadn't been easy either was not being able to turn to Krissa and tell her how much he loved her in that moment. The words ached to come, burning their way up his throat, yet he swallowed them and put them back to rest, just as he had done with his brother. He needn't ruin this. At least, not here. Not in this moment, not right now. The chinobo pulled away from her and pressed on into the village, finding his way over to one of the fire-pits. He stiffly gathered wood, beginning to build himself a little pyre, and then he struck a stone. The wood smouldered at first until flames began to grow, whatever drier material he could find being placed on top to feed the fire instead of smother it.

Content with the warmth, he took a deep breath in and then allowed it to slowly seep from between his lips, eyes squeezing shut as he revelled in the feeling of the moment. Everything felt right, or it should have in that moment at least. The warrior gently shifted his weight, warming his hands in front of the crackling hearth before him, trying to wake up his sore, weary bones.

The sound of movement drew his eyes open, taking in the lumbering form of Maurice as he crossed the village-square. He looked just about as exhausted as he, long auburn arms reaching and then pulling him forward, his short hind legs and his behind thumping gently with each stride. For once Slate welcomed him, shuffling over a half step before curling inward again, trying to contain as much warmth as he possibly could. Pine and he had taught one another to do this while up in the mountains. Pain shot through him at the thought of how his twin brother, the only male he regarded as his equal, had once been.

Regarding one another, they nodded simultaneously in a silent greeting, then turned toward the flickering warmth before them. It was quiet in the village as opposed to how it had been before the battle, those who were deceased being grieved for in silence. They had quite a few bodies to bury, to burn... Slate felt his heart beat palpitate, squeezing down hard before bouncing back to its usual shape. His eyes drifted up, watching those nursing their wounds, speaking with others in hushed tones and muted sign. The dark grey ape's attention then found Rocket, Nova and Krissa, the three settled together around their own fire.

Maurice burbled softly in order to get his attention. 'You fought bravely,' he remarked with a graceful tilt of his auburn-tufted chin. He didn't feel brave. He hadn't felt brave, laying in the water and bleeding out slowly from a bullet wound, his brother above him as he preached and snarled. If perhaps he meant when he had finally put an end to the battle, he could more or less see where he was coming from. If he were so brave, then why did Slate feel as if he had just committed murder, committed a crime? Why did it leave a sour note in his stomach?

'Thank you,' he motioned flatly in return, bulking his shoulders against the brisk wind. His eyes proceeded to wash over the clear, latching onto Krissa's bundled frame as she sat beside the dusty-grey lieutenant, the two chatting calmly back and forth. Rocket had grown fond of her after she had defended Mist, Poppy and the children back in the summer, having come to trust her within the span of a few days. She had earned it, after doing her damnedest to save young Twig. The confrontation had become a distant memory, he found, as he looked back on that horribly solemn day.

Slate shifted and hissed softly under his breath. 'Your sister wishes to sleep in the Medicine Tree until she can face you again,' Maurice pointed out, the two of them glancing simultaneously up at the tree. The orang to his right huffed through his slim nostrils. 'We're giving her all the time she needs.'

'Good,' he responded, keeping his words short and simple. His limbs felt about ready to fall off from the beating he had taken at his brother's hand. 'Let her be.'

He sincerely hoped that she would stay away long enough to give him time just as well: he wasn't quite sure, after all, if he could bring himself to do it either. Poppy was his dearest sister, someone he wished to cherish forever, but right now he felt as if she had broken an unspoken barrier by betraying them in the first place. He had so many questions. Had it all been to fool Pine? To gain his trust and then stab him in the back? Or had it simply been out of fear? It certainly couldn't have been her own decision- at least, not that he was aware of. She had never viewed humans like he had.

'Have you been by to see Milo?'

These damn questions were beginning to take tiny nips and chunks out of his nerves, slowly uncoiling them by the minute. Was it so wrong that he wanted to be left alone? 'I have not, no,' he disclosed, shifting to his feet and adding to the hungry flames. Nose twitching, Slate eyed the male beside him, trying to ward him off a tight glower. If he were being snappish, then perhaps he would leave him be. How hard was it to pick up on someone's mood? 'What would he have to say anyway?'

