Jason
Sometimes, Owen didn't understand his family.

He loved them, of course- that was never in question. They'd cross heaven or hell for him, and he'd easily do the same, twice if needed. Still, some of their requests... Confused him.

Take today, for example; Owen had been asked by his eldest sister, Dorothy, to pick up a painting from an artist right in their own Briar Ridge, wanting to bring some 'color' to her walls. He hadn't even known there was a painter in town, much less one who advertised his craft. When he'd asked *Who* The painter was, his sister had waved her hand, saying something about a Barca boy.

His sister's apathy aside, Owen knew of the Barcas but didn't exactly *Know* Them. He knew of the way Dorothy's husband would curl his lip at the mention of S&C, the whispering gossip of the eldest returning home, and more recently, his stint in the hospital. Aside from those tidbits of information, and whatever malice his brother-in-law held for the coal company, Owen simply... Didn't think about them, nor did he care. There were different things to be concerned with in his life than a corrupt man and his machinations.

Stood in front of the Barca estate now, though, he wished he had. The entire place screamed refinement, and it didn't help settle his nerves when he spotted the family's Model T. He felt spectacularly underdressed, and his hand shook as he brought it up to knock on the front door.

"Excuse me," He rasped, "I'm here to pick up a painting for Dorothy Barnes?"

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Jessie
Blooming flowers in shades of yellow, purple, and blue contrasted the green of the grassy field, a blue sky dabbled with white clouds rose above snow-covered mountains; Florian looked at the painting before him with a satisfied smile. He had done a fine job indeed. The soft textures of the flowers stood out against the harsh angled lines of the mountain, and it all came together well. He'd signed his name in the right-hand corner in ink. After everything had fully dried, something he made sure to triple-check ever since that fateful day when he had ruined a particularly slow-drying piece with his impatience, he'd varnished the painting. This was his favorite step in the process. Adding the protective layer made the colors pop even more. It was also a process he was banned from carrying out inside the house, on account of the offensive smell and the accompanying coughs it brought on in those inhaling it. 

He hoped the commissioner, Miss Barnes, liked it as much as he did. He'd been most grateful for her patronage. Handing over a painting always felt like he was baring a piece of himself, of his soul, to whoever had been kind enough to pay him for his work. It was a little nerve-wracking each time. Someone was supposed to come pick up the piece in the afternoon so he was confined to the house until that exchange had taken place. He'd gone by Valerian in the morning, still on bed rest under the watchful eye of nurses, but alive at least.

He turned to a book to keep his mind occupied from the hint of nerves he felt about Valerian's situation and the painting pick-up later that day. A knock on the door pulled him out of the story. "I'll be right there!" He called out, placing the book on the small table next to the seat in their living room, and wheeling his way to the door. The painting had been placed on the living room table, a roll of paper ready to be wrapped around it should his creation receive the mark of approval that he hoped it would.
_ _

He swung the door open, he'd expected Miss Barnes to be the one to collect it, but a male voice had accompanied the knock on the door. The name Owen popped up in his mind upon seeing the man. "Good afternoon sir, please, come in. I have the painting ready in the living room for you." He said, rolling backward to allow space for the man to enter the house. "I like to have those who buy from me see the finished result before I wrap it up for you to take home. Just to make sure that you are fully happy with what I have made." Valerian helped him ship paintings to his and their mother's contacts, paintings that would occasionally return, meaning no payment for Florian. He understood that that came as a risk with something as subjective as art, but it had made him want to make absolutely sure that the paintings he sold locally were of the quality and look that the buyer expected. The last thing he wanted was for people to start demanding refunds, especially now that Valerian, who earned the vast majority of the income for the household, was unable to work. He didn't blame his brother, but Florian would sure blame himself if he was the cause of monetary loss. Him selling this painting was extra important now that the S&C money would not be coming in anymore. It was partially through Valerian that he was able to make money from his art at all, he'd have to tell him about the sale next time he went by. His brother would be proud.

