Even with
@Wren traveling with them now, Akavir had remained notably quiet on the journey. His thoughts adrift—one scenario to the next. The last he had passed these mountains had been with the reluctant acceptance that he could no longer linger in the area of where his wife had died and hade tried to make peace with that.
Peace had never come, and only when Germanicus mentioned they take a bit to rest did the man pull himself from his thoughts—a nod given before he slunk away amongst the crags of the lake’s stone walls.
His return would see a piglet in his grasp—to which he dropped at the paws of Wren—allowing her first selection should she wish it.
He remained near her—it wasn’t that he did not trust Germanicus—at least, not fully—but when his pale eyes drifted to the soldier, he found his jaw tighten—and at the behest of the setting sun, so did he choose his words carefully as he slowly reclined to a seat.
“Admittedly, I don’t consider myself a man of in depth strategy or calculation, Germanicus,” he offered, his voice hushed between the three of them.
“But when Silvertongue speaks of a place with absolute contempt… and when she refers to you in the same manner, it’s not lost upon me that you seem to know so much of this Akashingo.”
A questioning gaze given, the brush of his paw to Wren’s own.
“It would be nice if you could speak plainly of this place.”
The path they'd chosen was familiar enough. She knew this lake, to a degree, a roaring mouth that sat snugly between the soapstone crags of the Sunspires. She'd gone this way the last she travelled, and silently, she hoped Akavir would not make note of it.
She is mostly quiet as well, feeling it wrong to break such a heavy silence, and remains so until a prize is dropped at her feet. A sheepish grin is cast in the Mayfair's direction along with a hum of thanks before her teeth are sunken into flesh. She is careful to ration, taking very little from the kill; for she was not the one who needed to be kept strong and energized here.
And she is mostly tuned out of what little conversation there was until Silvertongue's name is mentioned. At that, ashen ears swivel forward.
Silvertongue?
she repeats, eyebrows narrowed; not angry, but rather curious, as chestnut gaze falls upon Germanicus. What's she got to do with Aka-shito?
A fight perhaps—he had expected. An emotional battle for the affections of the three-legged Crowfeather, perhaps—
— What Germanicus revealed was a ticking bomb of emotion, and Akavir could feel himself begin to choke on it.
There was a buzzing in his ears—a faint hum and he felt as if he was drowning all over again. Lilitu, within the ranks of a man who pulled women in purely for his pleasure.
And Germanicus… “You placed her into slavery as if she were a toy?”
Deadpan. He could not even begin to think—suddenly, though, he found himself standing next to Wren, that knot of worry he held when leaving the creek worming it’s way to his chest. “Is the Pharaoh alive? Have you heard of a girl named Lilitu?”
The unraveling of Silvertongue was no more—and like bitter acid, he felt a disgust for the man before him. Does your lover know what you did to her? But he could not press it--not yet.
It was with this reveal that Wren felt a burning. A searing, soot-colored pain that scorched her insides. Silvertongue had been a slave, and she could only imagine with horrifically vivid imagery what that man must have put her through.
And then her thoughts go to Lilitu, who she could only assume was the daughter Akavir searches for.
Her sour, ugly gaze is burned into Germanicus, who is stone cold himself, frostbitten and unmoving. It takes all of her might to bite back the snarl, and for Akavir's sake, she does so, keeping her paw gently against his own. Had they both hands, she would have held his.
I hope you're sorry,
she scoffs under bitter breath, a coldness to it. She made a mental note to never tell Silvertongue she knew of this.
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He knew Lilitu.
That ringing in his ears remained. Louder. More piercing. The mention of a sister in a bear cult—Arielle.
Brecheliant. Did Ibis know that one day, the pack she had helped rule would place her daughter in yet another empire, even darker than the one which she had been born to?
Did Crowfeather realize the devil which slept in his bed?
Tongue tracing along his teeth—he could only stare at the man. ‘
Sorry’ was such a far cry from what should be spoken and abruptly, he stood.
“I need a fucking minute,” he seethed, the venom in his voice surprising even himself as he spun, pacing away, knowing that if he stayed there, in that moment, the only gratification he would feel would be the crushing of Germanicus’ windpipe beneath his forceful jaws.
Instead, he moved away swiftly—a lope becoming a run—until the stars began to paint the sky. And there, a broken record in his mind, as sharp aqua eyes regarded him, and her whispered words were remembered from their first intimate moment together.
"Do you know what a courtesan is, Akavir? I can show you." She had whispered the words and wrapped around him. Beneath him.
... And there, Akavir would stop his fleeing and dry heave until he could no longer stand.
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making so many assumptions here, can edit if needed!
He needed a minute. Akavir needed a minute, and in that minute it felt as though the devil himself had crawled up Wren's spine and sunk talons into the back of her head.
A thousand things flood into her mind at once. Akavir's daughter — daughters; slavery, sex, marriages, cults, betrayal, lies, honesty.
Silvertongue.
Silvertongue.
Silvertongue.
The windswept riverwoman who held a diamond gaze, who arched beneath Wren as if she had never been touched before, who trembled as she spoke of Crowfeather. Who's laughter felt all-encompassing, who was the first person to look the Gamma in the eyes and say she thought she was beautiful. Layers and layers of thick skin that all protected a history of anguish, of lustful men, of shame. Of love she sought in men that which would never be returned to her, and it was then that she realized what it boiled down to, who had planted the first seed of those thoughts in her mind.
And Wren was staring right at him.
And! As if it could not possibly be any worse, as if she could not hate this man with any more unbending furiosity, in Akavir she saw what must have been hellfire. In that moment, he was not her Alpha, her boss, her superior; but a broken man, a friend, who knew unspeakable grief.
All it took to break the levee of restraint was his minute.
Rising to a stand, the power of her step feels as if it shakes the earth; or maybe it was the fact that she herself was shaking, ripple after ripple of tremors. Full-body heat that bleeds into every move she makes, and it is not long before she is in Germanicus's stony face, staring with damn near crazed eyes that dig into the depth of his body.
There is so much to say; so much, and she could yell. She could scream every insult in the book, tarnish his name, give him night terrors for the rest of his pathetic life. And yet all that comes from her mouth is one sentence. If I find out you are anywhere near Silvertongue again, you will be fucking lucky if Satan is merciful enough to take the soul of your rotten, mangled corpse into Hell.
And that was it. Immediately, she trails after Akavir.