Little Goat Mountain morgendlich

idk if tags are working for me
the ramgoat passed through sawtooth.
he suddenly remembered when @Mahler had caught him something hooved, in the grotto. their pilgrimage to the peak. that he wondered if mahler still wondered about him in turn.
he blinked quickly to ward off the sting, sighing towards the sky as if he did not belong here.

!!!

perhaps he climbed to survey, or to hunt. or to look for phaedra, with an eye always toward sagtannet. but often mahler only took these trips to reminisce, to allow himself the hallowed halls of memory into which he did not delve when he was home.
you are an old man, he told himself.
but the stoneflower gaze which beheld the stranger knew him. a scarred boy gone to quiet man, and for a long time he only looked at the child he had once taught.

astraeus became more indignant the longer he sat.
why did he come here? to torment himself and languish in self-pity, gratified by the aching between his eyes? he pushed the tears away finally.
he would go far from here, it was time to leave it all —
it was the gargoyle who stared back at him.
ich liebe dich, papa.
when he was a child, he had to pleaded to shut his mouth. now he choked at the notion of trying to form even hello or goodbye,
or i love you.

throat thrummed; mahler had never been a perfect father to astraeus, allowing himself to hold all the world that time off with one arm.
but it was a different man who approached the younger, with greyed muzzle and eyes wet in knowledge of failure.
yet this was not his moment. his love had not ended, it had only been banked down.

he told himself, when this happened he would orchestrate it  perfectly, duct tape point of place on the stage and all.
he would flame, his vater would wither. but most important of all, he would mend. he would close this last door. he would prove it, that boys could survive just fine without their fathers.
that he was a man now. really.
astraeus was overcome with a sadness that ran him through like a river.
his eyes glittered, daring him to even move, to even whisper so they would rain down his cheeks, to his chin, to his lips.
astraeus' love had been banked down too, where he was unable to approach it rather than acknowledge it.

was it a wall between them? was the obstacle so great? mahler did not know; all he understood was that he had struck something.
and still there were no words, astraeus was silent and he could not speak. 
"komm jetzt nach hause." how dare he ask for forgiveness; how dare he ask to start over.
and yet mahler stood in this truth.

mahler had always been forward and sudden. 
he appreciated it when he as younger too, because it saved them time.
now it dared to cave him in.
even if he could understand his german had been lost him now. he couldn't make a sound. astraeus inched, threatening to lay seige the ramparts between them now, in exchange for no more words.
gingerly sliding his chin over his vater's shoulder, he pressed the side of his temple to his neck and wept wordlessly. only the shudder of his back and warm tears on mahler's skin would let him know.
because he still needed his vater. mahler still needed to do what a vater should.

and mahler was there, fierce and silent and overcome, catching the boy — the young man — up in his embrace. 
he was here.
he was present, as perhaps he had never before been. astraeus, thade, phaedra, druid, heda — not again. never again. and then his own tears came with a hoarse sound.

he missed this, as much as he would immediately deny it.
he blinked thoughtfully at what was wylla's scent.
their children too. it was only them.
he slowly drew back, licking the salt cornered at his father's lip. his watery eyes made everything look like a blotchy acrylic, impressionist. this had played out differently than he had imagined. what would he make of it now?
he'd shed too much of skin to turn tail back to nowhere. he was rendered unconventional in speech, so he couldn't explain himself either.
he pushed his ears back. he looked at his father.

so there were to be no words from astraeus. mahler did not know what the young man had suffered; all he had of the young voice was the memories from his time as a boy. the corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile that still trembled.
"there are four of us now. myself, vylla, and the youngest children: emmerich, isa, and anselm. phaedra comes and goes." he remembered her, surely. "ve are in the hollow, that vay," mahler told astraeus. "paleo."

he wondered if he would be allowed to be an älterer bruder to them. silently, he wondered if he wanted to be.
he was softer when he had met heda, when she was much younger. he could be liquid smooth, even, but he knew those things were not up to him alone.
mahler had been planting seeds in his garden while astraeus had been a continuity error. it was the way of things, he'd come to learn, and knew he could not hold it against him.
the memory of wylla and phaedra's faces had been lost him ever so slightly, but he did remember.
he bumped mahler's shoulder and chuffed. he was unsure if he was really wanted this time. his eyes begged the question. his heart knew the answer. about his pride? sulking in a corner, mildly forgotten.

"i do vant you to come vith me. to live with us. to be vone of us." life was not perfect and it would be hard through the winter. it would be the first for the youngest. and another for astraeus. yes; the paternal love was there, and the willingness to see it through, to show the younger wolf that he was present.
"you are my son." even if he would not be wylla's own. the youthful wolf could prove himself in other ways to the ferocious woman. mahler stood resolute.

"you are my son."
it pockmarked his heart differently, he thought when he said it aloud. not in german. every could understand that. he finally had that chance to present that love he was promised
on that plinth.
astraeus nodded softly, weaving around to this vater's side.
for good.

fade?

father leading son from the mountain.
father leading son to hearth and to home. 
mahler would not forget.