The air was heavy. Cold, bitter, and unmoving.

His vision was black. He couldn’t move. Unfamiliar scents greeted his sinuses, washing away all familiarity. As he stirred, the heat within him began to spread, tethering his ligaments and sinew until will ordained movement.

Pure instinct pried him from the darkness. His vision was no longer awash with nothingness; instead, it became blurry and fractured as if he were seeing the world manifest into ripples of color. Shapes began to materialize—hazy, indistinct forms that evolved with each blink, teasing clarity but never fully granting it. What was once a void became a deep purple. He was finally conscious.

For how long was he out?

Shaking forcefully, a heap of snow was thrust away in all directions, powdery clouds expelling from his fur and face.

Rhydian blinked.

Surrounding him was a blanket of white, not too dissimilar from where he had been last. And yet, the area had an alien scent. The treeline around the mountain was also sparser than before. Although faint, he scented territory scent posts, other wolves, and other miscellaneous fauna. For now, that had to wait. Rhydian swiftly pivoted his gaze to his icy captor-- a mound of snow piled high, a near-perfect indention wherein his body had once occupied. How did that happen?

Wait—Wasn’t there another wolf right in front of him before?

Beside his was another pile of snow and ice, smaller, but unquestionably distinct in shape to safely assume she had been trapped under the snow as well. Perhaps there had been an avalanche? Or a sudden storm? How long were they unconscious, then, if the scents of the area had changed? He had so many questions buzzing in his brain like an angry hive that the occurrences just hours ago had taken a lesser place in his mind. Without much thought, Rhydian rushed to the smaller pile of snow, desperately clawing at its surface to free the she-wolf.

Nothing could be recalled by the snow-white dame. Faeline's head throbbed, her body ached with a pressure that bore down on her frame. Body limp, she remained still. The strong grip of winter's cold fingers wrapping around her frame was familiar, to say the least—and she didn't want to get up. Hell, she wasn't sure if she could get up.

Was this a nightmare? The air was entirely stagnant—no sound, no smell, no wind nor the presence of anything (or anyone) nearby. Pale eyelids peeled open, only slightly—and all was white, like the newly polished surface of a porcelain doll. Dread flooded her mind and coaxed her eyes to shut once again.

Faeline's defeated anguish could last a mere few seconds. She was startled by commotion erupting at her flank, shoving into her side and thrusting her down against the snow. Her eyes snapped open, and her head rose from under the snow.

The dense accumulation of frost parted to reveal hiemal scenery, a conflicting mixture of unfamiliar and deeply nostalgic. Faeline was almost positive that she'd never been here before. The jagged peaks of mountains in the distance weren't the same as those she grew up at the base of. These woodlands were far denser, stronger, bustling with more life than her younger self could ever imagine. A modicum of rancor welled up in her chest. How could this place be such a euphoria while she had to live with pestilence and perpetual starvation?

She shook off the thought immediately. Now that Rhydian had dug out an exit, Faeline could slide out from beneath the snow with a short stride, battering her torso and limbs to shed off clumps of ice that were ensnared by her dense coat. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth for a few short seconds before she clamped her jaws shut and turned on her heel, facing Rhydian with a pair of furrowed brows.

Rhydian, she huffed softly, what... the hell happened? I can't remember anything... Silver eyes scanned over the wan vista, taking note of every scrawny tree, each boulder that jutted from the ground. It wasn't as though she needed any further confirmation—but now, she was even more positive that she'd never stumbled upon this place in her past, despite the grueling hours spent trekking over what felt like the entire circumference of the Earth.

The off-white coat of his companion came into view after what felt like an agonizingly long time. Fortunately for him, the frosty grip of her encapture seemingly expelled her, a spray of flurries and ice smattering his face as she ungracefully tossed herself out from under the weight of the snow.

Once freed, she, like him, paused to take in the scene before them. In the quiet of the moment, Rhydian began to replay his most recent memories back in his head. It felt like yesterday that he had freed himself from years-long imprisonment at the rogue camp, walked for… however long back home, and…

Rhydian’s breath hitched. He remembered the look on his wife’s face-- resentment, distrust, hurt. Her words, unlike the visual memories, were muffled in his memories. She had aged. Developed gray fur near her ears, and folds near her brows where they had always furrowed. And Morriva and Aedric…

His vision began to blur. The cold clinging to his face and vulnerable flesh seemingly disappeared. His children.

“Rhydian, what... the hell happened? I can't remember anything... “

But her words fell on deaf ears.

Faeline was bewildered as she watched Rhydian collapse at her front. Wh- she crouched beside him. Rhydian? Immediately, her thoughts went to the translocation—had they fallen from somewhere? Was he hurt? Without waiting a heartbeat, Faeline's gaze shifted all over her companion's limp frame, pressing the end of her snout against his flank and prodding him gently in search of any wounds or bruises.

