Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

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for @Blackfell and @Star Eater

the birdsong led him here. for six months he'd recklessly and tirelessly traveled, eating little and sleeping less. each morning, as soon as the first rays of dawn filter down from the treetops, he would get up, and he would not lay back down again until midnight. his father would have expected no less of him.

forest turned to valley turned to tundra soon enough. permafrost provides an escape from the oncoming spring — of which veksar secretly hated, because that meant heat — and so something within him began to shift. his bones ached. his lungs burned. he never really knew if he was going to see tomorrow. settling down, at least for a short while, seemed more and more appealing to the crownore the more he thought of it and the longer the days got.

he'd been unaware of the fact that crossing further into the taiga meant entering the lion's den.

he came to a brief rest in what he could only guess was a field in the summer.  the sky above him shook its fist as thunder rolled. for a minute, just one, he felt at home.

the air carried the scent of rain, distant but nearing, thick with the weight of a coming storm. it was familiar—something ancient in her blood recognized the rhythm of the earth before the downpour. yet, it was not the storm that made her pause, but the presence of another.
blackfell had already noticed. she did not need to see the shift in his stance to know—he was always watching, always ready. but she had not called for violence, not yet. her belly was beginning to swell with the weight of life, but she had not forgotten how to be sharp, how to be steel wrapped in silk.
she stepped forward, slow. the figure ahead looked worn, carved by time and distance, his body etched with the proof of his travels. there was something in the way he stood, how the sky trembled above him as if recognizing a wayward son.
you are far from home, she observed, voice cool but edged with a stare towards blackfell. a sibling? it seems nemos' children know where to flock.
blackfell remained a shadow at her side, his presence a silent promise of protection, but she did not look to him. this was her moment, her decision. she sought herbs, but perhaps she had found something else.

stoic. sentinel. a beast as towering as the night's tall sky. he strides alongside the chieftain's wife, sworn to her protection; an iron escort from the lengths of qeya river and out into the wilderness of the taiga. she wished for herbs.

she would have them. blackfell had had time to come to terms with this new life. where he was not king, where he served at the mast of a chieftain. where he lived alongside a woman he once detested. the simple truth: he could not hate star eater if he were intent on marrying her spirit sister. and he could not hate her if he were to serve bloodhunter to her husband.

an onyx stalactite. crimson eyes peel through the valley, arcing over snowy hills, icy plains. black nostrils ringed by wet scenting the air, and hackles growing tense at what he finds. a scent he could not forget, a scent he would remember even in his dreams. blackfell's blood bleeds hot. his snarl is wet on the air, and there is temptation to rush from the side of the chieftain's wife, but he is rooted by her contemplative glance.

even still, the beast peels from her side. coming to stand at odds with his blood, eyes of red piercing through his cloak of charcoal. he snaps his teeth in demand, and resists the urge to swat the boy upside the head. what are you doing here? his demand comes in a rumbling growl.

in a matter of mere minutes, veksar's illusion gets cracked and he's thrust back into reality: that being the fact that he was a stranger here. he raised a lip intending to speak to the figure that approached him, but couldn't find it within himself before she spoke first. she was imposing enough on her own —

until he saw who was behind her.

i could ask the same to you, blackfell, he couldn't believe it. he raised his shoulders, gargoyle-like face now wrinkled up with a contempt that could only be shared for one's own kinfolk. he couldn't bite down the dismay if he tried. and who's this with you, huh? a new girlfriend? getting a little old for that.

star eater did not flinch.
veksar's words were met with the slow, deliberate arch of a brow, a single flick of her ear betraying mild amusement. girlfriend? she echoed, voice smooth as rolling thunder. you mistake me, boy. i was queen of evenspire—once.
her gaze cut to blackfell, measuring, before she turned her full attention back to his younger brother. and now i am wife to the chieftain of saatsine.
her head tilted slightly, watching, waiting for the weight of her words to settle. not gjalla’s man. there was no offense taken, no venom in her voice, but something firmer—a correction. a statement of fact.
her tail swayed once behind her, contemplative, before she stepped back, allowing the brothers to look upon each other without her shadow between them. she had no interest in old family quarrels, but she was no fool—her presence alone was an unspoken command for blackfell to stay his fangs, at least for now.

girlfriend?! that alone brings a flash of anger to the man. a quick glance at the woman at his side and then his lips snarl, looking back to his brother. before he can answer—star eater has already corrected him.

