cruel summer

The sun rose on the horizon: a golden lantern dangling low with pulsating fire. With it, the mountains, trees, and grasses were colored to life. It had been many moons since Khione had seen such lush vibrancy. Her world was colored in monochrome. An endless night of snow and glacial ice only masked by the dreary fog of eternal winter. The dewy grass felt strange beneath her paws, though not an unwelcome sensation. A moment of respite, the highlands offered, and she'd take it.

The lady lowered herself to the ground, feeling content with viewing the scene with the cool ground against her underbelly. The last time she was expecting, she'd gazed upon the snowy horizons atop Winterhelm's castle, ticked with mountains like the spokes of an infernal crown. She'd delivered safely, successfully, with her mate at her side. Their closest friends had been there for it, their family.

Family.

She recalled @Cain and that look of scorn and contempt which riddled his face when he saw their first litter. A storm thundered in his eyes when he absconded the palace grounds. Adonis never explained why he'd reacted so harshly and Khione was never concerned enough to probe, not when she had four new mouths to feed. And soon, a batch of three.

---

@Adonis

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He had searched for her come morning, wearing the weight of @Cain's arrival upon heavy shoulders. He regretted nothing that'd come from the interaction, not a moment of it; of course, he did not expect Cain to be so accepting of him immediately. But surely, time would allow them to heal. To allow both of them to heal. And finally, their family would be whole again. Though Adonis no longer boasted the name Crownore, it didn't make him any less of one. And though Cain did not wear the title of Frostfyre, he was family all the same. Their blood was true. 

He'd become lost in his thoughts as he blindly followed the path his mate had left behind. There was no threats that could possibly be posed against them, there was no need for covering one's tracks. Adonis had not yet visited these highlands just below the treacherous mountains they hoped to claim for Winterhelm, and he was pleasantly surprised by them. They were different than what he was used to, they were warm, they were green. 

Not terrible upon eyes so used to the bitter cold. 

He saw her there, lounging quietly within a silent clearing in the large sequoia trees. He approached his mate with a warm gait, pushing aside the thoughts that came with Cain's arrival. He had yet to inform Khione that he was here, and he supposed she wouldn't miss his scent upon his fur. He hummed against her ear as he stepped above her, leaning down to press his nose to the back of her ear. ”Drottningin mín.” — My queen. His mother language of norse was warm upon his tongue. 

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She felt his presence long before he'd announced himself to her. Bound by fate and nurtured with the holiest of affections, they'd learned each other body and soul. Khione hummed contently at his touch and gave his cheek a tender, shallow lick. Join me, she invited. 

But then, there on his fur, she could faintly scent it. It echoed of Eldérune, of the wild, brutal lands of Vargrheim. Coal, lightning, and bloodlust. Speak of the devil. The Keisari did not hide the look of questioning and slight repulsion that ghosted her face. The last time she'd inhaled this aroma, it resulted in her standing protectively above her crying children with ivories snapping at the air. Her eyes turned cold like a winter blast, “Skoro syt.” — Why.

It wasn't a question or plead. He knew this tone well. 

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Her mood had changed as quick as the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon. At her biting word, Adonis' ears flattened against his skull, sapphire eyes averting from her demanding gaze. How meager she made him when her temper flared, it was sad. She robbed him of his masculinity, threw it to the wind. The Hilmar cleared his throat as he settled himself upon his haunches, lifting his head from hers. 

"Ziry ropatas hen se jēdar." — He fell from the sky. Adonis spoke. He rose to his paws once more and took a few paces away from his mate, lumbering form breathing of a quiet power. It thrummed, it coiled around his bodice. Strength. He would not be tested, not over this topic. The scarred halve of his face turned back, leering over his shoulder, to gaze upon his mate. 

"Istan nyke naejot pālegon zirȳla qrīdrughagon? Issa own lēkia?" — Was I to turn him away? My own brother?

