Bitterroot Valley and i saw nothing here but you

His legs are sore, his thoughts are scrambled, and all he wants right now is @Kratos. No matter how hard he tries to focus on following his mate's scent, he keeps losing track of it. He just can't get his mind to stay in one place; it feels like his childhood all over again. The thought has him in a panic.
He circles once, twice, desperate, and sends up a call for his mate. He doesn't know if he's near enough to hear it — but if not, he'll try to pick up the scent and follow it further, then try again. He'll spend all night calling for him, if he has to.

No matter the itch of adventure, Kratos never wanders far; he keeps close enough—often haunting old trails of Zephyr that lay in his path. The ice wraith slipping through his fingers, yet he knows if they truly desire to meet each other, they will. They often do by the end of the night.
The call is new, however, and it sets the dragon aflame. Lumbering bulk bolts forth—a ballista. Akin to the bull, his head lowers, broad shoulders a shield of flesh and bone. His gallop slows when he spots the king, drawing up towards him how a dragon would admire it’s treasure—inspecting every part for damage or disturbance.

The sight of his mate sends relief sweeping over him like a cool breeze on a blistering day. His shoulders sag a little, legs suddenly feeling heavier as he turns to meet him. He hadn't realized how tired he feels until this moment — and now it's hitting him all at once. His approach is slow, gaze hollow and expression raw as he nears his mate. At first, he can't bring himself to say anything. All he can do is tuck his face against Kratos's neck and fight the tears still threatening to fall, breath hitching and shuddering.

Ruffled—a dusting of snow removed from the crystal cover of ice. Kratos pinpoints the emotional shift. Physically his mate tires, exhaustion heavy upon thin—yet not weak—shoulders. He coils around him, tail raised, as Zephyr tucks himself near. A forearm raises to wrap around one of his.
What happened. Who hurt you.

He wants to ignore Kratos's question. He wants to lie and say nothing happened. He wants to pretend he doesn't feel like a child all over again, small and forgotten, defective, worthless. The truth spills from him anyway. I talked to my father, His tone is as dull as he feels. He has a new family now. New kids. I bet he doesn't even think about me anymore — and he had the nerve to say he loves me. The venom starts to creep into his voice, slow but steady; a hatred more intense than any he's felt or expressed in his life so far.

He’d been unaware there still exists a connection of family—that “father” is a title respected by the silver, who last spoke of them with words of sorrow and abandonment.
Fuck him, the hound snarls, you have a new family, too. One that has accepted Zephyr for who he is since the beginning; who has hopefully made him feel a part of it, instead of an outcast black sheep that ought to be replaced. Pale gold eyes narrow to slits.

His dragon breathes fire in response, and the wraith finds it comforting; familiar and expected, and easier than dealing with his sadness. He's always worn anger better anyway, drawn in colder shades than his explosive counterpart yet no less stinging. Yeah, you're right, He concedes, reminding himself of Kavik's numerous failures as a father. He's probably better off without him, no matter how much it hurts. But for some reason, the thought makes him worry for — well, for his newest siblings. It feels odd to think of them that way, but now that the news has had some time to settle, he's starting to feel something other than resentment toward them. He hadn't even realized he'd be able. But he doesn't deserve it. He shouldn't get more kids whose lives he'll just mess up. It's not fair.

True, the kids are innocent of all crimes; guilty are only the parent—whom brought lives into the world unjust for selfish reasons. Kratos needn’t flame a fire within Zephyr, when already cryogenic burns riddle across akin to scars, an emotional puzzle with cogs that click in odd places.
What are you thinking. There lies a proposal hinted by the wraith king’s words—Kratos is uncertain if he likes it.

I don't know, He admits, a little frustrated by that fact. All of it feels so broken and wrong, and he doesn't know how to fix it. But he knows he has to. I have to do something.

Zephyr forgets that he isn’t alone. The dragon looms in his shadows, intimidating all that walk before the silver without first bowing their heads. Unnecessary, for he knows that alone, Zephyr could accomplish the same as he does, but there is an arm that could be lost; a tail or an ear, sacrifices that could be made where they could not before.
Could scare ‘em off. Make ‘em leave the kids. Bash him good; a heavy axe to the skull. I could kill ‘em.

The suggestions shock him at first, but only for a second. He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind after his meeting with Kavik, but he'd been quick to dismiss it. It'd seemed crazy then, the same sort of madness that had led him to kill his younger sister. But hearing the thought aloud in his mate's voice makes it seem possible, even reasonable. It's the only way to really stop his father from making the same mistakes again, after all. The only way to stop him from bringing further pain and shame to their family. We could kill him, He corrects, voice easing back into its typical stony tones. He steps back to meet Kratos's gaze, his own silver eyes bright and intense. You really want to help me?

The pendulum swings; one extreme to another, neither sound of mind. Yet, the way cultural differences make themselves known creep into these extremities. Liars might have had their tongue cut; thieves blinded for their greed; disappointing sperm donors forgiven.
Kratos is an executioner; not a judge. Much too greedy to see those sentenced drown in the consequences of their action. Pale gold eyes take in silver; spiked fur stands upon end. Delight shivering in his veins.
Not as a “we”, he clarifies, I’ll take care of it.

