Sawtooth Spire fernweh

@Melkor had told mahler of all that had come to pass within the court, and the general had been moved.
takiyok was scarce as of late, visiting he suspected, and more jealously he thought she was searching out a more worthy man than he. but she was correct in that.
off he himself departed to the spire, and he roamed the forbidden sharp foothills, wending up and up into the promise of greenery when the  snows let go.

quite far from where he's intended to settle the remnants of courtfall, melkor leads them south again, to the west. when the collective stops to rest, melkor scouts ahead. he is tired, travel weary and yet he keeps pushing on. he should rest too, but sleep brings him no peace. only when it is dark and dreamless; most nights however, it is little more than nightmares.

the rains have washed some of the snow away but it still layers heavy and deep in areas. though the tundrian himself is build to weather such he must remind himself that not everyone else is; nevertheless he trudges a path figuring when they are ready the others could follow in it.

steps cease only when a familiar figure comes into view up ahead. though the diasporan's name lingers on his tongue, he offers a low chuff to announce his presence instead — in the case that mahler hadn't already seen him, that is.

wolves, ranging in scents along the mountain. mahler was halfway to his destined spot when a low sound rung out, and he turned lavender eyes upon the dour blueblack figure of courtfall's new and weary king.
the general held back, moving through stone and across drifts until he held rocky footing alongside melkor. 
"i hope you and yours are vell," mahler rumbled, ears flicking forward at the myriad fragrances upon the other's pelt.

the diasporian leader approaches him, and melkor gives a small, respectful dip of his head in greeting. whatever happened between this man and his late wife was their's and melkor holds no ill will on either side. the past was the past and there was nothing anyone could do to change it. the snows shift around melkor's paws as he shifts his weight, ears cupping forth at the other man's question. ❝we're about as well as we can be,❞ melkor responds, a bit more grimly than he means. ❝i thought we might settle hushed willows but —❞ but it was clear even as he trails off that he no longer thinks that. ❝they've been patient with me and with this. i'm grateful to them.❞ in ways that words could never fully express.

❝how is diaspora faring?❞ he asks then, figuring it is fair to inquire after their ally.

at their last meet, melkor had spoken of reforging courtfall away from andraste's stamp. it seemed the man had set out with the intention of doing that now.
"it is a hard thing vith vich to deal," mahler commented. "you vill find a place." 
to diaspora; he rolled his shoulders. "vinter has caused some dvindling. but the herds are returning, and so vill the volves."

a grunt of agreement is given. ❝might even settle here.❞ melkor remarks casually with a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders. surely, his wolves are travel-weary by now; same as he. mahler is confident that wolves would follow the herds; that diaspora would brim with wolves ...and maybe he was right but melkor had a more cynical outlook on things. with andraste's deatb courtfall had also suffered dwindling. ❝what if they don't?❞

a beat of silence follows. ❝i don't pretend to know the full extent of our alliance —❞ and perhaps it didn't even matter anymore since the fey queen it had been forged with is gone. ❝regardless, things have changed.❞ glacial gaze settles upon mahler's lilac own. ❝what if we combined our packs?❞ a wild idea, melkor can't help but think and yet as the suggestion lingers between them he doesn't feel like he's made a mistake offering it.

in truth, he had long coveted courtfall's numbers to buoy his own. with takiyok's increasing scarcity, he knew there must be a way to preserve diaspora.
so long as he lived, the legacy of stigmata would be kept alit.
in a moment he saw many possibilities; he held himself firm against the stony earth and was silent a long time.
he knew nothing of melkor, save for what he had learned these past days. but courtfall he knew. she, he had known. and wylla.
wylla. 
danger in refusing this, and too great a danger for the gargoyle to entertain.
"perhaps we look about this place for that reason," mahler suggested, inviting the tundra-warrior upon a reconnaissance mission into the mountain.

the offer was a risk; melkor understands. a risk because he and mahler are practically strangers, a risk because of the rightful uncertainties held on both sides. yet, melkor has always lived by the 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' motive most of his life. the riskiest ventures were usually the best. maybe it would work out and maybe it wouldn't but no one would ever know if it wasn't first tried.

❝from initial impression, i doubt anyone's going to be bothersome neighbors.❞ he says, accepting mahler's offer. while the warlord was no stranger to blood nor battle he cannot help but think that seclusion is a boon. he'd rather not have regular disputes over hunting grounds or pissing contests to see who can chase out who first. a good bit of foundation to start upon, as far as melkor cares to see it.

and so it was written, it was done.
to solidify the bond of diaspora, mahler and his kill-brother had hunted the cliffs.
now he moved alongside powerful melkor, two males shimmering with a more leonine air, languid as they laid plans.
"i velcome the peace," mahler grunted, though it occurred to him that they were within the season. he supposed he could speak with melkor upon that at another time; they were congenial with one another. "vhat happened at the villows?"

❝as do i.❞ melkor murmurs in companionable agreement. even a skilled warrior who once lived for blood and gory can become bloodsick and battleweary ...this is where he is now. he looks to give what remains of courtfall's wolves the best life he can but knows that with their dwindling numbers — dwindling before andraste's death but made worse by it — that he — they — could not do it alone. idly, as they move, exploring and inspecting, melkor cannot help but ponder what andraste would think of this; two of her loves meeting on the jagged slopes of sawtooth to forge something more powerful than just courtfall or just diaspora.

❝the willows are nice enough but,❞ melkor draws in a breath and lets it out seconds before his nose drops to the snow to sniff at hoof prints in the snow. ❝it felt too open. too exposed.❞ perhaps a metaphor for how he feels at present; nevertheless, having gotten used to living in the protection of the sunspire's womb ( despite how much he now despises the vale ) he likes the feeling of rocky fortresses that being settled in the sunspire rather than on the cusp of it provides.

fading!

by contrast, mahler was attempting not to think of the late fairy, for he had not fully processed her death. 
he and melkor had come together in necessity, but that did not mean mahler had dealt with the choking, unnamed sensations that had risen in him at the knowledge
"it felt like the hollow has alvays felt to me," the general remarked, before he and melkor fell into deeper contemplations of the cliffbound treasures.