Maurice simply looked at him, as if examining his very soul. Slate wished he could say that the bornean had no power over him, but something about the way his beady olive tones scored caused him to feel the need to move away, as if he were being examined from the inside out. The chinobo, in the state that he was in, not only felt uncomfortable, but somewhat intimidated by how insightful the male suddenly appeared. Did he know something, once again, that he didn't? 'He knew your father, before the human labs,' the savant unveiled, gaze remaining welded to his mask of sable and graphite. 'He's asked after you quite a few times since our arrival.'

Slate's heart hiccuped and his cranium craned in order to pick out the chimpanzee, his hat sticking out among the shades of brown, black and grey like a sore thumb. He had rarely known apes to wear human clothes, aside from Bad Ape. That purple vest of his had always made his eyes burn. Remembering how the air-headed primate had set out with his newly-found mate to start their own family brought back bitter memories. His cognac dyads found Milo, and realising that he had been watching him this entire time, Slate suddenly felt as if he were trapped beneath his senior's foot. He looked rough and worn, the older ape surely more experienced than he.

"Why don't..." Maurice suddenly suggested, his rumbling speech a rarity for one to hear. His voice was as deep and dark as coffee, as wide and broad as a cavern, the sound something one could get lost in. Nonetheless, he was unable to tear his fixed gaze from Milo, the two submersed within an intense stare-down. "..you go speak to him."

Torpidly rising to his quads, the simian took a few paces forward before a question spilled from his lips, uncontrolled. Slate turned his head around and laid his eyes on Maurice one last time. "Was Koba ever.. in love with our mother?"

Maurice expressed surprise, brows once heavy nearly shooting straight off his pate. There was a brief pause, the bornean mulling over Slate's inquiry, a deep sigh escaping him. 'I believe so, at some point in time,' he replied carefully. The torrent that gusted against the mountain-side whistled harshly, flakes of snow fluttering like fallout. 'He loved you and your siblings more.'

'What about...?'

'Mary?' his company speculated, eyes gleaming sadly. His spirits seemed to have wilted like a flower in the hot July sun. Tentatively nodding, Slate remained still, one paw coming to press into the stone and snow beneath him. It was cold to the touch, almost numbing. 'That, even I do not know.'

The answer he was given was fairly unsubstantial, but instead of prying on matters that may very well destroy his already aching heart-strings, he rose and began to carefully plod across camp. He headed directly for Milo, who straightened up the instant that he realised that his friend's son was approaching. It gave him at least some confidence. Whether he should trust this male or not, he was unsure. Could he be lying? Well, how could a complete stranger know who his father was? Nic could have perhaps told him. Oh, the poor man. He had originally hadn't been much of a fan, but the more time he had spent with the male survivor, the more he had grown to trust in him. He had done all he could in his power to keep Krissa alive... it was no wonder to him when he had discovered later the evening before that he had told the ravenette of his feelings just before he was shot.

'You look so much like him,' Milo suddenly signed, bringing his thoughts to a roaring stop. He paused, sinewy limb raised in mid-stride, eyes latched to his elder with a look of disgruntlement. He had often seen it, from memory, that he looked similar to his biological father. The genetics his mother had to offer was what gave him his build and his size, but his dark complexion, smoother features and near inky coat were a clear indication of his bonobo DNA.

Milo looked fond rather than bitter now, his stingy expression having fallen away and given way to more friendly energy. It came off him in waves, which admittedly startled him, seeing as just moments ago he had felt as if he were walking towards a fight. Slate, cautious now and ready to take more an offence to whatever else he had to say, stepped lightly and settled down across from him. He only hoped that the male knew what was good for him. 'My brother was the one who had lost sight in his left eye, not me...' he deadpanned, trying his best to understand why exactly this male connected him so closely to his father. It honestly made his skin crawl.

Milo glanced up toward the heavens in amusement. His head dipped slightly to the side, the tuft of fur sticking out from beneath his cap rustling in the breeze. 'Just as blunt as him too.' Something about the way his eyes pinched in amusement made Slate feel relatively trapped, as if he were surrounded by a net, simply by gazing at the newcomer's brown eyes. 'His eyes were the same colour as yours, back when he was alive.' Attention floating to the side in thought, he shrugged one large, hairy shoulder. 'That was before... Tommy.'