His temper flares quickly in response, displeased with the answer he's given, but his expression betrays nothing. No, Icy as ever, he continues. He's my father — either we'll do it together, or I'll do it myself. It's his responsibility now, in his mind. Not one he'll take pleasure in, but one he thinks is necessary — or at least, it's easy enough to convince himself of that. His own betrayal and lingering resentment are the true fuel for the fire, but it's too late for him to see that now. He's far too taken with the idea of necessity, a greater good; his own version of justice. And he won't be excluded from seeing it through.

A sharp blade turns to him, the edges press right upon his throat, threatening to slice through. Yet Kratos leans into it, unafraid, for he’s ready for whenever the slice would come—Zephyr can wield it whenever he wishes, or dispose of him as he sees fit. He’s come so far, only to be wrapped around the finger of another all over.
No. Enchanted as he may be, the dragon still holds the power to reject. Let me be your teeth. Lest the silver end up spiraling in despair for a life lost. No matter the loathing that may boil, in the core Zephyr still cares to call him his father. The love has not died for him yet.

The argument prickles further at him, and he has to remind himself that it isn't Kratos he's upset with. Still, he's frustrated with the lack of agreement, and he doesn't think arguing more will get them anywhere. Which leaves only one option, in his mind. Fight me, He suggests, voice a little sharp with impatience. If you win, I'll let you do it.

A wager and challenge put forth; one important and unlike the dances beforehand. Kratos mustn’t lose, not now when the sake of the future rests in its hands. The hound does not smile. The thrill is absent as he lunges forth, teeth snapping for Zephyr’s cheek.

The fight begins immediately, something he's come to expect — but expecting it isn't enough to avoid it this time. He isn't prepared for how real it suddenly feels, raw and painful and honestly a little scary. He hesitates just for a moment, and his mate's teeth connect with his cheek as he darts out of the way a second too late. The blow stings, but to his relief there is no blood. He sucks in a breath, and lunges toward his mate's leg, feigning an attempt at nipping him before he bolts out of reach again.

Wielding an axe, yet the touch that comes is tender in comparison to what Kratos yields in strength. There is enough force that it rocks a heavy hit, a pugilist’s punch at a low percentage. The hit barely staggers Zephyr, but it evidently awakens the ice king. Slippery as an eel, Zephyr slips a feint at his forearm, successfully pausing the relenting charge enough to bolt off. A snort exhales from flared nostrils, he rams forth again—this time aiming to attempt grabbing hold of him.

His attempt is successful, and his movements become more fluid, more confident. He's finding the rhythm he'd failed to grasp in the first moments of their fight now. He slips away again when his mate charges, turning to flit past on light feet with a nip aimed toward dark hocks.

Zephyr takes the first lesson Kratos gave to heart; fast on your feet, quick with your mind. Instincts lead the way. His mate has grown sharper in his observations; focus on the brawl instead of weighted by doubts of ability. It is beautiful. Kratos is less-so; teeth, salvia, twists and turns, all aiming at him. He tries again to grab a hold of Zephyr before he slithers away.

Kratos is quicker than he seems sometimes, occasionally a flash of fire consuming all in the blink of an eye. Teeth meet Zephyr's leg, closing vice-like. A muted snarl bubbles up in response, and he twists away violently. He doesn't expect to have enough strength to break the hold, but his mate's grip seems to slacken suddenly. He breaks free, and everything is still for a half-beat. A moment of opportunity. He lunges, taking advantage of Kratos's uncharacteristic moment of hesitation to try to end the spar before it goes any further.

Clasped finally, the dragon captures the treasure he desires most; yet the touch is fleeting, the raw limb flashes before pale gold eyes. He’s never expected hesitancy before. Here he does. The slack of his grip enough for the silver to dart into the opening he’d given—the blade to his neck. Liquid nitrogen threatens to freeze him; for once Kratos shivers, his fire and warmth doing little under the bitter chill. His eyes remain defiant, yet his jaws clack together—a signal of his defeat.

Victory feels different than he'd thought it would. This is the first time he's ever won a spar against his dragon; he'd thought he'd feel proud, accomplished, something — especially in a situation where it matters so much. But winning doesn't feel like much of anything. It feels sore, and tired, and a little empty. It feels like the realization that he's never wanted to win anything against Kratos; he wants his mate by his side in all victories.
His already-light grip falls away, melts into fierce, insistent preening. He presses close, abandoning his earned prize in favor of what he values far more. Suddenly he doesn't care at all whether his father lives or dies, by his hand or another's. This — Kratos matters more.

Akin to a puff of smoke, he releases a slow, steady breath. With it, every tense muscle unwinds. Prepared for the fall as if welcoming Death’s scythe around his neck, eager to press within the sharp edge. The defeat is bitter. Pride erupts within the volcanic heart of the dragon, but it’d been for the one fight he sought victory in; if only to delay the calamity.
Away Zephyr dances from the vulnerability of the dragon’s throat with a poisoned blade. Instead, he tucks close. Could daresay hear the purr that stirs in both the silver and the red; though puzzled the dragon is by the turn of events.

For several moments there is only silence. Zephyr allows himself a few moments to forget everything that has been said, everything that still needs to be said, losing himself in Kratos's scent, his warmth. Then, reluctantly, he pulls himself back to reality. He doesn't matter, He murmurs as he pulls away to meet pale gold eyes, voice weary but sincere, raw in a way he seldom allows. None of it matters but you.