Bitterroot Valley feels like we only go backwards

Zamael kept trying to break in, kept trying to apologize--but Alarian kept going, and his despair rose more and more as his brother continued. "Alarian, look, I'm sorry--" His breathing, too, was poor as he began to panic, heart pounding against his chest. He lunged forward to try and take Alarian in his embrace, but before he could, his brother had collapsed, hitting the ground with a muffled thud.

"Alarian!" Zamael cried, falling with him, nosing at his face. "Goddamn it, Alarian, please don't do this. Please don't die on me." It was a fear rooted in nothing substantial; the springy arch of his ribs still rose and fell, his pulse still strong in his throat. Still, to see this, after all this time, after the journey, the search. . .it was too much for Zamael to handle, and he, too, crumpled, gasping for air.

"Damn it, damn it, fucking damn it!" he whispered fervently, still trying to rouse his brother. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please get up." His breath was coming in ragged sobs as he pleaded with Alarian, his sense of self-control entirely gone. Gone was the hard shell he'd crafted for himself in the wake of Carvel's death; it was like peeling off skin, exposing everything inside of you to the cruel forces of nature. Sun, sleet, snow. The openness was hot and cold, burning and freezing, gripping his body in wave after wave of sheer terror.

He hadn't wanted this. He wanted it to be easy like it once had been. Their life had never been cushy, but it had been better than this before. He wanted it to be like it was before. But now reality had fallen heavy upon his shoulders, and he realized that there was no going back. It never again would be easy for Alarian and him.