Kestrel nodded silently to the pegasus before speaking up one last time. "Good. I'll be at my camp when the time comes." he said before silently moving off towards the local tavern. The deal was made, and as fate would have it more blood hadn't been necessary for it to be possible. A rare, if welcome, change.
As Kestrel wandered down the streets of Stableton he let his mind mull over the words of the mare earlier today, of his actions, of the blood and pain he'd felt and shared. Kestrel had long since been used to the abuse of these wastes, of others opinions, of their misunderstanding.
Yet her words had cut right to the bone.
He was pulled from his wandering by the sounds of the tavern before him. Without hesitation he pushed past the door and into the tavern proper, the Barkeep offered his usual nodded greeting, the others had their various reactions.
Fear, surprise, anger, distrust. Any emotion or thought one could name was probably displayed somewhere on the faces of the ponies in the Tavern right now. As always Kestrel just pushed right on through until he got to room number 3.
He almost seemed hesitant as he moved inside, the dim light of the only lamp there barely illuminating the slumbering form of the once mighty griffon on the bed.
Quietly as he could Kestrel slid over to sit next to his father, looking over the once proud creature he loved so dearly. Here it was, the last thing Kestrel could honestly say survived his past. The only remaining member of his family...the only thing he had left.
As he looked down at his father the words of Bakewell came crashing back onto him. "I hope they die within the week." she'd said. Looking down at the one he'd sacrificed so much for...the griffon couldn't help but want to break something. To try and explain that he was right and she was wrong...but what could he do.
Everypony and Griffon had their art, and Kestrel's was War. In all its horror and all its fury. He fought, he killed, crushed, burned, broke, rended, and tore. He was a weapon, well honed and keen.
And without the griffon on the bed before him...nothing more than another mindless killing machine.
The realization set Kestrels guts to twisting themselves. No dammit! He was not just some raider, he was proud, he was, he was...lying to himself.
He had no pride, no duty, no honor. All Kestrel had was laying in a bed before him, sleeping and weak, fading like so many things before.
Looking down as his talons, still covered in blood and gore, Kestrel couldn't help but wonder, what was all the strength, all the skill, all the power and fame and fortune he'd earned over the past three years really worth if it couldn't even save the only one he cared about?
Bah, what did she know. Stupid fucking stable pony. What would she have done in this scenario? Huh? Would she have fought to try and save the one she cared about? What did she know of suffering and pain? Did she really think that ponies out here in the wastes just 'gave' out caps?
She didn't know what he went through. She didn't know what he'd done, how many times he'd suffered just so his father could have one second of comfort. She didn't know what it was like, she didn't know how it felt to be Kes. She was nothing, just some stupid pony with her head in the stable waiting for things to get better.
The angry thoughts were broken as a groan of discomfort filled the air. Kestrels eyes shot up, locking on the one that'd made it. His father was stirring, twitch and moving in his sleep. Without hesitation Kestrel moved up closer, placing a talon on the other griffons shoulder. He seemed to calm at that, as if the touch reassured him in some way. The sicking feel of moving skin was pushed aside as Kestrel reached over and pulled his father into a weak hug; careful not to wake him.
The older griffon was like a doll in Kestrels arms, hanging limp and lax as his son held him close. The younger griffon began to whisper promises as he held his father close, talons holding onto him as if he were a life preserver on an open sea, his eyes hardening up again; the thoughts from before being banished behind the mental wall he'd built so very long ago.
Who cared what some mare from a stable thought. His cause was just, and his motives true. No matter what happened, as long as his father was alive and safe it was worth it.
If he had to burn every bridge, sacrifice any hope of personal comfort or happiness, lose any hope of being accepted or liked, and suffer a thousand other scars it would be worth it.
Anything, as long as he did not fail like he had so long ago.