Heron Lake Plateau restore me, restore life the way it should be.

Good lord this dude was smug as fuck. Artaax felt annoyance rippling along his spine again, but he soothed it with the facts (as he knew them). It was pretty apparent to him that this guy thought Wildfire and her daughters would be staying with him amongst the Redhawks, regardless of whatever Artaax had to say to them. As though Artaax were some petulant scorned lover and not Wildfire's firstborn son. Which I'm not sure he is. As if this were some simple matter of Wildfire following her dreams and living happily ever after without leaving abandoned, damaged children in her wake.

The feisripa held his tongue, though, and just allowed silence to fall between them. Artaax was not unaccustomed to silence. He often found that far more comfortable than exchanging words uselessly. He turned his gaze away from the black wolf and allowed his mind to wander to other things. Prettier things. Blonder things... But his fantasies stopped abruptly as he heard footsteps and he turned just in time to hear his name uttered by a painfully familiar voice.

Wildfire said nothing further, yet when Artaax looked at her he felt his conviction falter completely. He knew, instantly, she didn't want to come home. She didn't need to say it. There was anxiety in the way she looked upon him when he had convinced himself there would be only gratitude. Nothing of the latter was there, and that recognition dripped into his heart like ice into his veins. Quixote was forgotten as he regarded his mother, hurt welling already in him. But he lifted his chin a little higher and steeled his determination. He would bring her home still. She might not want to go, but she would once he convinced her.

"Mom..." he said, his voice soft and deep as always, "I've come to bring you home."