King Elk Forest tell me again how rome burned, how our bodies became the sun
his crown was ever changing made as it was by leaves and berries of the season
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It is the bugle sound of the King Elk that awakens Mato from his slumber. He jolts awake as the haunting noise bellows out again and again like a spooky siren’s song. Apple green eyes close for a moment longer as he lingers, still upon the cusp of slumber ( for the sun has only just begun to rise if the soft golden light that breaches the canopy above is of any indication ) and in the pause between he dozes back into sleep before it sounds again, low into the morning air before Mato jerks awake again and rises to his paws, following the eerie sound, worried that something may be amiss with the mighty beast. As Morwinyon moves through Tindómë’s forest and pauses as he nears the King Elk’s favored spot, black, leathery nostrils flaring as he takes in the scents. More than one elk now lingers in Tindómë’s forest: the King Elk has made himself a small, humble harem and the estrus scent is unmistakable as it rises from the cow that the ethereal warden of the forest has attracted. A younger male lingers, too, but Mato has a suspicion that so long as the King Elk draws breath he will not allow the young male to breed.

In the absurd need ( and perhaps his own fleeting embarrassment that he did not understand sooner ) to give the king elk and his harem privacy Mato does not linger long. He ensures that the small harem is ok ( and thinks he may make it apart of his daily routine so he can watch the development of the cow should the pair’s copulation take ) before he turns and heads anywhere but near the rutting elks. If they were lucky Tindómë would see new life, a child of the mighty, otherworldly warden. Which prompts the druid’s line of thinking more directly to breeding pairs and whether it is something he would give permission to. There was only one breeding pair to the pack, currently, and though it is the very last thing Mato wishes to think about he considers that his grandfather’s days of siring children are likely behind him.

Naturally, the empyrean’s line of thought flickers to his own, yet undetermined potential relationship with @Brienne and what a future together might hold. If she wanted. If they wanted. She is a constant in his life, a surprising collision with a bright star that he’d never anticipated but could not easily be parted with now; and though Mato is artfully skilled in avoiding his feelings he has grown to care for her. Deeply. And cannot help but think that it’s about time he ceased dancing around what has become an inventible truth to him. She’s already met his family after all ( despite the embarrassment they have been to him that day ). The druid seeks her out unsure if he’d or the King Elk had woken her or if he would find her where he left her to check in on Tindómë’s warden.
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She dreams.

Real dreams were something she had not experienced until the pair had left Northstar Vale and its wolves behind and though she had appreciated the kindness that Rannoch had showed her, Tindómë gave her a solace that she had not felt so clearly in her life.

The dreams are shielding and all-encompassing, so Brienne stirs not when the King Elk's call rings clear through the brisk morning air but instead when the heat from her Morwinyon leaves her side and draws her early from her slumber.  She craved for him more intensely — with more want than she had before but she knew how busy the infant pack was keeping the prince so instead she took the time for herself to stretch out and bathe in the warming rays of light that breached the canopy above, lingering where the pair had lay the night before.

Feelings.  They stirred inside her each time he passed, when she caught his gaze, in the way the sunlight reflected off of his pale grey pelage to give the king a halo, an aura.  They came in stride with a (late) physical maturation she was unaware of; the final rite of adulthod.

Tindómë's king returns to her once more but this time she is alert, awake, and she stands to greet him fondly as her lips meet the bulb of his ear. Good morning, Mato.

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his crown was ever changing made as it was by leaves and berries of the season
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#3
A shiver slithers down the Morwinyon’s spine as Aerlinn’s lips find the bulb of his ear and she murmurs a “good morning” into the velveteen fur of his ear. “Good morning, Aerlinn.” The druid returns in a soft purl, breath catching in his throat for a moment. He does not forget his purpose of seeking him — for how could he! — but now that he is here, standing before her, so close to her his lofty words escape him. It is easy to solidify that he will cease dancing around his feelings for her and yet putting it forward and into action is easier said than done. Perhaps it is a bought of nervousness that claims Mato’s tongue ( followed quickly by the internal scoff that he allows his voice to be quelled when it is most needed! ) or perhaps uncertainty. Does she feel the same way? Could she? It’s not as if Mato has ever done this before, and it’s not as if he necessarily had anyone he could turn to for advice. Burke, perhaps, but Malice is not his grandfather’s first wife and without know specifics of what had happened to his mateship with Mato’s actual grandmother he isn’t so sure he wants to ask. For himself or for Burke’s sake. To do such a thing would be so prying.