"Miss Barnes requested something colorful, she seemed happy with the sketches I made of the scene, I hope the final result is similarly to her liking." The painting depicted wildflowers, some local, some decidedly not local, together in harmony.
Jason
It became clear rather quickly that being inside the Barca estate worsened Owen's nerves. Everything felt worth ten times anything he could make in a year, and god forbid he tracked mud anywhere. Instead, he slowly shuffled after Florian and kept his head low- lest the house itself somehow became aware of his presence.

Owen hadn't been sure what to expect in the painting, really; Dorothy had only said she requested something colorful, and that she trusted the artist with its final execution. Somehow, she'd been both secure in Florian's talent, but still dismissive of the importance of the whole affair. It should have been a major event, no? To have enough money to be able to afford something decadent?

Still, nothing could have prepared him for the actual piece. Owen's eyes widened as the painting came into view, and his breath left him in a heavy rush of air.

"That's... I..." He whispered, barely able to form the words. "It's beautiful. How did you- gosh."
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Jessie
The blonde seemed uncomfortable inside the Barca estate. Florian was acutely aware that most of the fellow citizens of Briar Ridge were not accustomed to the luxury he knew. Even with the hole in the side of the house, haphazardly covered with a tarp, the Barca home was one of grandeur compared to the simple houses that lined most of the streets and footpaths of the town. 

Owen seemed genuinely impressed, a fact which warmed Florian's heart. Not everyone could appreciate his art, or art in general. On top of that, many deemed it a waste of money, which Florian understood. Which is why he charged more for the rich socialite contacts than he did for the inhabitants of Briar Ridge, a decision he saw as some kind of economic justice. "You're most kind, thank you." Owen asked _how_ and Florian smiled brightly. He would take any opportunity to share his process and ideas. "Not bein' able to walk comes with a lot of time bein' trapped indoors. This is my way of bringin' the outdoors inside, I am glad to be able to share that with others." He said, looking at the painting now. "I wanted it to feel both foreign and like home, recognizable and new." He pointed at some of the local flowers he'd depicted. "You've probably seen these before, growin' in the fields." Both the native and non-native flowers had been added for specific reasons, in line with the meaning of the flowers. "These purple ones are allium, they represent unity and collective strength." He pointed at a few purple-blue flowers. "And these are irises, they're supposed to represent hope, I think we could all use some of that these days." The quiet of the house felt heavier than it had before. _Hope_ Sometimes it felt like that was all he had left. The moment he lost that he knew all would be lost. 
_ _

His mind wandered to the attacks again, to the bloodshed and pain that Briar Ridge had grown accustomed to. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to bring the mood down like that." No doubt Owen had been hurt by the recent attacks, be it directly or indirectly. Florian's own leg was still healing from the claws that had found their way into his flesh. And he suspected that the news of Valerian's death and subsequent return to life had likely spread throughout town as well. "I suppose I should've added more flowers for gratitude, both for your sister's commission and for our continued survival throughout all of this." Florian knew he was ought to feel grateful, but he couldn't help but feel guilt instead. Guilt that he'd made it out mostly unharmed when others didn't. Guilt that he hadn't even felt any real pain during the attack while others endured agony. Guilt that it had been his brother who died and not him. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it.
Jason
Owen understood, in a way: he'd spent the majority of his time bedridden during the beginning of his recovery, flitting between dreamless sleep and bouts of agony. People would visit, and some would bring flowers, much like those in the painting, but Owen took most of a year to heal enough to feel the breeze on his skin without pain. He remembered how little Otto shuffled at his side while he fought off atrophy, the days that Jessie stole into his room with a firefly cupped in hand, the nights when Josephine would smooth back his hair while a sister held his hand-

He blinked once, returning back to the present.

"I think you did a wonderful job, Mister Barca- and you don't need to apologize." He offered the younger man a small smile, "I think we ought to focus on hope- everybody's grateful for still being here, but we have to keep living."