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He reacted as she expected he would: ears pinned flat with an averted gaze, but it was part of what made her love him. He respected her feelings, no matter how scathing they were. Importantly, their relationship was constructed from mutual respect and untainted trust. Adonis recognized her flaring anger and she'd relent, reigning in the ugly head of her fiery contempt, but that didn't mean she wouldn't be candid. He knew what the White Death thought after their last encounter with the younger Crownore.

She growled and rose to her paws. She wasn't far along her pregnancy, but she swore she could feel her little ones squirm in protest. They were a firm reminder of what was at stake, “Ēza daor respect syt se ābrar se lentor emā mazvēttan.  Iā se ābrazȳrys mazēdā.  Skoro syt would jaelan naejot share īlva lenton, īlva riñar, lēda such iā issaros” — He has no respect for the life and family you have built. Or the wife you took. Why would I want to share our home, our children, with such a person. Khione's temper ran hot, even more so now that she was expecting, but she was a dame who saw relationships as black and white. It wasn't that she didn't believe in a world of gray, but rather that she could not tolerate such a lens. It only ever seemed to lead to more complications. 

“He made his choice when he turned you away the first time.” Her vexation was clouded. There was no way for her to really, truly, understand the bond between brothers. For as far as she knew, she had no living siblings to call her own. They'd all been fed to the wyverns or thrown from the kingdom gates by father with hardly a chance to grow close. She knew this and yet she wouldn't stop herself. Why invite the person who doesn't want to be there? Why the person who snapped his jaws at their progeny? Her eyes were fierce, but begged of something else much softer. Please, help me understand.

“So I ask again: Why.”

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Few times Khione had tested Adonis. Truly tested him. Brought him to the brink of eruption, fueled the fiery hell that was his reknowned temper. It was not reserved for her. He had only ever regarded his mate with the purest of gazes, the softest of voices. During arguments, he was stern, but he did not allow his temper to flare. But this... this was different. 

The way she spoke of his little brother brought forth an anger that rivaled the power of Gods. It challenged the strength of mountains, it was strong enough to move them from their anchored homes. For moments, he was quiet. He said nothing, only peered upon his wife through a single narrowed sapphire eye. But then he was moving, large frame turning, heavy paws thunderous as they found the earth. He knew that Khione's mood was bitter given the circumstances, he knew that she found it difficult to rationalize; her emotions ran high in her current state. But stress wrapped around the Hilmar's throat like a vicious snake, blurring the lines that his anger towed. 

He snapped his jaws in her direction, yellowed incisors clamping together with a loud snap.  

"Lykemagon." — Silence. He ordered through clenched teeth. "Nyke jāhor daor sagon iestuned." — I will not be questioned.

A flag of war raised to the sky, his tail snaked up above his wide pelvis, signaling the sudden dominance in which he attempted to claim over her. His form widened, his neck extended upwards, sapphire stare glowering down upon his mate. "Ao jāhor reuict issa dein. Syar issa se dey bona nyke sow ao." — You will respect my decision. Show me the decency that I show you.

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An ember of anger smoldered deep within her and threatened to spark into a furious blaze. It would roar with the might of a woman wronged, and promised to seep into the world like a tormenting flame hellbent on ruination and plague. Few times Khione had ever been brought to a genuine anger. When her father outcasted her siblings, when he indoctrinated their people, when he'd fed her mother to the wyverns. She'd learned to tame her wrath, like the dragons her people were known to break. Not because she wanted to, but because it was her only recourse. To soothe it, to reign it like it was some fierce, scrabbling beast stripped of reason. It demanded self-control though it whispered of a tantalizing temptation with words sweet like poisoned honey. 

Let it out, it urged, it will feel so much better afterwards. But it was an empty promise. It offered relief, but all that was ever left in her bitter heart was the guilt— hollow, oppressive, and unquenched. She carried her regrets like she carried the burdens of her cowardly father. 

