He’d had parting words he meant to give. He knows, of course, waking alone in the dark with only that note as consolation, those words were ones Fenris never likely wanted to hear.

And it's terrible solace, that note, so poorly penned it pulls a bitter, utterly affectionate laugh from him before he— overturns everything in sight, incapable of housing the storm of emotion (hateful and hurting and hopeful and terribly, terribly lonely) that cuts through all practiced composure. Everything he told himself he would be ready for, and wasn’t, naturally.

Then it’s all stillness. All forced calm. Numbed to emotion again from the fingers up, as ever.

He folds the note with care, tucks it into that meager pack. Pulling out that wolfish piece of antler and— using his teeth as a simple tool, cuts the leather cording from the pack, wrapping it easily around the neck of that snarling wolf to form a knotted loop, before fitting it around his own throat as a neckpiece. Good luck, maybe, or something like it. He’ll feel better with it slung closer to his heart.

He leaves his doublet tucked away (the gold wouldn’t do him any favors on his own), wearing the looseness of a lighter blouse, his blades hidden in his pack, along with everything else he’d stolen. No need to fret about suspicion when one’s well beyond Yartar’s limits.

And in stepping outside he— pauses. It’s the south that pulls, some nagging brush of an overly potent breeze. He thinks, as he’s done so many times before, of doggedly chasing after Fenris’ footsteps to do something, anything, but it’s all wanting without use or purpose.

So he turns north. Heel scuffing hard against cobblestone. He'll keep his word, for once, whatever the outcome, and murmurs instead what he'd meant to offer in parting to the wind itself:

"Heaven or hell, don’t you dare go where I can’t follow."