Yet, she found none. Nothing swollen, nothing broken or hot to the touch. No blood, either, from what she could see and smell. A soft, quiet sigh left Faeline's nostrils. Oh, Rhydian... she said softly, nudging his withers with her forehead before settling by his side and tucking herself close to him. She could only assume that, but his point, this was psychological. After all, he'd experienced hell and she'd seen it—the spite on his partner's face, the disappearance of the two children, which she claimed to be from death.

No. No, Faeline didn't allow that. She gritted her teeth and scowled in vehemence and borderline anger. Who cares about that damned woman, the one who lacked the maturity to support her own husband, yet somehow has the sheer gall to abandon him at his lowest point? To insist on Aedric and Morriva's deaths, after Faeline had fought tooth and fucking nail to make sure they hadn't?

No! A low growl rumbled in her throat. Rhydian, she called. She wasn't sure if she could hear him or not, but hell, she didn't care. Get up. We're going to find your kids. There was no room in her stern cadence for argument—this was the tone that she'd always used with her own offspring, years ago.

"Rhydian?"

Rhydian's mind stumbled further and further down into the darkness.

Morriva and Aedric, he felt a warmth rise in his chest as he recalled, once two little whelps, with no care in the world save for their supposedly rightful claim of a teat. Vaella's soft face, finally blushed by the sight of her newlyborn. It was the only time he ever heard her laughter, he thought. Two helpless, squirming bodies already so full of vigor and life, their tiny, opinionated voices echoing against the walls of their rooted den. The last thing he remembered was their first words-- Morriva, ever the quiet one, to speak first. Who would've thought? As he stumbled about in the depths of his mind, he struggled to recollect the memory of her first word. Desperately, he fought to remember. Mum, was it? No, not that... Gods, why couldn't he remember?

A rumbling growl finally stirred him. "Rhydian," Dazefully, his eyes obeyed the source of the call. Faeline. Her voice rang clear in his ears, and he couldn't help but startle. Blinking away the fog, he hadn't even noticed his body had collapsed against the ground. Again.

"Get up. We're going to find your kids."

"My kids," He would parrot, empty words spilling from his lips as if they were honey.

Faeline waited patiently for him to regain his composure. Alas, the time never came—he was seemingly stuck reeling in an anguished reverie. Faeline felt pity. She loved his children too—they were so similar to her own children, and she'd taken care of them as though they were her own...

Urgh. She slowly shook her head before thrusting her head upwards letting out a loud bark. Yes! Rhydian. Your kids! She'd be damned to hell before she let him put his head back down—but physical force wasn't about to work in this state, especially with such a large-framed sire.

With grace, she took a short hop over his body, standing at his side with her tail stiffly raised behind her hindquarters. She canted her head upwards and sniffed the air with a small twitch of her nose. I smell wolves here, she muttered, wherever we are, it's not our land. Now come on. We are not going to find those two if we're dead. She fought the strong urge to swat her paw into his rear. That's what she'd done to Finnegan when he was being too lazy.

No matter what Rhydian's stance was, she wasn't about to wait much longer—and she was going to get the damn message across. Her supple limbs carried her over the snow with well-practiced ease, taking long, swift strides across the clearing and leaving her companion behind. And while her mind was honed in on Morriva and Aedric, other unspoken forces were driving their fangs into her hocks and sending her rushing out through the snow. For the landscape was so similar to her youth that it sent bile up her throat.

(Of course, in truth, she would never leave Rhydian behind—god forbid when he was in such a state.)

"Yes! Rhydian. Your kids!"
The snow never felt so soft as it did then. A cold, rigid embrace that cradled him oh so tenderly. The voice in his ear had become a dull droning and the memories of his wolflings were his only respite.

His head had been propped awkwardly against the snow, his abdomen poised high in the air. Somehow, the little she-wolf--rather, little comparatively-- managed to leap over him, sending a cascade of snow into his eyes and nose, precipitously yanking him from the depths of his palliative memories. A disgruntled growl escaped from his lips.

"I smell wolves here... wherever we are, it's not our land. Now come on. We are not going to find those two if we're dead."

Perhaps it was reluctance to face the utter reality of the situation-- his wife had just broken up with him, he had just fled a prison camp... it was safe to say the situation couldn't possibly get any worse. What would the wolves in this territory do that could even slightly exacerbate the gravity of the situation? However, there was something Rhydian shant deny. The commanding tone of Faeline's voice, the way she was capable of solely producing dialogue that would motivate even the laziest of bastards... It reached out to him from the depths of his stupor.

As she departed, his eyes fluttered snow from his vision until he could distinguish her white silhouette with squinted eyes. Regardless of the situation, he had to find a way to locate his kids. The slim chance they were alive was chance enough, and he couldn't do it alone. Not out here. It wasn't until her silhouette blended into the snow that the wolf dragged forth a pained groan from deep within his chest.