In her youth, Khione's anger was loud. But now, as her eyes drifted onto her mate, her husband, her fated love, it was silent. She could hear the blood pulsing inside her ears and the sulking beat of a battered, defeated heart. The couple of black and white were monsters of fire and untainted passion. They'd butted heads and argued before, but it was always quickly settled with compassion, compromise, and mutual understanding. But just now he said, no, ordered, her to shut up, and gnashed his teeth at her. Tired of her voice, tired of her nagging, tired of her persistence. She was bitterly reminded of his true origins— a true brute whose blood ran thick with the barbaric nature of Vargrheim. How naive of her. She felt stupid. There was no room for questioning or debate, not even from her: the woman who brought life to his progeny.

Her expression was calloused with stony eyes robbed of its previous fire. Robbed of love. Again, she swore she felt a tug within her belly.

“Decency?” She questioned with a gentle laugh of disbelief and incredulousness, “I am but a mother protecting her children. Your children.” She reminded with a scornful glare, eyes gleaming with the vindicative nature of high winter's wrath. Her stance too, widened, to mirror his and her tail lashed behind her. Khione met his gaze with the same fervor he dared to show her, “I don't know Cain. I don't know the first damn thing about him. Maybe I would, if my tight-lipped husband would care to say more than two words about the man whenever I asked.” Her words were hissed, dripping with a blistering venom she'd never used towards him. But then again, he'd never snapped his incisors at her before, either, “What I do know is that I do not feel safe to have my children near him. You say to trust you, to believe you, and I want to.” Her vox, usually riding with assertion and dominance, threatened to quiver and crack beneath the weight of emotions on high. She was furious, crestfallen, frustrated, and guilt-ridden all at once. Her heart throbbed with something awful. It felt tender under his threatening leer and she'd chastise herself for giving such a man the privilege to control it, “But now you've invited him into our home without so much as a warning.” 

In a manner of speaking, she was reciprocating the very same semblance of alleged decency he claimed to be showing her. Khione was tired.

Pregnant and goddamned tired. 

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Something snapped. 

What little rationality that Adonis had been clinging to fled like the fog that lifted from a morning lake, swirling into nothingness. Though his mind and heart were aflame with the seed of hatred that made him the terrifying spawn he was, he stood silently as his wife, his mate, turned on him, her fur bristling and teeth flashing. She dared flash her teeth at him. He could hardly swallow the bile that had bubbled from his stomach to his throat, and when he did, it tasted of blood and iron, a silent craving that set the berserker on edge. 

Adonis turned, herculean mass swinging in the direction of Khione, muscles poised with power coiling around his neck, his meaty shoulders and twitching haunches. If any other dared speak to him in such a way, he would have had their throat already caught in the snare of his jaws, torn free of their neck -- he would have already painted his ebony coat in their beautiful ichor, bathed in it, indulged in it. For just a moment, something flashed through his sapphire eyes, something dark, something furious and unsated. It was temptation, raw and unbridled. For a moment, Adonis was the hellish fiend he had once been as a Vargrheim youth, the uncaring and unchallenged mad man that existed before Winterhelm had structured him, tamed him. 

He stepped towards his mate, quickly closing the buzzing distance that had swelled between them--he was a dark shadow, a hellish and towering form that looked down upon her. He had been ready to rip into her, to reprimand her, to shout and to snap his teeth -- but then her voice cracked. It had been just for a moment, but it forced the brute to look upon her past the rage that swelled his vision, and see the pain that etched through her expression. Her anger did not stem from spite but from worry, it was a mother's passion that drove his mate to question him and to raise her voice at him. His steeled face melted, softened in a moment's notice and the raven's mercenary broke the distance entirely, moving to press his snout against hers, nares flaring as he inhaled her scent. She was his calm, his tranquility. His nose nudged through the ringlets of pale fur that bordered her sharp features, a bid to be as close as possible to his mate, so that he might be consumed in her. 

It took much for the prideful Hilmar to admit when he was wrong. 

“Forgive me.” He begged, voice nothing but a deep whine against her face. “My heart.”

