Bitterroot Valley feels like we only go backwards

vaguey vague

North he'd been told, and so north he went, weaving through the meadows and swamps, the odds bits of mountain scenery here and there that broke up the monotony of plains and forests. There was a hopeful feeling in his stomach that suggested his journey would soon be at an end--and that it would not be a waste. That, alone, gave him hope as he crossed the desolate valley, dead tired on his paws.

Zamael sat for a moment, panting. He'd been at a hard trot for the past few hours, trying to make up the time he'd lost speaking to the two men he'd met in the mountains. The wind, colder up here, rustled his fur, and he looked round, trying to make sense of it all. No real landmarks of which to speak, save a small mountain range to the west.

But north they'd said, and north he would go.

It was inevitable, right? That he would see his brother soon was in no doubt. The question now was--would Alarian be as happy to see him as he would be to see Alarian? Quite some time had passed since they'd enjoyed the close bond of brotherhood. He once thought, faintly, family to be unbreakable, but Arnlith had proved him wrong almost from the moment Zamael had exited the birth canal.

Arnlith. The great prick. He was dead, his body delightfully headless. All that was in the past, and perhaps the Keils could find a way to mend themselves in his absence. Perhaps, without Arnlith, family really was unbreakable.