the flame in his veins is starting to eat away at the wraith, leaving him drained, empty. for a time he worries that he cannot go on, that his journey might end before reaching its conclusion. the thought is almost enough to send him into despair.
but as he descends into the hollow, he knows that this is where he'd been meant to go. this deathly quiet little meadow, tucked into the mountains like the soft reprieve of a flower hidden among a bed of thorns. this is where he'd finally learned to let go of the last of his optimism, his desire to trust the world around him. this is where it had settled in that there is no kindness without cost, that strangers would sooner take than give to those who seem defenseless. he remembers, vaguely, the man who'd tried to do him harm for the crime of being wounded and scared too close to the borders of his pack. he'd been so young, then. and now he's a man grown — yet somehow still the same boy, hurt and scared, who'd made the mistake of assuming anyone would care about any of that.
he picks through the meadow, idly counting the different fox-trails, and wonders if he can ever undo the damage that has been done to him.

misery permeates the hollow, thickens the air until zephyr can scarcely breathe; not entirely his own, however.

the stranger approaches at breakneck speed, cloaked in midnight and shrouded in near-tangible sorrow. he does not acknowledge the wraith — at least, not until he nearly barrels into him. zephyr takes a step back, having never felt half so much a ghost as he does when the man's dulled golden gaze seems to stare right through him. something about this perfect picture of a shattered soul appeals to him. when the husk of a wolf turns to flee, the wraith follows, a silent silver shadow as if the sun has inverted itself upon the land.

the anger is, somehow, unexpected. while it seems that only half of the wolves the wraith has encountered since starting his heat truly react to it, he has yet to be on the receiving end of anyone's anger since it began. the heat-scent had almost started to feel like a shield, some sort of protection against the world's more insidious intentions.

the glint of fangs is tangible proof of his mistake.

his ears flatten, steps halting, but zephyr otherwise does not react to the threat for several moments. instead he takes time to notice the tears, the lack of conviction in the shadow's aggression. you look like you could use some company, he observes softly, one ear twitching. the kind without teeth involved.