hmph.

you should be in blackmarch. pointing out the obvious. but the sight of veksar alone has skewed his day into a bad one. it is not that he dislikes him, no; far from it. blackfell, if anything, loves his siblings. in his own way... but it was not his wish for them to follow him into new lands.

that was his journey alone.

teeth grit. the hunter squares shoulders and moves with long strides, closing the distance between he and veksar. fully eliminating the feet that stood between them in buzzing silence and disdain. he offers a begrudging grunt and reaches to the man's head with a muscled foreleg and ruffles the fur between his two ears.

you have grown.

was he supposed to care who this bitch was? veksar's scowl began to stretch into a frown. he didn't know nor care who and what lived around here — he wasn't planning on staying long. nor had he been planning to run into his brother.

least of all, blackfell.

it wasn't that he hated blackfell, necessarily, but that they had nothing in common. the man was so much older than he, and even more so old-fashioned. it was like having a clone of his father living with him. all veksar could manage to muster toward him in that moment was annoyance.

don't touch me, he jerked himself away, lips split into a venomous warning snarl. ruddy eyes studied him, anticipating some form of retaliation. i left blackmarch.

why? he didn't even really know. if blackfell was to ask more about it, he didn't even know what he'd say. because he felt like it. because his head ached and his chest felt weighted; because every time he looked at either of his parents or any of his siblings there was always that kernel of disappointment and he was goddamn sick of it.

as if he'd ever admit it to himself.

veksar grumbled. what does it matter to you, anyways? it's not your business. and yours isn't mine.

star eater says nothing.
she watches.
the tension between the brothers hums like a taut wire, sharp and fraying at the edges. she does not move, does not interrupt. her misted eyes flick between them, quiet, unreadable.
veksar bristles, blackfell squares his shoulders, and star eater remains still—an unmoving force in their storm.
a long pause. a slow breath. then, finally, her voice, low and steady.
you are here now.
nothing more. nothing less.

he expects veksar's fit, and reacts quickly. when he mutters his final retort, the man simply gawks quietly at him, resisting the urge to grapple teeth with throat and barrel him over. the gods know that he needed it. a little disciplinary action—it'd fuckin' do him good.

but there is the steady reminder that his brother is not a boy anymore. he is a man. free to do what he will. at the same time, star eater's words ebb in his mind.

you are here now.

he passes his eyes from her to veksar, and smacks him upside the head. shut up. he spits, teeth gnashing with annoyance. your fucking nuts hang between your legs now, don't they? act like it. he asks, moving away to circle him. assessing eyes raking over him. his tongue clicks.

he shoves him. don't piss me off. go home.

come to think of it, veksar didn't really know where 'here' was. saatsine? there was no way he was on somebody's turf, even though the reek of foreigners is hot on his own brother's pelt. he shot the star eater a glare, one not of malice but of unease with a hint of desperation.

and then there was the whoosh of cold air and the throb in his shoulder as veksar was suddenly shoved.

i said don't fucking touch me! veksar swung before he could stop himself. his jaws clipped the air as he sprung forward, the brunt of his weight thrown upon blackfell's shoulders. his snarl rippled in long, slow waves. in this moment he thought of what blackfell said: you've grown. he sure had.

his gaze searched for the star eater, almost willing her to ogle his wanton display of violence — and dominance.

star eater watched.
she did not flinch at blackfell’s discipline, nor did she stir when veksar snapped back, their snarls cutting through the air like the winter wind. her eyes, dark and knowing, stayed upon them both, an observer, a witness.
this was not her fight.
this was not her concern.
but it was blackfell’s.
her gaze followed the younger brother as he swung, as he sought her eyes in the throes of his aggression. he would find nothing there. no encouragement, no dismay—just the weight of a woman who had seen countless men tear each other apart and remained unmoved.
let them settle their affairs.
she was only here to watch. and judge the prowess of blackmarch.

it is like the tangle of two lions, fighting for the lands they stood upon. the clashing antlers of two stags, seeking the approval of onlooking does they might find in their clutch. the mortal dance of two sons vying for the throne of their father—but at the same time, it was far from that.

there was no throne to be had. no women to impress. it is simply the war between brothers.