“I was hoping you would be awake,” The empyrean breaks his brief silence with a soft hum to his voice. “I did not wake you, did I?” He inquires, his brow furrowing softly with worry.
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A feeling flares up within her — something almost posessive as she bathes in the way she makes his voice turn, purl and hitch with something so simple as her touch.  Since his return to the King Elk she had been more physically affectionate; each greeting was like he had been gone an eternity, each departure like it was their last although she was never too far from her ashen king. Her thoughts turn to Burke and along a similar line as that of her companion's (although she did not know it) — the conversation they'd had about Mato and her feelings for him were once more at the forefront of her mind but she buried them down.  She had not stolen much of the ashen prince's time since the birth of Tindome and wanted to enjoy it, lest he not feel the same way.

No, she tells him although it is not a lie as it was not Mato but the absence of him that had stirred her from her slumber. But I am often up this early.  She detaches herself from him and studies him for a moment, wondering what he was up to because it was always something around these parts.  He said he had hoped she had been awake...  Did you need me for something?

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his crown was ever changing made as it was by leaves and berries of the season
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Mato set himself up for this one. In reality, it should be easy — to be forward with her about his feelings for her. The druid isn’t particularly shy but when it comes to expressing feelings he struggles. It’s obvious he cares for her ( or so he thinks, anyway ) he doesn’t try to hide his desire to touch her, to be near her. His vast vocabulary fails him as Mato’s muzzle parts to speak words. “Yes,” He wants to sound eloquent. Well put together. Not let her know that he’s nervous. Nervous about how she will react, if she will feel the same or not. There are so many variables that are ready to swoop in and crush him if he would let them. “Aerlinn, I …care for you greatly.” At least, he thinks, he didn’t blurt it out. He delivers it how he has hoped to: well practiced. It does not quite mask the nervous edge to his voice. In the face of being vocal about his emotions Mato finds himself lacking his silver-tongue. Still, it feels a tiny bit better to finally speak it aloud.
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The girl does not respond immediately.  Instead she circles him, wondering what has spurred this sudden vocalization of emotion from the starlit druid.  Perhaps Burke had spoken to him anyway, but perhaps he had come to the conclusion on his own.  She wouldn't pry.  Brienne finds her way in front of her ashen companion, folding under the ploy of confidence and melting beneath the words that still lingered in the air between them.

She wants more than anything to have words of eloquence prepared for him but she did not think herself ready, and now he is here in front of her and this is the conversation she both longed for and feared!  Oh, how she wanted to succumb to her innermost desires but she waits, because perhaps he is here to tell her instead that he feels she has been too close, that he is uninterested, he is just nervous because he must spurn her!

Do you, my haran?  Her flews pull up in a toying grin and she lets a small laugh of genuine delight escape.  You should know that I care for you very much as well, Mato.  More than you know.
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his crown was ever changing made as it was by leaves and berries of the season
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Mato’s gaze follows her as she circles him, hoping that he is delivering his words well though he nearly cringes at the lack of eloquence. In the times that he’d rehearsed how he would reveal his feelings to her they came out just as he wanted: well rehearsed and well executed. In reality, it was more like a man with stage fright. Though he could not pinpoint his own nervousness. Perhaps it is borne out of the consideration that she may not feel the same, that she may not want to be with him in that way, that there is someone else. Oh! They were endless and relentless as they badger him. He ducks his head when she calls him her haran. He tries not to think of himself as a king because he does not know if that is what he is, nor if he deserves it. He chose the rank Morwinyon because it emulates his authority but lacks the pomp that naming himself Haran might have conceived. He has a bit of a superiority complex as it is and he’d not sought to instigate it. He does not linger upon these thoughts long, thankfully, else he might have missed her delighted chuckle ( and that would have been a shame ).