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A tremor shook within the black beast and for a moment, Khione was transported back to the forsaken lands of Eldérune. It reeked with the stench of rotten blood and rusted iron, poisoned by war and the greed that haunted its lands. She remembered Winterhelm for all its cruel, frostbitten glory and their one adversary known as Vargrheim— the home of vikings, mercenaries, and beserkers. As a pup, her father told her it was a savage land and its inhabitants even moreso. He'd said they'd slaughter each other for sport, if not for infamy. They'd fed from spoiled carcasses and polluted the very air with their noxious breaths that stunk of decay. That they were scrambling, mindless crusaders robbed of sense and reason, who only knew how to maim, desecrate, take, take, and take.

They were just horror stories told to scare the children, but Khione could see reflections of truth right before her very eyes. He transformed. Like a serpent coiled, he'd lurched to face her. The twitch of his jaw and the glaze in his eyes showed that he'd been possessed by something infernal. He reeked of it. It wafted from his gargantuan form in agonizing waves and he quickly closed what little distance was between them. He may have only been slightly taller than she, but in this moment he was doing everything in his might to make her feel small. The way his massive head hung overhead, like a starving demon closing in on his next fleshy victim. Khione rolled forward to meet his staggering, swamping leer. She wouldn’t let him do it too.

She'd had her body bound in inexplicable, impossible ways. Her mind tortured and molested by harrowing displays of violence, persecution, and blasphemy. Forced to survive the worst, wretched years of her life with nothing but silent tears and bone-deep scars to remind her that she was even living at all. Stripped of what little, pathetic love she was made to believe she had. Beaten into submission by the one person she was groomed to trust. The one person who was hellbent on making her feel powerless. Small— she despised the very word. Her entire life was one etched with torment brought forth by factors out of her control. She never had the privilege to even retaliate. Sometimes, she wondered what kind of person she'd have been if it hadn't been that way. If she hadn't clawed herself from the depths of Tartarus and ripped her skin and mind raw.

Would she be kind? Gentle? Forgiving? Or would she still be the cruel, vicious, vengeful person she was today? If Adonis were to pierce his claws into her very chest cavity, seize her heart, and swallow it whole, she'd let him. Not for some insipid, cliche meaning like 'at least someone I loved took my life', but because he'd be forced to live his days in agony and searing regret. Forced to see her in the eyes of his children. In the name of their kingdom. In the empty bed of their den. This was who she was.

Khione was horrid, but Adonis was a monstrosity. He was the heir to Vargrheim's wretched throne: born to seize it and her kingdom's. He would have done anything to achieve his promised eminence. To place the bloodied, blackened crown atop his head and call it his own. But he didn't. He fell in love. Stupid, ridiculous, pathetic love. Khione steeled herself against his might. She readied to feel his teeth sink to her carotids. To feel her pulse bound against ivory teeth. 

But it never came.

His snout slowly, gently came down to meet her own. It found its way into the nape of her neck and where she expected to feel teeth, she felt the unmistakable hum of a deep-seated whine. He was begging. The Witcher of Winterhelm was begging. He'd all but knelt at her feet in unspoken piety, sorrowful and contrite. He'd placed himself in a lofty position of power only to sink to its bottom and for what? At her words. Her. She blinked. A wetness threatened to seep from the corners of her eyes, but Khione resisted. Resist she tried.

“Of course I do.” A responsive whine sung from her throat too as she found her head cradled against his, “I love you.”

Stupid, ridiculous, pathetic love.

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A great sigh heaved out of the young wolf as he pulled his weight up onto a fallen log, intent on climbing over instead of walking around it; he had no time to waste, as urgency bit at his heels like crows at carrion. He descended the opposite side with light paws, his pace quickening from its walk into something brisker with longer strides – long, gangly legs eating up ground easily. If Ludon were to point to one talent in his life, it would be the pace of his movement; his pride in it started young, when he did his best to defeat his siblings in races under their parents' watchful eyes.