Tommy? What was this old twit talking about? Slate's head tilted and he narrowed his persimmon set, trying to make sense of the male's jumble of words. Had Milo lost a few brain cells yesterday? He just couldn't wrap his mind around it. 'Tommy?' he echoed. The stranger expressed sadness, something deep inside him that echoed only pain and suffering. He looked as if he had seen what waited on the other side of life, as if he had been through the gates of hell and lived to tell about it. Slate felt obligated to apologise, his own mask of disgruntlement giving way to something softer.

'A bad man,' he replied shortly, gaze turning to the rest of the village and watching the females putter along the dogwood's bark, searching hungrily for insects sleeping beneath the bark. They weren't having much luck. Slate shifted uncomfortably, scratching at his side and raising an arm. It felt as if something were missing from his home, now that Pine was gone and the tension had subsided. There were still Pine's followers they had to track down and decide whether to keep them in their colony or exile them to the desert. The humans, on the other hand, were a whole different story.

Milo sniffed, fingers twitching. Slate's eyes found his hands, then his face. Instead of using ape sign, the chimpanzee spoke to him, voice gravelly and worn out. It suited him, his face drawn from many nights without sleep, many days beneath the sun. "I'm sorry if I.. insulted.. you."

Was he supposed to feel insulted? He had to wonder, how much did he remind him- remind everyone- of Koba? Perhaps he could see it in Pine, but in his case, what was it that others saw that they had once seen in his father? Slate leaned forward and curled his toes against the cold earth beneath, mulling this over in his mind. Did they see it in the way he carried himself? His stature, his movements, his posture? Was it the custom mould of his face, or the way his eyes broke skin and drew blood each time they looked at someone? Was it in the way he hunted, his determination? His temper... perhaps it was his temper. The ideas stuck to the inside of his head like cotton to damp flesh. Slate huffed and rose to his knuckles, his body feeling heavier than it had ever felt before, as if he were heaving himself across parched earth with a corpse on his back, as if he hadn't drank water nor seen a meal in weeks.

He needed air.

Even despite how Milo stood, just the same, mirroring his actions, Slate pressed forward and headed for the nearest exit, traipsing his way down the beaten lane and moving in a cumbersome fashion. He passed stumps and snow-painted moss, the snow crunching loudly beneath his heels. The male stood bipedal, remembering how he and his brother would sneak out while everybody was asleep and go explore. He recalled how they would dance across the forest floor, chasing one another in a heated battle of their own, ending in a bundle of apeish giggles and hoots. If Slate could only steal those memories and bring them back to fruition, bring back those simple times and freeze each moment, just so he could live them over and over again... perhaps then he would be content.

Brushing past alabaster-choked bushes and undergrowth, he removed a burr or two from his coat apathetically, moving deeper into the wintry scenery surrounding him. He wanted to go back to when Pine had just been himself, back before his brother had lost his mind and his sister had pitifully followed him like a frightened little mouse. If he could, he would make sure he had never been born in the first place. His chest felt hollow, each heartbeat drumming painfully against his ribs. Why had it ended this way? Slate crumbled.

Tearing a branch free from the body of a small cedar sapling, he took to his knees and bowed his head, breathing in the musty earth and the damp snow. A chill skated up his spine, shoulders shaking as he held back the snarls of grief that begged and demanded to be released. He remained hunched over for a few moments before his cranium tilted up, burning embers seizing the thicket ahead of him. He pushed on through the snow, a soft sprinkling of snow dusting across his coat of adumbrate onyx, fine and pure, like sugar.

The struggle downhill didn't take long once he took to the trees. Ambling up the nearest pine, he swung himself ahead, his speed increasing greatly seeing as he was travelling downhill. The land eventually levelled out, giving way to rough and craggy earth, as if split open by the hand of Caesar himself. Slate paused, dangling from the branch above his sullen head. He could feel his eyes burn, understanding where he was subconsciously taking himself. Perhaps it was only just. His journey continued, listening to the wind whistle mournfully through the trunks and branches. Somewhere in the distant stretch of silva came the drilling of a woodpecker, stabbing at the inside of his ears and the delicate matter of his brain.