As the brute stirred, his towering frame rose from the ground, thick tufts of fur splitting to relieve the weight of powder that had amassed along his back. The hazy, winter fog had become dense and soupy, to the point where Faeline was no longer visible. The thick tree line ahead, he assumed, was where she entered. His legs plowed him forward.

"Fae, wait--"

At her companion's call, the woman halted, turning her head back towards the voice. She let out a small huff from her nostrils—out of frustration, perhaps, or from the uphill climb. The austere stoicism that was etched over her visage made it comically difficult to tell.

Faeline's eyes were well accustomed to the brume, unfortunately in her eyes. She could make out the faint contours of his silhouette without much issue, watching him clamber up the slope. Well done, you managed to stand up. She snarked, looking over him once more for any glaringly obvious injuries of some sort. No, it seemed like Rhydian was just slow.

Faeline offered a few backward glances to make sure Rhydian could keep up the pace as she resumed her stiff march over the deep snow. She held her thick tail above the ground, both in an act of debonaire ease and from wishing to avoid dragging her thick coat over the accumulation of frost. Dealing with clumps of snow gathering on her pelt and tail was annoying, and that was just about the last thing Faeline needed.

Eventually, she slowed to a halt, scanning over the landscape with narrowed eyes. I've not the foggiest where we are. She mumbled softly, squinting against boisterous winds and thick haze of fog.

---

no what she said isn't supposed to be a pun. i noticed that while proof reading

'Well done, you managed to stand up.'

Groan.

His towering limbs still harbored the cold, an iron grip sinking deep into his joints with such ferocity it felt like large, tangling dragging him down. The very same joints that had once been sturdy, flexible—uncompromised by time. Those days seemed but a distant memory now. But perhaps age had finally caught up to him, wrapping itself around his bones as surely as the snow that had once swaddled him in disassociative euphoria.

It felt like ages before he reached her side, his breath curling into the frigid air. His gaze swept over her features, a quiet acknowledgment settling in his chest. She was just as he remembered—slender, white as freshly laid frost, and every bit as cranky. The possibility that this was nothing more than a dream hadn’t escaped him, but at the very least, Faeline appeared as she always had. Rhydian’s eyes narrowed slightly. More often than not, his dreams painted she-wolves in a... much different light.

'I've not the foggiest where we are,'
Her steps came to an abrupt halt, jarring him from his thoughts just in time for his broad skull to collide faintly with her hindquarters. He grunted, recoiling slightly. If she noticed, she gave no indication. All that fur, he mused.

Lifting his head, he peered beyond her, the once-familiar landscape now drowned beneath an oppressive, soupy brume. The meadow stretched ahead, but it had become shapeless, colorless, its features smothered beneath the thick haze. The setting sun struggled to cut through the gloom, bleeding what little remained of its light into the mist—a deepening orange, eclipsed by the thickening mist.

His gaze sharpened. A shadow loomed ahead, indistinct yet familiar in its silhouette. The treeline.

"Continue forward," He called, "There's a forest due straight ahead. It could offer us some shelter."

Faeline felt the gentle collision of his skull to her haunches. She almost whipped back and chided him away, but she also knew that a scolding was the last thing Rhydian would need—especially considering the fragile state he was in. In lieu of obeying her initial instinct, the woman kept silent and lowered her gaze towards the treeline to which he gestured.

Hm, she grunted in agreement, glancing at Rhydian, lead the way, then. She coiled her tail by his hocks to coax him forward, brow raised and lips pursed in thought. The fog that clouded his mind moments prior had evidently lifted—at least, somewhat. The velvety drawl of a languid state was cleared from his sonorous voice, returning to the morosely spoken rasp it was once before.

The sun drew lower over the horizon, and the gilded rays from its light withdrew behind the jagged mountains residing afar. Faeline pursed her lips. Sunbeams now receding, the air grew unopposed by the warmth provided prior; the arctic dame could handle the cold with ease. She was knowledgeable about methods used to conceal oneself away from the frigidity of boreal nights, and even without such techniques, the dense, porcelain-pure tresses that embraced her supple body could withstand harsh blizzards and unrelenting windstorms with hardly a hitch.

She... wasn't sure if she could say the same for Rhydian. Faeline could observe without a doubt that his frame—imposing in breadth and height, bedecked with scars across his grand physique—could bear the heaviest of burdens. Yet his pelt, blanketing his sinewy body with silken locks of deep-hued taupe and accented with vibrant russet, seemed lighter; too light for the tundra and its heimal conditions.

Yet, the she-wolf would prefer avoiding the error of underestimating him to fretting over him without necessity. She kept her jaws shut and the words of concern in her throat.

Silent as an owl, Faeline padded over the snow in sinuous motions, keeping wan eyes transfixed on her companion before her.