The weather is cold, but the dragon is not surprised.  When is it pleasant on this Mother-forsaken mountain?  Perhaps in the summertime, when he and Karina saw it last, it seemed green and fertile enough, but now?  Now, it seemed like a death trap.  Each day they lingered like shadows beneath skeletal trees, and each day Kjors wondered if this day would be their last.  Taking care of one’s self was a difficult enough task, much less making sure a growing cub never went to sleep with an empty belly.  It was a near impossibility, that.  And when one also dealt with a wolf who refused to eat meat?

Kjors’ stomach growled and he snorted to himself; today, he would hunt.  Fishing would have to wait for a day that would not freeze the hairs inside of his ears with the chill.  As the sun began to settle low in the sky, he sent Bennet a little further west.  She was growing, big enough to help chase, to help kill, and between the two of them, Kjors did hope for a warm meal.

At the very least, they could scrounge up a few rodents.

What he was not expecting was a third loner to happen upon them, hidden by the wind.  The voice was that of a ghost who called to him in dreams and Kjors whirled around, brows furrowed as his single eye fell upon the brother who once conspired against him with his very own mother.  But how could this be?

“Ah killed you,” he snapped, fur bristling.  The hunt was abandoned as he moved forward, paws shifting over the snow with no thought.  “Ah’ll do it again.”  Bennet was here, somewhere.  “Get out.  Get out.”

The dragon roared and lunged for his brother’s face, nothing but ill intent in his eye.

Kjors wanted to scream.  How could this be happening?  How could this--  How could this even be possible?  For five years, for five years he’d lived with both the grief and satisfaction that he’d murdered his only brother in cold blood, knowing only it was kill or be killed by Avari and her schemes.  That Kjell was no more than a boy factored little into his rage then, for he was not yet an adult himself, but to think he’d left a bloody corpse that had somehow lived?

Would his father be grateful that his favorite son was not guilty of fratricide, or disappointed in his heir’s failure?

The dragon would consider it a trick of the mind, a test of the Mother, but the sharp taste copper on his tongue told him this was all too real.  When he set out to hunt a mere hour ago, Kjors expected to fight and to live, to return victorious with a meal for himself and his cub, not to stumble upon his long-lost kin.  Not to be the hunted.

Wrenching Kjell’s leg from beneath him, he felt the larger wolf’s weight come down across his neck.  Kjors grunted unhappily, ears swept close to his skull as he tried to wrestle free, releasing his grip to twist and snap instead at his brother’s exposed side, relishing the twist and the surprised yelp as he snatched away fur and flesh.

“This time,” he snarled, spitting sulfur and heat, “Ah’ll finish the job.”

Y’never shoulda come.

The upper hand – he had the upper hand.  Had Kjell on the run, skirting around him with boyish cries, and all that went away on the wind with one, single, terrified note.

Bennet.

Time seemed to slow with horrifying clarity as he lifted his head, ears straining forward as he sought to pinpoint of the exact location of the panic-stricken scream that had risen up from the trees.  Even if he’d never heard that exact tone come from his daughter, he knew, without a doubt, that it was the young girl who was crying, evidently so frightened by whatever she’d found that words had escaped her.  Only from the corner of his eye did he notice Kjell move, and even then, his mind couldn’t seem to kick into gear.

It was blind reaction that made him flinch, and even then, his brother still got his tender ear between his teeth.  Kjors gave a startled grunt and shifted out of pure reaction; the spark of pain was finally enough to shake him loose from his terrified trance, snarl returning to his face.  He didn’t have time for this.  Kjell be damned.

Shifting his weight again, Kjors pulled forward and away with little regard for the well-being of his ear; indeed, what was left of it burned in the icy wind, blood matted against his face as he surged forward.  It didn’t matter.  Bennet was in trouble; everything else would have to wait.

He was bleeding, he realized distantly.  He was bleeding a lot; his face was already starting to feel sticky, even if the blood matted on the same side of his face he lacked an eye.  At least it did not impair his vision, even if the thick, coppery scent threatened to make the wolf woozy.  Ahh, but the hazard was not anything greater than was threatening his baby girl, and so Kjors ran through it, adrenaline overpowering pain, fear, anger, and everything else bubbling away inside his chest, threatening to suffocate him in place.

Behind him, he could hear Kjell yelling, throwing barbs and harsh words in hopes of hooking his brother and turning him around.  The golden-eyed wolf snorted softly and only increased his efforts, veering suddenly at the sound of a loud yowl.  He knew that sound.  Heard it before, in this place, with Karina, sweet hell why had he brought his daughter here!?  How did he and Karina forget about the other tenant on this awful, stupid mountain?

“Mother damnit,” he snarled under his breath, stumbling over a rock before hurtling a fallen tree.

“Bennet?” he called, ears (or what was left of them) pressing forward.  “Bennet!?  Where are ya!?”