King Elk Forest tell me again how rome burned, how our bodies became the sun

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.