High above, he caught the pale shape of his owl, beckoning him onwards. This was the only reason he knew exactly where to go, where to find the leaders of Winterhelm. The grand sequoias had hidden away the lake from his first scouting glances from across the landscape, but Tanwyn wasn't so easily dissuaded from her task. He shouted up to her, high and clear, "How much further?"

So far above, she could only screech down to him, but the way she dove downward, angling to a place just beyond sight, he knew she was honing in on what he was looking for, and his heart swelled with hope. He had never expected them to find them at all, especially here in this new.. land, but he was not disheartened, they would have all the answers he needed, that much, he was confident in.

Then— there.

His veil of fear and apprehension was pierced. He could nearly cry with relief, as he skirted out from the trees and to the grassy stretch near the lake, spying on his Tanwyn landing near to his parents where they stood pressed together. She no doubt took the time to bask in their presence, much as he would given the chance. He kicked into a run, tail wagging low behind him in a show of abject happiness that he would surely be chastised for (it wasn't very noble, was it?), uncaring as he called, "Muña! Kepa!" — Mother! Father!

---

@Adonis, @Khione

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Home. Finally. 

Realms he would travel for his wife, mountains he would move, beasts he would slay. He basked in her, all that she was, trembled with unbridled emotion in her beauty--all that she was, he loved. He was all steel and rugged edges, there was no sandstone that might smooth him down, yet he was unafraid to show her his heart. He laid it bare before her so that she might see the way it thumped, the way it trembled with a love so potent it was venomous. As his wife buried her face into the crook of his neck, buried into the thick fur that swaddled his throat, he rested his chin upon her head, nose dragging affectionately across a singular ear. “You will never go unloved by me.” His words were warm against her fur. 

In silence, the lovers stood, simply quiet in one another's embrace. Adonis did not move an inch, each muscle across his herculean frame still and tranquil. He basked in his lover's presence, nudged his nose and his face as deep into her fur as he could, desperate to be as close as physically possible to his mate. 

That was until he heard the familiar beat of strong wings, ones he had heard in his dreams, in the paths he walked through his memories. It was enough to bring the wolf to remove his head from Khione's so that he might send a glance upwards to the sky, and the bird which he saw nearly made the wolf buckle over. Tanwyn, his son's companion. Tanwyn, one of Ivori's beloved wards. Adonis' jaws parted in a quiet intake of breath, and the masculine moved to turn, only sparing his wife a look which feigned surprise and confusion. “Tanwyn?” The bird's name fell from his lips, voice but a specter of it's usual bravado, and Adonis felt the sudden pull to turn his head. Sapphire eyes centered on the pale figure that crested the hill east of them, a sight that caused Adonis' heart to wrench and his gut to constrict as if he had ate a bad meal. My son. 

Adonis didn't know when, but he had felt Khione move, her shoulder brushing against his in her hurried retreat from his side. The sounds and the shouts that followed fell upon deaf ears, ears that could hear nothing but the thrum and rush of his blood through out his veins. Time had slowed for the wolf, until he too began to move, his hesitant walk pouring into the hurried sprint of a father who had known grief and loss. Feelings he had pushed down, buried and forgotten came pouring inwards. 

Memories of Ludon's first howl, his first steps, his first hunt all came spiraling in on him, threatening to crush him wholly. When he reached his son, Adonis laughed, a hearty sound of clarity and of joy. He did not cry, but for a second, the beast could have. 

"Issa tresy iksos lenton!" — My son is home! 

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The anger and resentment that filled her veins and buzzed her body were washed away by his touch alone. One by one, with each nuzzle and every caress, he dismantled her, like chipping away at the stone of a mighty fortress. There once was a time where Khione could not imagine a life where she could be loved with such unreserve. She thought her mind, body, and soul incapable and beyond repair. Yet, somehow Adonis thawed her icy armor and rebuilt her castle with room for him and a family to boot. Moments ago, regret ransacked her, berating her for allowing such a beast to reign control over the one thing she had for herself: her heart. But how could that be possible when he was the very essence of it?