he does not expect veksar to fight him. but it seems blackfell has strummed the right chord, and his blood is turning against him, donning teeth as blade and his own body as shield. there comes a loud, boisterous laugh from the belly of the beast. veksar grapples him, blackfell feels his strength, but he matches it—and surpasses it with his own. shoving forwards with hind-legs, nails shredding mud beneath icy snow.

blackfell aims a bite for the side of veksar's face. their teeth clash, the momentary strike of two swords, then they pull apart. blackfell had no intentions of drawing his brother's blood—that was for veksar to bring to fruition. if he feels enough disdain, enough wrath. momentarily raised to their hindlegs, muscled crownores warring with one another for the upperhand.

blackfell headbutts the bastard, forehead to nose, laughing all the while. he cannot stop laughing. the joy of it! he hasn't had a good fight in sometime. he cannot hardly be angry. but his brother should not mistake it for weakness: he would—not gladly, though—pummel veksar into the dirt beneath him and leave him for the crows to judge.

veksar hated pain.

he hated the way he could feel it infect his cells, surging throughout his body and sending his nerves haywire. he hated the way it felt to bleed and to bruise. and, most times, he would probably tell you he wasn't the biggest fan of inflicting it upon others.

he wondered briefly what his father would think of this, of his sons.

blackfell refused to let up, forcing veksar into a stag's rut and challenging his size. the man still towered over him. his head swooped away from the jab aimed right for his cheek, and he matched the energy by lunging right for him. not to maim, but to correct. he pushed with an outreach of his forelimbs, engaging him in a chase with the purpose of delivering one message: back off.

his breath came out in long tendrils of steam. he finally stood still, tail lashing behind him, as the storm cloud of rage began to lift and he saw what was truly happening — he'd turned his tooth upon his own family. his brother.

he couldn't bring himself to apologize.

he looked at star eater again, after everything, and found nothing. it felt justified.

she had seen blood spilled over far lesser things. she had seen brothers tear one another apart and never put themselves back together again.
yet here, they waged war not with the intent to kill but to correct. she watched blackfell laugh even as he sought to crush his kin, and she saw the slow dawning of realization in veksar’s eyes as the fight waned, as he came to understand what had happened between them.
and still, she said nothing.
let them settle their grievances. she would not interfere. but she would judge.
only when the dust settled, when both men stood apart and panting, did she move. her steps were slow, wary, eyes shifting between them before settling on veksar.
you see now, she murmured at last, voice low, knowing. not a question, not an accusation—just a truth laid bare.
she did not explain herself further. he would understand in time.
then, turning to blackfell, she nodded once, approving, before stepping past them both.
come, she commanded simply. there was nothing more to be said.

family reunion! joining w perm from all parties. consider her a cameo if we dont wanna drag out the thread.

she could recognize kin from miles away. and that, was too close for kaedra.

the brutes of her brothers needed to be worlds away, but instead they were here. with her. the dark woman perched herself from a seat afar. a woman rounder than the rock she sat upon oversaw their fight. a new prize they fought over? probably not. neither were honorable men to take a woman that did not carry their children.

blackfell cackles like a fucking maniac and veksar? well, he never stood a chance. he looked to the round woman like an injured dog, and she'd begun to led them.

kaedra didn't follow. sheep's blood infested both men's bodies if they were following the stranger after embarrassing themselves in-front of her. she still had honor and a reputation to maintain.

veksar stops. sheathing his sword, stepping away with panting breaths that fill the air between them. blackfell returns the gesture, the wave of a white flag, turning on thick, north hailing paws and moving away from the boy. a smug grin to cut the black of his face.

he huffs, blowing steamed breath from his jaws. that still itch to grind fur between them. and there in the distance he sees a speck.

fuck. is all the man says, ears violently twitching, thrashing atop his head. they were just filing in one by one. his mind drifts to the black northman he'd seen hours prior, within the glacier tucked above qeya river. undoubtedly crownore—but not one of his, and that put him in grim standing automatically with the blackbird.

he stares in the distance at their sister, trying to make sense of it. the muscles along his body twitching with the aftermath of a good fight that didn't last long enough.

blackfell finally ceased. a shred of unreadable emotion popped up on the star eater's face and for a moment veksar felt it too.

a long salmon pink tongue spilled out of his mouth as his blood began to cool. star eater rose and motioned the pair of brothers forward. veksar questioned it for a second, feeling an instinctive urge to look to blackfell for approval before following. but he didn't need it.

he whisked quickly away after the dark woman and he didn't look back.