The druid’s heart is in his throat as she speaks that she cares for him too — more than he knows — and his breath audibly catches. The empyrean did not expect this …did not expect to fall in love. “You do?” Mato’s voice is thick with his own jubilation at hearing that she does, indeed, feel the same way. Admittedly, Mato is not sure what is too fast and what is too slow as far as …relationships work. He’s treading into unfamiliar territory now and though he is far from afraid he does not want to pressure her into anything she is not ready for. “You do not need to give me an answer today, you can take as long as you need,” For her, Mato would wait forever, but he wants to lay all of his cards out on the table. He wants her to know where he stands and where he’d like to go from here. As to whether she was ready or wanted the same: that was strictly up for her to decide. “— would you do me the honor of being my mate?” Not nearly half as eloquent as he’d hoped. He’d meant to be more romantic but he is still tongue-tied and simplicity feels like the best course of actions in retrospect.
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there is some pp here, if i need to change it let me know!

She does not miss the way he hides when she calls him his king but what he does not understand is that to be king is not a position.  It is not something inherited or fought for, it is earned and she has deemed him both righteous and just.  If he is to crown himself the Morwinyon of Tindómë then she will crown him her king.

Perhaps she will tell him this when the time is right.  She very nearly begins after his first exclamation, the way he questions if she truly cares for him so.  Her thoughts surge back to their night together beneath where the stars met the sky and the long days they had spent together recruiting.  How could she not care for him?  Dare she think it? How could she not love him?

A matured man had emerged where the boy at the lake had one stood and though the work that his fruitful nation had stolen so much of his time she nearly appreciated him more for it.  These moments are what she lived for between the bustle of daily pack life!

Her prince snags her attention once more with a hurried statement that almost worries her for it would not be unlike him to delve into another, separate discussion.  What is this?  Trades?

“— would you do me the honor of being my mate?”

Aerlinn's eyes soften, the most slight smile gracing her face and then suddenly —

if he would accept it she is upon him, closing the distance between them with sure paws and an urgency she did not attempt to understand.  Wordlessly she nuzzles into the thick ashen fur of his neck, seeking what? solace? composure?

Oh, Mato!  Her breath escapes with the effort of the words she has summoned forth. I would be more than delighted.
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his crown was ever changing made as it was by leaves and berries of the season
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Mato’s heart is in his throat as his question hangs in the air between them. It is hard to breathe around it as it pulses and his throat tightens with razor sharp anticipation. He’s never been so nervous in his life and he does not know what to do with these nerves: how to process them because he’s always been confident. Sometimes even to the point of lofty arrogance. In this, however, he is not confident, not arrogant. He cannot and would not predict her response. He takes a ragged breath as he counts his heartbeats in his head and watches as she rushes towards him without verbal response. His muscles pull taunt but the druid does not expect violence. Not from her …and there was no sign of aggression. Still, it is fight or flight instinct that governs the coil of his muscles only to relax as she buries her face into the fur of his neck. His ears pivot atop his head as he tries to puzzle out if that was meant to be an answer or not and if it was which path it took: a yes or a no. She saves him from the over analyzing he was fully prepared to do by offering him a verbal confirmation. So…then, they were mates. Anxiety aside that had been …relatively easy. “Perhaps we should start a tradition in Tindómë to honor newly mated pairs. A feast or celebration or something.” Because Mato feels like there should be something more. Something that follows the proposal and agreement. He really doesn’t know of any traditions to celebrate a newly mated pair ( because he’s never asked ) but the druid is perfectly willing to start one unique to Tindómë, so long as she was willing, of course. He didn’t wish to put her in any spotlight that she does not want to be in. They discuss it a bit further in light tones but when quiet settles between them Mato only seeks to relish in her company before duty calls him back once more.