Owen turned his gaze back to the painting, his brow furrowing. "God only knows that I can't be the one to tell you how to feel, and I won't... Bring all of that business up, if you don't want to talk about it. We can, if you want."
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Jessie
"Thank you, and please, call me Florian." Mister Barca was far too formal, especially when said by a man 4 years his senior. Mister Barca was Valerian or his father. Technically he too was Mister Barca, but he didn't quite feel worthy of that title yet. Or old enough for that matter. _We have to keep living._ Owen was right, they had to cling on to hope. Briar Ridge would pull through this. Her inhabitants would pull through, they were a crafty and hardy bunch. _Focus on hope._

He'd talked about the attacks with Freddie, but Freddie, _thank God_, hadn't been in close contact with those werewolves yet. Freddie had not survived an attack while others either had not or barely did. Florian hoped Freddie would never be in that situation. He held Freddie close to his heart, and he did not want those closest to him to know about this aspect of him. He didn't want them to know that he continued to blame himself. Part of him knew that his siblings must know that he felt this way, and that they in turn held similar emotions. Nevertheless, it was easier to talk about the guilt that came with surviving when talking to someone whom one was not super close to. And he did want to talk about it, he was grateful for Owen's offer.

"I feel guilty." He looked at Owen. "I know it's stupid, but I do. I feel guilty that I made it out with an injury that I can't even feel while my brother had to crawl his way back from actual death." Valerian was, _no_, **Is** Strong, he would be okay. He will be alright. "I wish I could take his pain." All of it, he wanted to take all of it away from those he loved. Somehow he felt like he deserved it. He was a big part of the reason Valerian had come back after all. "All those people in the hospital injured, they don't deserve that. It isn't fair."
Jason
"Your feelings aren't stupid, Florian, and you're right- none of this is fair." Owen's face pinched, lips turning downwards into a frown. "The things we go through here, I don't think there's any right way to feel. People get hurt, and they're going to keep on getting hurt until we find a way to fix all of this. Until then, we just... Have to keep going."

A ragged sigh escaped his lips. "Sometimes I wish I could just lay down and sleep through all of it like this is some... Big nightmare. Seeing so many people get hurt is exhausting, but we got to lean on each other in times like this."

"I wish I could do more, help more people- heal those gashes and bites, but I can't. So... I try to find what I can do, even if it's something small; even if it's just holding my baby nieces when they have nightmares, even if it's boarding up another person's house. There's something we can all do."

He gestured to the painting. "You're already doing something, Florian."
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Jessie
Owen had a point, all they could do was keep going. No matter what the woods threw at them. Giving up meant dying. But going on felt hard too. It wouldn't feel so hard if he knew the outcome, if he could be certain that there would be an end to all of it. But he didn't. This wasn't a neatly scripted book, none of them had a way of knowing when, or if, the next person they held dear was going to get hurt or die. That was exactly what made it so hard and so unfair; that uncertainty. The fact that any of their neighbors could be responsible had planted the seeds of distrust when they should be harvesting trust in one another. "You and me both, sleepin' through this mess sounds like a great option right about now."

He smiled at the other man when he described how he'd been helping, how he'd been creating hope. He followed Owen's gesture, eyes landing on his painting. _There is something we all can do._ "I mean no disrespect, but what good is a paintin' goin' to do against a damn werewolf Owen?" He sounded angry. He wasn't angry at Owen, he was angry at himself and at the world and at that werewolf for what it had done to his brother and him. He inhaled shakily then exhaled, looking down, shame creeping and spreading through his mind. "I'm so sorry, that was incredibly unprofessional. I apologize." Maybe today had not been the best day for a painting pick-up. How did Valerian do it? Keep a level head when there was turmoil going on inside him. 

