Ankyra Sound if home is where the heart is, then we're all just fucked

There was much to consider. The wolves by the bay had seemed okay, but he wasn't quite sure if he was ready to put down roots just yet. There were still things in his head that needed to be sorted out--perhaps they never would be. Maybe he was irrevocably fucked up, and so Zamael entered the sound, intending on putting all the options before him and deciding on one--oh dear fucking god.

It must have been the coat color that alerted him to the familiarity of the sodden, still shape by the waves; it was hardly recognizable otherwise. A cry caught in his throat as he surged forward, feeling numb all over. Don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead, he chanted, sobbing for breath as he came to a stop by Alarian. The water rolled 'round his ankles as he bent to nose at the boy's throat, feeling for a pulse.

It was there. Faint, but there. But, god. . .what had been done to him?

He began to gingerly drag Alarian back to drier land, away from the water that threatened to drown him, to pull him away. The smell of blood was heavy in his nostrils; once he'd managed to get his brother somewhere safer, he turned away and vomited, his empty stomach offering nothing but bile. Tears from that, the biting wind, and--god, what the fuck?!--stung the corner of his eyes.

Fuck, fuck, goddamnit! He was already blaming himself with the holler, digging his claws into the sand. He knew he had to find herbs and begin to treat his brother--but he needed a moment to grieve, to curse his ill fortune.

He had not imagined this being their reunion. Not in a million fucking years.