Bitterroot Valley feels like we only go backwards

Whatever way the wind was blowing, it wasn't blowing in his favor. So much so that he didn't notice the other wolf until the figure made its way over the rise, within sight. Zamael squinted for only an instant; his heart and mind told him all he needed to know in that short moment. The pelt of charcoal and ash, the trim frame--that only belonged to one wolf he knew. One wolf he loved.

And, most conveniently, the one wolf he'd come all this fucking way looking for.

A shuddering gasp left his lips as he rose to his feet, padding unsteadily toward his brother. His steps grew quicker as he drew near, but he pulled to an awkward halt a few tail-lengths away, noticing the boy's eyes fixed on the ground. His voice was gentle when he spoke, the barest murmur. "Alarian."

He was the same, but changed. A number of scars marred his body, and with age had came other small, subtle differences as well. They had each seen some shit, between their last meeting and this one, and he didn't know how to come to terms with it. He didn't know how to speak to Alarian as the man he was, rather than the boy he'd once been.