duty (n.)

late 14c., duete, "obligatory service, that which ought to be done," also "the force of that which is morally right," from Anglo-French duete, from Old French deu "due, owed," hence "proper, just" (on the notion of "that which one is bound by natural, moral, or legal obligation to do or perform"); from Vulgar Latin *debutus, from Latin debitus.

🍎 It was hard to shake the feeling that she was just in her sunfaced brother's shadow sometimes, even if everyone knew Anarch would never intentionally play favourites, even if Balthaz had always been in her corner. But sometimes...

All the wondering stopped dead in its tracks when her mother died during the funerary trek to Lacuna's birthplace. She went peacefully in the night, the way she always said she never wanted to. Anarch wanted her death to be a story. Preferably heroic - her exact words - but she'd settle for funny. Instead she got dignified. Surrounded by loved ones. And that morning, upon discovering her mother's cold body curled around her, all other priorities fell away. 

"I need a successor," Lacuna began, blunt. They sat in front of a pile of snowy boulders, her birthplace, apparently. The area was deserted; the cave-in must have been moons ago, at least. Duete's brother and brother-in-law shared a meagre breakfast beyond a hill, out of earshot. 

Her heart raced. She wasn't young anymore. The years of pointless, endless yearning for a purpose have just died with her mother, but now... Lacuna flicked snow off the tip of an ear and cast a sidelong, unreadable glance. "I spent my whole life trying to control too much."

"You're not controlling-"

"I led alone. I only let Anarch take care of things that I thought would take care of themselves anyway. And," she smirked - "I interrupted you."

"Okay, point."

"I made too many important decisions without consulting anybody. I was afraid to ask for help, and neither me nor your mother wanted to form a government. All of you made this pack what it is today. All I'm responsible for is what it's not."

"But -"

"But what it's not is still a good thing. It's not violent. It's not greedy. It's not elitist. Still...as we speak, it lies undefended. And I can't pretend the occasional border skirmish is the only threat we'll ever face."

She recalled her pack elders telling her about the renaissance of their kind, about how humans have increasingly chosen to lay down their guns, for reasons unfathomable. "My pack used this as an excuse for war," she continues. "Said everyone should have a den of their own, and there weren't enough dens for everyone. If we want to fight that idea, we'll have to learn to fight for ourselves. To pick up the slack if a comrade should fall. To travel, to hunt, to heal, to protect, even if it's not what we want to do. It's how I was raised. It's - it's not what I imagined utopia to be, but...I was wrong." 

"We'll learn," Duete promised. "I'll help."

"So, you'll take the helm?"

There it was. She'd never get this chance again.

"No. But I know who should."

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