"How do you do it?" He looked up again. "How do you lean on others when any could be one of _them_?" Them. He knew the people who turned to beasts were part of their community, were friends, family and neighbors. But he couldn't help seeing a wall between them, a wall stained with red that seperated the werewolves from the rest of Briar Ridge.
Jason
"You're giving *Hope*, Florian. Those wolves will do whatever they can to us, whether it's an actual wound or not. Living through all of this is draining, and you're bringing a little more light with your paintings- that's something."

It struck him, then, how *Young* Florian seemed. He couldn't be much younger than Owen himself, mind, but his anger reminded him of his own. He'd been furious only a few short years ago, submerged in his grief over the losses his family experienced: his family's home, his father, his sister, and her husband- all gone in only one night, and he all he could do was weep in his recovery bed.

He remembered asking god, any god, *Why*. Why his family, his father, *Him?* What was the point of it all?

"I don't think they mean the harm they're doing." Owen's voice had grown soft. "Whatever's turning them into what they are, it makes them blind. God only knows how they feel when the moon is down, and they have to face what they've done or tried to do."

"I won't lie to you and say it doesn't tear me up inside, or that I'm not terrified. I won't say it's easy, either, but how can I blame people who can't even control something that changes their nature?"
Jessie
His paintings brought hope. If only Florian could appreciate how much that truly meant. Light wasn't enough anymore. He wished that the hope he brought people could be turned into something tangible. Something that could be used. He wanted to do more than bring hope, hope alone made him feel helpless. Hope wasn't going to cure or get rid of the werewolves. 

Anger came to the young Barca as a second nature. His default was joy, but where joy failed anger quickly took its place. The anger had overtaken his rational and caring side, the side of him that knew that the wolves were as much a victim of circumstance as the rest of them were. But he did not see that side anymore. That side had been ripped from him the moment he found out the wolves had ripped his brother's life from him. It was a selfish realization, when it had not been those he held most dear he had wanted a cure. Only when Valerian died and came back miraculously had he wanted death for the beasts. 

It was not the wolves who had to hunker in safehouses unfit for defending. It was not the wolves who had spent hours desperately trying to scrub the combination of hot black and cold red blood from their hands. It was not the wolves who feared for their lives, who felt teeth and claws sink into their bodies. He could not see those beasts as victims. It was the wolves who caused the terror, who ripped families apart. It was the wolves that Florian wanted revenge on. And if it was up to him, it was the dark brown wolf that would pay first. 
_ _

"Can we be sure of that? That they don't know what they're doin'? That they are totally helpless in their situation?" _Keep calm Florian. It is not Owen's fault. He didn't do this._ Florian had no sympathy left for the werewolves. They chose to stay in town. They chose to stay in hiding. The mayor and sheriff had both been wolves, for all Florian knew they had been covering up the blood-stained paw prints of their fellow monsters. _Hold it in, hold it in._ "They have a funny way of showin' that remorse then, seein' as none of them have come forward. None of them have told us _anythin'_ that could protect us from them when they go on their monthly rampages." All they had was silver, and Briar Ridge had learned of silver from S&C of all people. "How are they are able to continue livin' like normal knowin' what they've done? What they _will_ do. Mayor Cooper and the sheriff got to continue pretendin' that they were _protectin'_ us when they knew. They _knew_ that they weren't. How is that fair? How am I supposed to feel pity for them when they could kill me with ease? Someone out there already _tried_ to. When a wolf attacks me I cannot run away like the rest of you can, Owen!" All he had was violence, he couldn't retreat. There it was, the real reason why Florian was so angry. He was terrified. He knew he was one of the easiest targets in Briar Ridge, and he feared that the wolves knew too. His legs were paralysed, when that beast had broken into the house, Florian was effectively a sitting duck. And the werewolves were excellent hunters of fowl. "Someone out there woke up with both Valerian's and my blood on their hands. They got away with it. They will keep gettin' away with it until we're all dead or monsters." This would end one of three ways, Briar Ridge could find a cure, Briar Ridge could be eaten or Briar Ridge could be a town of wolves.