His words were like a soothing hymn to her ears. Her eyes lulled closed at the comforting sound of his heartbeat and mighty breaths. She felt him press closer to her form as if he wished to lose himself within her embrace. A contented hum purred within her throat, satisfied that the warring between raven and dragon had met its peaceful end. Khione became lost in his touch. She immersed herself in his masculine scent, just as she had on their first night together.

But her reverie was interrupted when she felt his head abruptly tilt upwards and his muscles constrict. Her first instinct was to gaze upon her mate. A look of astonishment and confusion marred her husband's usually stoic visage and the name that escaped his maw sent a warm shiver riding along her spine. No, it couldn't be. But there, circling above, was the indisputable form of Tanwyn. Then, Khione followed the turn of her love's crown and saw the figure of white and grey dart across the grassy hills. It wasn't a ghost, but it certainly felt like seeing one with the way her fur bristled and her blood ran cold. 

That's my baby.

Khione didn't wait for Adonis. How could she? Her limbs sprung to life before she'd commanded them, paws slamming into the dirt with strides so long she swore she could cross the oceans in a moments time. She would have done it for him— for Ludon. Her chest heaved with the weight of the world, but her shoulders had never felt lighter. Khione was polluted by vengeance, but if there was one thing, one damned thing, besides Adonis, that could soothe her maelstrom, it was her children. Watching them wriggle at her underbelly, seeing their beautiful eyes open for the first time. They were the ones who made this, everything, worthwhile. The Gods could mangle her body, they could take away her kingdom, and condemn her soul to damnation, but they could never lay a finger on her babies. Not while she was still alive and breathing.

Her paws came to a halt mere inches before her son, but that didn't stop her from lacing her neck across his in a tender embrace. A forearm wrapped his backside, tugging him closer. Closer wasn't enough, “Ludon, oh, ñuha rūs valītsos.” — Ludon, oh, my baby boy. She breathed, her breath ragged and voice thrumming with thrill and affection. Delight wasn't an emotion that came easy for the White Death, but for her son, it was. She backed up slightly to inspect him, as if to make sure she wasn't dreaming, “Ñuha clever tresy. Issi ao alright?” — My clever son. Are you alright? 

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If there was one thing Ludon feared, it was the breaking of his parents. There had been cracks, diaphanous and dangerous, when his sister had died and his brother had all but vanished. It was like watching a mountain threaten to fracture into a million shards, cracked under the weight of grief and wretched blame. He cared not for war, or for the passage of time, in the way it wore at his parents' bodies and hearts; it was a cruel reality of life. But to bury one's child before their own time, it wore down to the bone like a snare, and they did not deserve it.

But as he breathed in their combined scents, as he bore their joy like a promise, he knew the cracks had begun to heal — reforged by the warmth of their bond. He could only hope they would heal for good once they found a way back... if they found a way back. His heart twisted at the thought of never seeing his foggy glen ever again, or to see the shadows of the draconic beasts inherent to the landscape he was born to roam. He brushed it away, pressing his weight against his mother in their brief but loving embrace. His father's elated sound was enough to make him feel a second embrace around his soul, like a shield against the harshness of the world, for these long moments. It felt like home, so long as he had those he cherished more than the sky and stars. Another time, he might have been embarrassed at the endearment pushed unto him, but with the weight of reunion, he didn't care if he was called every nickname under the sun.

"Muña, iksan sȳz!" — Mother, I am fine! His ears felt warm and his body felt light, like he could skip across the clouds. He was lucky that any bruising from the scuffle he might have had was well on its way to healing, and anything else could be easily dismissed as the minor wounds attained through his travel. His eyes flicked between them, taking in every detail of their faces like he was scared they would fade when he blinked. "How about you? Are you okay? Faðir?" — Father?

