Firefly Ravine no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace

ah, but war is art, jagtooth murmurs in impassioned agreement. a burdened art, to be sure. not for every wolf that walks this earth; but a necessary art all the same. without war there can be no peace. without peace there can be no faith. without love goes unspoken. for who does the warrior priest, the usurper, the holy man with a grin made for war painted crimson with the blood of those he'd killed for a little bit of kingdom love? perhaps the spawn of his loins. once. when they were loyal to their father, to their cause. but like all spawn of the loins they became their own individuals and their desires took shape of their own, deaf to the guided whispers of the cardinal. they no longer feared nor revered their faith; lambs lost and no doubt being led to slaughter.

perhaps jagtooth only loves what he's created. what he's taken and coveted for years. perhaps he only loves himself. or perhaps he's incapable of it all together. he doesn't think of it and banishes the thoughts from his mind before they can take hold and he is forced to confront the biggest demon of them all: himself.

in good timing, too!

for aurëwen's balance shifts and she lurches to the side with an airy shriek that sets the hairs of his nape to bristle. tall but streamlined, jagtooth is built for speed and though he is older now he is still, fortunately, swift of foot. he lunges for her as she scrambles to find footing and without preamble, without asking permission — for he is sure she won't mind if it saves her from an early grave! — he reaches down to grasp her scruff betwixt his jaws as a mother would grasp and lift her cub and help to hoist the pale sylph up onto solid land ...if she can find leverage to scramble her back up the rocky side of the ravine. and he prays that she finds a foothold before his strength wanes and they find themselves sharing a watery grave.