Is the mouse supposed to feel pity for the nature of the owl? _How could he blame them?_ With ease, with horrifying ease.
Jason
Owen's face slowly crumpled as he listened to Florian, that all-too-familiar ache returning to his chest. The young man had every right to be angry, to hold onto his rage and fear and let them course through his body- to remind him he was *Alive* And still *Here*, that he was worth more than the horror that afflicted this town. Who would Owen be to tell him to let go of that, to trust the very people that tore into his flesh not so long ago?

He wouldn't, he *Couldn't*, but Florian's rage still brought tears to his eyes.

"I know it's not fair, and I won't sit here and tell you that you can't feel the way you do, or that it doesn't make sense. I just-" His voice cracked. "What if it was me? I wouldn't be able to tell anyone: not my mama, not my sisters, no one. I'd be so alone, and so afraid of everyone and even myself."

He looked down to the floor, shaking his head as tears finally spilled down his cheeks. "All I feel is sorry."
Jessie
_What if it was me?_ The question boomed in his mind, shattering the shield he'd crafted from his rage, shards impaling themselves in the locks of the haphazard jail cells his anger had built to store away his kind and loving nature. Some of it escaped. It screamed at him: **What are you doing Florian, this isn't you, you aren't a killer.**

And then Owen started crying. _Look what you've done Florian, you selfish asshole_ the tears said _you and your damned anger. You and your damned quest for vengeance. You'll burn those around you, even those on your side if you aren't careful._ His fire burned indiscriminately, and if he would pay close attention he might be able to see the embers flickering on his own person, threatening to burn him along with the rest. If he continued down this path he would find himself irreparably scorched.

_ _
He felt sorry too, sorry for what he knew he had to do. There they were, two sides of the same coin, one representing compassion forged from a malleable gold, the other representing hatred forged from unforgiving titanium. Florian had once been gold, but now the silvery gray crept ever closer to his core. If only there was more of Owen in those closest to Florian. If only Florian's kindness had been as strong as Owen's. If only this world was fair.
_ _

He might not agree with Owen but nobody deserved to feel how the other man did now. The other man was one of 'us', and Briar Ridge looked after its own. "It's not your fault Owen, and it _isn't_ you." His voice was soft again, the tears he saw had washed away his anger. He felt ashamed for losing control like that, again. There was a question in the last statement: It isn't you, right?

"You didn't start this, you didn't ask for this. None of us did." Everyone wanted it to be over. "We're all just tryin' to survive, there's no right choices here." He paused for a few seconds before continuing again, voice still gentle. "If I was one of them I'd rather get shot and injured than go unharmed knowin' I hurt someone." He could feel the black gore on his hands again, how his knife had sliced that monster. How Miss Marianne and him had made it run away back into the night. 

"Nobody is fightin' back because they enjoy hurtin' their neighbors. They're fightin' back because we _have_ to. At least until there is a cure. You don't have to feel sorry for wantin' to live, Owen. You deserve to live." 

Maybe it wasn't too late to turn back yet, maybe Florian didn't have to go down a path he'd come to regret. Maybe. But he wouldn't, he wouldn't turn back. He was too far in for that already, one of those werewolves had to die, one specific, pitch dark brown wolf. But he looked at Owen with immense respect for being able to see the humanity behind all the beasts.
Jason
Owen had never been an angry person, even when he was young. While his siblings would snap or even taunt those who caught their ire, Owen kept his head low, letting other's comments roll off of his back as easily as water would a duck's. *Soft,* His mother had said to him once, *Soft and sweet as a newborn lamb.*

Did lambs weep for the wolves as their teeth clamped around their throat?