His gaze was suddenly almost frantic as he glanced over them in greater detail, almost fearful he would find something out of place, but save for new scarring, long on its way to healing, he could see nothing that made him sick with worry. Though, he would never admit it; he still had enough face left to not allow him that. He was struck with how intensely fortunate they were, to have met once again even in a strange land, or to have survived whatever brought them here — and for it, he was grateful to whatever might be out there, glancing upon them with omniscient and benign eyes. A strike of curiosity lit in him, like kindling struck by a spark, and tentatively, almost like he were dreading the answer, he asked,"Is Venaday with you?"

---

@Adonis, @Khione

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Adonis' smile, reserved only for close friends and family, was warm upon his dark face. His features, usually so battle torn and cold, had brightened -- furrowed brows raising and sapphire eyes gleaming with a vibrancy. The display between mother and son was bittersweet, and tore at the heart strings of the stoic father. He remained just a few feet away though, simply watching, ever the stoic guardian. 

When Ludon turned to address him, Adonis offered his son a proud nod. “For now, well. But worry not about your old man, Ludon. You and your mother have much catching up to do, and she has some news to share.” Adonis informed, eyes briefly flickering to Khione, his own eyes glowering with satisfaction. Soon, their family would grow. 

Adonis' ears merely flicked at the mention of Venaday, to which he did not respond, eyes glazing over with a brief detachment. There had been no sign of their only daughter. 

Adonis turned and began his leave, making way towards a great tree that stood resilient just a few meters away. There, he would rest his bones and take in the scene.

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The smile on the Keisari's face slipped at the mention of Venaday. Khione loved, adored, her children, but something could be said about the crudeness and ferocity wielded by their remaining daughter. She truly was of Vargrheim and Winterhelm descent; the most foreboding parts of them. 

Khione only shook her head, “We have not seen Venaday, nor Vahaelarr.” A brief pause stretched as Adonis took his leave, leaving only a knowing glance for Khione to interpret. The somberness at the mentioning of their remaining children's whereabouts was swiftly shaken and she opted to press her snout lovingly against her son's cheek. 

“But our family grows, my son.” Her voice was gentle against his ear, soft like the day Ludon had been brought into the world, “You will be an older brother.”

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It pained him to see the tighter expressions on his parents' faces; his brow tilted as he remembered the warm, happy, loving family they had been once. But now... their bonds had aged — gone was the veneer of blind trust and devotion... Everything seemed so painfully complex now.

He didn't know if it was a relief or disappointment that Venaday was not among them, and he chose not to dwell, glancing askance at the water just beyond them. Wait, his eyes grew briefly wider, his body ached, Vahae!

His thoughts were derailed by his father parting, to merely rest or gather himself, Ludon wasn't sure. He had turned, ready to tell them both that their son was well— er, fairly well. Vahaelarr hadn't come back with Ludon but the two had shouted and snapped enough to make it clear. Vahae nor Ludon were willing to burn the bond between them, even if both tugged stubbornly on the other's throat. He was drawn up short as his mother pressed closer, all warmth and comfort.

His entire world stopped spinning.

An older brother...?

A jolt of realization. Then excitement, he jerked back, lips stretching in a breathless smile – but then realization took its second bite, smothered in the venom of hurt and fear. He had no reason to tremble in horror, as if he were sure his parents would push their older children away, solely focused on the wellbeing of their newer pups. Maybe they wouldn't make the same mistakes ... Maybe these children would be better, smarter, stronger. He tore the spiraling thought from its pedestal. It was so juvenile, so naive and immature, he shoved the sensation away. He wouldn't let himself tarnish this with his selfish whims, he was terrified, but glad for his parents. He let his smile return in full force, joy coloring his voice, "Pups? How soon?"

His tail swept low behind him as he sat, resting his weary legs for a moment, before he jolted a little taller, speaking with a knowing and sure tone, "Vahaelarr will be excited too when he hears."

---

@Adonis, @Khione

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