Knowing that Fiammetta had gone to battle once more without him left a certain level of yearning in Atlas' chest. The circumstances had been different than when she had dueled with Tobias; she had stepped forth and challenged for the right to rule Glorall. Challenges for leadership in Moladion always seemed to send a ripple down the population's metaphorical spine. But when next Fiammetta's voice reached him as he bided his time along the shores of Ruieze Lake once more, it did not carry notes of victory. His features creased in a frown of sorts, not so much disappointed that she had not succeeded to take Glorall from Eden, but saddened that she'd had to experience defeat at the jaws of another male. As his pacing steps swiftly changed to ones of true motion towards the crags, Atlas felt the weight of futility pressing against his chest. Was there not more that he could do to aid Fiammetta in her quest to rid the world of wolves such as the black dogs of the plains? He had failed her when Tobias had taken her, and now he felt as if he was failing her once more by not taking up the challenge himself and fighting in her stead. Atlas fully believed Fiammetta was capable of holding her own, but that did not mean his desires to protect and aid her were suppressed.

As he climbed down the rocky terrain of the crags to her, he was careful to censor his expression. When before he had felt forlorn at his inability to keep her from being taken prisoner by Tobias and his wench, there had been misinterpretations abound on both sides of the border. But he hardly had to make any effort to conceal his feelings of sorrow at his perceived personal shortcomings, for as soon as she came into view his expression was riddled with concern. When he had come upon her pacing the borders of Asteraia her injuries had been half healed. Now she was adorned with fresh wounds, and even as she withdrew her crown from the water in a shower of droplets that reflected the sunlight and made her shine as brightly as any star, he could focus only upon the blood that stained her fur.

Picking his way across the uneven surface of the bluff, his pale golden eyes never left her, though they were given to roam over her form as he grew ever closer. Scabs had already formed over wounds that perforated the skin covering her ribs. Water dripped away from her mangled face, a face that perhaps would repulse or frighten others but drew Atlas ever further in, and with the moisture ran blood and pus from the deep puncture wounds where Eden had embedded his fangs in her empty eye socket. The thought of him touching her in such a way made Atlas bristle, the fur along his ruff and back prickling as finally he came to stand on the opposite side of the shallow pool from which Fiammetta had only moments before withdrawn her face. He did not pause, stepping boldly into the waters and scattering the murky, spiraling remnants of what had washed away from her face as he fluidly hopped up beside her, circling to sit nearest her injured eye. Nostrils flared as he sniffed at the wound, the underlying possibility of infection evident in the way her flesh smelled. He did not speak, did not ask her permission before his tongue lashed over the punctures with slight pressure so as to cleanse it of the germs that would give rise to infection. But the repetitious bathing of his tongue over her wounds was filled with compassion and an unabated devotion. Maybe he could not fight her battles for her. But he could be there for her in the aftermath. He would be there to help her tend to her wounds no matter how many failures she face, because he knew in the end she would be victorious. And when that day arrived, he would be there to stand beside her as they burned a path brighter than any before.