rivenwood had a rat problem.
it felt good to wear a crown yet again, even if it was made of twigs in comparison to the one he held in his prime. and with this crown, he had new rights and privileges and tasks to do. the passive ones he readily maintained as it was — hunting, patrolling, watching over the kids. but there were two others on his immediate agenda.
objective one: marry heda.
objective two: get rid of the vermin — or at the very least subdue them.
and so he prowls the planting grounds in search of @Anselm, watching the tall grasses for any signs of movement. a conversation needed to be had.

to the untrained eye, amadeo looked as rivenwood knew him — but deep within the bearing of his step was a furious thirst, a violence that almost created a fissure in his facade. surely, he had been clocked by the man's intuition; like how the herds scatter just before a storm rises. and in some way, amadeo was aware of this, and in some way, that was the reason for the inevitable carnage which towered over them both.
on the surface, it is only the rage of testosterone; amadeo was now the captain of this proverbial ship, both of heda and of rivenwood itself, and no sane man would want his betrothed's rat-faced, useless baby daddy lingering where he was not wanted.
anselm stares, but backs up; moves away.
amadeo's response is a flare of his hackles, his body a bristling eclipse of midnight against the afternoon sun. his message is clear in every way save for verbally — get the fuck out of my home.

amadeo had been prepared for almost anything except for what came out of anselm's mouth.
his conformation hardly shifts, but his expression certainly does; determined resolve morphs into shock and then to hideous rage. but he does not lunge, does not even snap his jaws.
yet.
talk about her like that again, faggot, his tone edges on taunting, but slips ice cold and monotonous from between his clenched jaws. go ahead. why don't you shout it out, so she can hear what you think about her? so your children can hear what their father thinks of their mother?
closer now, his footfalls thunderous. every step is calculated, and yet burning with palpable, animalistic ire.
don't make this harder than it needs to be.

it was pure spite which kept amadeo from doing exactly what the fuckwit goaded him to do; an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.
what kind of man i am? i'm a better man than you, an eerie calm seems to settle over him, all the rage dissolving into a pleasant nothingness. i pity whoever your parents are. they must hate themselves for the way their little boy turned out.
and if they didn't, they certainly should.
amadeo advances until his breath is hot and rancid against anselm's nose. his instinct screams to maim, to sever, to twist — i'll bathe my wife in your blood while i fuck the next generation of cardinals into her —
restraint. grace. power.
you listen to me, bambino. here is what's going to happen. you are going to run, like the coward you are, and you are never to return. do i make myself crystal fucking clear?
his eyes say for him what he refuses to admit with his mouth; or else i will destroy everyone and everything you have ever cared about.

what can you provide for them that i cannot? a rhetorical question, but a matter-of-fact one. you are no father. you are not even a man. they will not miss you.
and even if they did at first, well, it surely wouldn't last long. as far as amadeo was concerned, the only way in which anselm was a "parent" to them was the fact that the sperm had come from his balls.
his lip curls ever so slightly, a bitter silence settling over him before, without warning, the crown of his head jams into the boy's ribcage. a hefty paw raises, intending to slam down upon him like a weight — not a killing blow nor a maiming, but a simple show of dominance.
he, the godhead of rivenwood.
The Father.
are you going to make me say it again? measured as ever, as if this were business as usual; calm, collected, secure.

in amadeo's mind — and by the consideration of wolfy-instinct-law — anselm had struck first. the father's act had not been one of violence, but of upholding a hierarchy that was now falling into place.
anselm, however? he wanted blood.
and now amadeo faced quite the moral predicament — do what heda would want and relent, or do what god would want and rip him to ribbons?
the german is young and swift. jaws snap around his wrist, and he hears the crack of his bone before he feels it. the pain comes in a sudden avalanche, the scream that he rent sending a nearby swarm of ravens to disappear into the clouds.
a hot scarlet blindness sweeps him as he lurches toward the open neck; he does not even realize it when he
snaps
and he is rocketing toward the nearest tree, a looming sequoia, slamming anselm's upper body against the trunk with the heft of his body
the impact startles him into releasing almost instantly, scarlet seeping into the gray of his muzzle; he collapses to the ground as the adrenaline fizzles out. he lays there, dirt caking in his fur, heart pounding so hard his vision starts to blacken. from what he can hardly register, he sees a crumpled mass of warm gray.
merda! anselm!

oh, fuck.
reality dripped back in slowly as amadeo began to gather pieces of what happened. his skull felt as if it had shattered into shards, the slowly fading sunlight bleeding into the corners of his vision as he hoists himself up onto his feet. he realizes now that his forelimb still radiates with agony.
anselm. he had —
oh, no. this fucker was not allowed to die like this. as bad as he wished to leave him there, he refused to let himself, instead beginning to crouch down and search for vitals. no, no, he did not need him alive, but his children did.
heda did.
padre nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo nome, he scoops him up as best as he can, using the trunk as leverage to hoist him onto his back. venga il tuo regno, sia fatta la tua volontà, come in cielo così in terra.
his trek is more of a hobble as he traces the path that led out of the bypass, determination and endorphins powering him onward; westward, purposefully.
dacci oggi il nostro pane quotidiano, e rimetti a noi i nostri debiti, come noi li rimettiamo ai nostri debitori; e non ci indurre in tentazione, ma liberaci dal male.
amen.