Finally, hands sore and arms wrung, Slate arrived and descended, hitting the ground with a lusty huff. Snow scattered, sent into the air upon disturbance, and waltzed back down to rest upon the ground once more. Spring would surely be muddy, given the heavy snow they had gotten as of late. His wounded shoulder ached from the strain of travel, yet he ignored it, his heavy pants creating plumes of vapour as they exited his lips and nostrils. The numerous, cluttered pines broke apart and gave way to a small dell. A heaping mound of upturned roots and gnarled tree trunks filled the surrounding expanse, an ancient pine tree careening slightly to the south located near the centre, the above-ground rhizome at its most congested to its left.

Slate hovered, his stomach becoming unwell at the sight of the monumental scene. Crystallised flakes floated in one continuous, powdery shower, falling to the ground and adding to the growing drifts that coated every single limb, every single branch and every single needle. The benumbed male slowly plodded through the snow over toward his brother's grave, coming to a stop before the corpse could even come into view at a mere glimpse. It was covered well, hidden from the elements. The stag skull's rack that he had so proudly worn in his last few days alive was hanging above upon a stunted branch, the antlers splaying out imposingly.

He swallowed, a broken sound resonating within his throat. "What do I do.. now?" he spoke senselessly. He knew that Pine couldn't hear him, nor would he ever hear anything anymore. It was preposterous to imagine that his words would reach him, yet he could not still his wagging tongue. He could no longer deny the need to speak to him, be him dead or alive. Slate's voice was raw and ragged within his vocal chords, reflecting what he truly felt inside without relent. He felt as if he were lacerated and bleeding, much like how Pine had left Krissa the eve he had disappeared. "Poppy won't.. sleep or eat. Krissa is .. weak. Nic is dead. Others? Who knows..."

His neck craned skyward and he watched delicate down fall from the silver stretch frescoed aloft. "Apes have died.. because of you. Because of your ways.." he grated out, pate levelling out once again. His eyes traced the sickeningly beautiful spectacle laid out around him. "I've.. put an end.. to father, to you. It's over." Slate looked at his hands, fingers curling inward, clutching the air like he would an invisible sphere. His digits, his limbs- they itched and crawled, as if the stains of blood would not disappear. He still noticed the crimson that still remained, his fingertips and nail-beds discernibly sullied even despite how dusky his skin was.

"I can still feel your... blood. I wanted to feel it for the.. longest.. time." The words bit from his jaws, as if he were spatting out rotten food. "Does that make me any better.. than him? Than the .. both of you?"

Slate exhaled, his breath coming out in one long, trembling string. The only answer he received was the remote birdsong, somewhere off in the woods. The hoarse cry of a raven rose above the chatter, but only briefly. His chin tilted down and his lips parted, canines tickled by the chill. A footfall in the snow alerted him to the fact that he had been followed. His head dropped languidly and he sighed. The chinobo squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the faintest hint of brine that leaked down his long face. The crunching footsteps came to a stop. Slate felt horribly exposed to the elements. If he turned from where he had had his back bared and faced whom was behind him, would he find another illusion, another spirit?

"Slate..." Krissa's voice filled the space. His lids clamped down harder and he braced himself. She approached closer, each pace harsh against his sensitive ears. Before he could move himself from where he was welded down, she was there in an instant, calmly standing at his side. The two of them both looked earnestly at Pine's grave. Her head turn and so did his. The moment her virid eyes found him, her face dropped. Her voice dropped to a whisper, pity evident in the way she formed her words. "Oh, Slate.."

He retracted himself, tearing himself out of wounded state and growling, turning a shoulder in his direction. They seemed to both be unable to speak in that moment, the snow-induced hush that had fallen upon the woods filling the rift. "I heard what you said..." she mumbled. Slate's head proceeded to shake. "I... I don't think you're like him." No, she didn't understand. She would never understand- no words could help her understand! "I know I never saw how he was, or how he acted, but Pine was enough to.. to show me what it was like. What.. your father was-"

He quickly whirled on her, causing her to stagger back slightly. "You have no idea," he growled, striding forward and brushing past her.

"What could possibly make you like him?" Krissa demanded, now growing just as upset. He had agitated her, it was clear by how her voice strained. Slate didn't know whether it was because he had spoken so callously or because she was genuinely finding his own agony painful. "What proof do you have? You protected me.. protected your home, your.. family. You fought for apes, not yourself." The outcross stopped. Every nerve willed him to snap her in two, to ruin her, to make her cry. His head remained hung. This, what he felt, was his evidence.