"Don't all of us?" He finally replied, voice thick with tears. "None of us asked for this curse, none of us asked for all this blood and misery, but we're still hurting each other all the same. We're still going after each other with guns and knives and-"

*-the pitchfork had slid easily into the beast, with far less resistance than he had initially thought. It howled in pain as it scrabbled against the tines embedded in its chest, black blood seeping into its white fur-*

Owen shook his head and hung his head even lower.

"...I wish it wasn't like this."
Jessie
They were all hurting each other. Briar Ridge was tearing itself apart from the inside out. And none of them had a way to stop it. Not yet.

He wished it wasn't like this either, but wishing didn't make it so. Wishing for peace didn't call down that proverbial dove. Wishing for peace wasn't going to do anything but make him feel hopeless. No, Florian needed action. He needed to do something, anything, he couldn't sit idly by. God knows the wolves wouldn't sit quietly, willing or unwilling. The end result was still the same. People would get hurt, whether they wished for peace or not. Werewolves didn't care where you stood on injuring them. They didn't discriminate between pacifist and fighter.
_ _

His voice remained gentle, not wanting his anger to further hurt Owen. "Everyone shares that wish. But you can't let that stop you from defendin' yourself." He'd caught word that Owen had used a pitchfork of all things to defend himself. He'd also heard he'd been more than just a little bit successful in wielding it. "Owen, if you hadn't done what you did, you might've been killed. You didn't do it out of malice, you did it to survive." He knew it was easy for him to say it, he didn't feel remorse for what he'd done to the monster in Miss Wilburn's house. Owen clearly did. He wished there were words enough to tell Owen that he shouldn't feel guilty, that whatever harm he'd caused had been a necessary evil. That it was either harm or be killed. He wished he knew how to comfort Owen.

"You tried to hide, right? Maybe even tried to run? But the-" Beast, monster, predator drive? "-curse, it makes them _want_ to hurt us." He remembered the eyes of the wolf, void of any hint of humanity. 

"The curse doesn't take pity on any of us, human or wolf. But throwin' up your hands in surrender isn't going to stop the wolves from maimin' you. When the moon's full they don't feel pity like you do. If they did, they wouldn't be attackin' us." Maybe outside the moon they did. They had a funny way of showing it, not moving away from the holler they terrorized each month.

"I understand not wantin' to hurt them, and I certainly can't tell you how you should be feelin'. But you don't deserve to die, especially not for a werewolf who wouldn't think twice about eatin' you."
Jason
"I know. It doesn't make any of this any easier, though. If we can find a way not to hurt them, or some sort of way to hold them back, that's what I want."

His back straightened, and Owen wiped at his eyes. "I'm... Sorry for this. All I came to do was pick up the painting, and here I am crying."

The redirection was clear, as clumsily as Owen went about it; the conversation went in circles, with Florian insistent on self-defense without the sting of guilt, but his words only seemed to glean off of Owen. Everything Florian had said was correct, a part of him knew that, but grief always wormed its way into Owen's heart, and dragged him toward doubt.

"I'll just take it and go- my sister paid already, yeah?"
Jessie
A sinking feeling settled in the artist's stomach. He'd failed to bring any semblance of comfort to Owen, he'd pushed his own views on someone who clearly didn't share them. _Florian you selfish asshole._ "The cage, yeah, I agree, that would be ideal." He mumbled. 

"I-" _I'm sorry._ He stopped his sentence, he'd ruined it already. He was sorry for how he acted, how he'd made Owen feel. But he wasn't sorry for his views. "Yeah, yeah she did." He sounded defeated.

When Owen had left the youngest Barca remained in the now empty living room, head in hands. How was this ever going to be resolved? Even if they did find a cure, blood had been spilled. On both sides. Could those cursed and those unaffected ever truly look each other in the eyes as equals? Would the resentment and blame ever truly leave Briar Ridge, or had they passed the point of no return? He feared they had. He knew _he_ was about to pass firmly across that threshold. Owen's words remained in his head, he'd been right, but Florian was blinded by hatred and fear.