"I.. am his son. I have his blood," he elucidated plainly. Slate turned, partially bent at the waist and placing a hand upon his chest. 'I wear his face. I carry his spear, his legacy!'

Krissa's hands cut through the air like two knives, signing ingenuously. 'It's simply what you look like, Slate, not who you are!' Her finger jabbed her own breastbone and the rim of her clavicle, her head shaking vigorously. 'In here.'

If only he weren't hurting this way, maybe he would find her determination touching. Reaching out, the ravenette grasped hold of his arm, guiding him as carefully as she could toward her. Startled, his stomach flipped several times over and he tried his best to wriggle free, evidently staggering to the side and yanking until she could no longer keep her hands on him. "Let go," he warned, his voice rumbling in his chest. Every inch within him shrieked for him to get away from her, to be left alone to wallow in his own grief. 'There are things you just don't understand-'

"You aren't Koba, Slate!" she insisted, pivoting on one ankle and placing a hand on his shoulder before he could escape. He fell still. "You stopped your brother, you risked your life, took a bullet, so why..." Krissa's hot breath hit the air as she let out an exasperated laugh, rolling over the back of his neck like a cloud of smoke. Her head shook in his peripheral vision. "Why can't you accept that you aren't and never will be him?"

"Because," he uttered, contused.

The girl finally lost her temper. "Because why?!"

Slate wrenched away from her grasp and smacked her away with one swing of his limb. "Because I fell in love with you!"

They stared at one another. Dread washed over him, his legs growing uncomfortably weak. The words had ignited his throat and left his tongue scorched beyond repair, charred and alien within his mouth. His jaws parted, then shut, unable to find the proper method to repair whatever undying friendship they had had that he had just broken open and spilled in front of them. Panic filled his insides like a twisting worm and he swallowed hard, raising his hands. Again, he tried out those words, completely bared before her and appropriately prepared to be wounded by her decline.

'I love you,' he signed. 'I love you like he loved Mary.'

Krissa was visibly shaking. Reaching out, Slate let out a soft keening sound. She took a step back. "Did..." she began, a little unsure of herself. "Did Pine know?" The primate's eyes grew wider, peeling open and exposing his glistening scleras. Why was she thinking of that now? Was she blaming herself? The very idea caused the anger to distend behind his gaze.

'Is that why he...?' The question decayed and then disintegrated. He couldn't tell what she was feeling, his heart pounding in his ears as he waited for it to sink in. It had already hit him. The ravenette's hand found her throat, fingers dancing across the scarred tissue ever so gently. Extending his grasp once more, he lowered himself in apology and then made contact with her arm. Krissa flinched and gasped softly, but allowed him to curl his fingers around her wrist and pull her into a tight embrace.

"I had hoped.. you were alive, that you had lived," he murmured into his shoulder. His fingers dug into her coat and held it captive, gathered in his calm in a crumpled mess. "He just about.. took you from me." A sudden sob wracked through her lean, long body and she nodded, burying her face into his neck. The feeling was familiar yet felt so sudden and so new that it took him a moment to process. The overwhelming need to protect Krissa crashed over him like a tidal wave and he shook his head. "I don't know.. what I would have done if he.. had succeeded." He breathed. "If I had lost you."

Slowly the two of them came undone, ending up at their knees in the snow, clutching onto one another. It was almost as if, should they let go of one another, they would be sucked into the earth below and be buried alive, the fear driving them to hold one another for such a long time. They finally pulled away from one another and Krissa butted his head with her own, nuzzling him tenderly. Raising a hand, he gazed at her lips and chin with hooded fiery embers, allowing her own paw to press flat against and then lace with his own. Their interlocked phalanges fell to their side. He came unhinged, releasing all he had been holding in, head pushing into her chest in order to seek further comfort.

Snow blustered around them, hissing as it whisked across the frozen surface of the small clearing. He briefly felt Krissa's lips pressed against the top of his head, hands slithering up to caress either of his ears before comfortably sliding down to his back. She kissed his forehead, the top of his crown, her nose coming to inhume there permanently. Her fingers traced circles upon the base of his neck, careful to avoid the inflamed flesh just below. Everything seemed to pour out of him as she hummed a song, a song that he had never heard her sing before, crooning ever so softly that it only urged his emotions to spill further.

The world could have ended again and they wouldn't have known.