Ever patient, Wren was, and the payoff for having waited was worth it. The riverwolf is engulfed in an embrace, a kiss pressed to the junction of shoulder and neck — as if there had been no passage of time at all.
You gonna complain?
she teases, a coyness to the bashful grin that spreads from ear to ear. There is space between them only for a minute, Wren's gaze carefully inspecting the curves of her face, the slickness of her fur. Well don't you look beautiful,
belladonna.
Another kiss, this time to the top of her forehead, and then an invitation to walk with her in the form of a swaying tail. Someplace quiet was needed, Wren thought.
Thoughtful, she says, and Wren finds herself barking out a chuckle at that. I guess you're not wrong,
guiding her carefully through the spiderweb network of foliage, she stops near the edge of the treeline. got a lot on my mind lately.
What should she tell the riverwolf, for fear of upsetting her? She knew not how painful the mere mention of Akashingo could be to her, although surely the scent of travel still lingered in strands of wiry fur. She had to know at least something about the voyage, but Wren would not be the one to press it — delicate subjects call for delicate hands. I went on a trip with Akavir to try and find his daughter. Spoiler alert, we didn't find her.
The tip-toe dance around the destination, and who they were with and what they knew now, would begin.
But that's... y'know, boring. How's life been in Riverclan?
she slumps down into a sit against the tall slant of a large boulder, coaxing with a come hither motion of the tail. A smirk of mischief follows. Talk to me.
Another thing Wren had learned: she is a terrible fucking liar. Or maybe it was just impossible to lie to Silvertongue.
She thinks of the promise she had made to Akavir about not telling her that they knew, and she finds herself sucking in manual, haggard breaths as those eyes of pure jewel stare up at her.
She knows there's something the Gamma is hiding.
Hey, it's better to have things be silent than have some shit goin' down, right?
A forced laugh followed by a shiver that runs from behind her ears to the tips of her toes. They've got this, uh, like, really young queen. Name's Toula or something. She was... nice...? But that whole place was just fuckin' creepy. So advanced, like, to an unnatural degree. Fur coats everywhere and shit, like they live in some kinda dystopian Hell of opposable toes.
She waggles a paw, aimlessly flicking her wrist for emphasis. Some guy called Sen-moot gave us these berries and I ate a bunch and got really fucked up. God, that was embarrassing.
She's rambling. Or maybe just stalling.
Silence, as she swallows her breath and presses her teeth down on her tongue. And I, um, I heard you used to live there.
She knew. Oh, God, she totally knew. An inaudible whine comes from pursed lips as Wren watches the sharpfang's expression shift in the salted hues of midnight. Fear. Flashbacks. She knew that feeling. She offers a paw for her to reach for, if she wanted it.
But she couldn't pretend. It all came spilling out in a pitifully high-pitched voice.
Germanicus,
she rasps, an edge to the way she says his name. Germanicus, we were talking about what Lilitu could've been doing in Akashingo, and he said that-- that he took you there. Something about one of his friends and a lady he wanted to marry that was a fella-heen.
She would not use the word slave. He didn't, uh, go into any detail, but I swear to fucking god I could've killed him.
She makes an effort to keep her voice low, even as the venom etches at her tone.
I didn't-- I didn't wanna tell you, because I, I know what it's like, to try and rebuild after living through that kinda hell. To want to leave it in the past. And I wanted you to have that peace.
She looks away. The tears glaze her eyes, well at the brims. But I can't lie to you. And I'm sorry.
There were no walls, now, not anymore. Shed were the layers of shame and anguish, of bleak lives that had just begun to grow new roots in new places. Tales of lust and violence and of dangerous men, of stomach-curdling abuse of power and coping mechanisms one can never fully rid themselves of. Of teenage girls who realized their own plights just a bit too late.
Silvertongue reaches for Wren, then, and it felt a little bit like God above had cast a beacon of light upon them, however dim it may have been. Two rhythms of breath in sync for a fleeting moment before they fell out once again.
What more was there that could possibly be said?
Wren looks at her, really looks, this little riverwoman who came plundering into her life in a series of impulsive decisions and sweat and tumultuous conversations. And yet there were no regrets. None at all. This trembling little figure who had come undone in front of her, who bled raw with wounds the Gamma could only envision the weight of. And yet she understood.
The tangling of palms is met with a ginger press of Wren's lips to the tendons of Silvertongue's paw. She did not speak, she did not even think of getting up to leave.
She would wait for everything until she was ready.
Silvertongue expanded upon the vague sins Germanicus alluded to, painted a vivid, sickening picture that made her throat close. And still, she listened, intent on every word that came from her mouth, sharp as glass and dipped in honey.
She understood now; the love she held for Crowfeather. Why his rejection stung so harshly. Why she chose the people she did, gave her body for the sake of a picturesque love that lasted only as long as the afterglow of intimacy would allow.
Comfort and expressions of empathy did not come easy for the gamma, but perhaps she didn't need to give any. No pity to be found, only a bleeding heart that swelled and tugged and murmured in the chasm of a broad chest. Not pity, but shared sorrow. Understanding.
And maybe that's what empathy really was.
She solemnly swears in a whisper through gritted teeth that Silvertongue would never go through anything like that again so long as Wren's lungs still sucked in air.
What she didn't say was that she would rip Germanicus's windpipe from his inkblack throat at the swift gesture of her paw, if she asked. Even more silently was her billowing desire to do the same for Crowfeather.
And then, once the waves of despair and trauma had come to a low tide; We're both safe now, though, yeah? Free. We can build a new life.
Tighter she clutches that dainty paw, the same way Silvertongue herself had done. You've got me, now.
Two slow dancers.
Una vida nueva.
Silvertongue had already tried so hard to start over; the foundations she had built with a man who understood, and yet one who had betrayed her in possibly the deepest way. Her soul, still, with Riverclan — Belen was no longer. And Wren would never ask her to leave it behind so soon after she had built it; no, not at all.
But perhaps it could benefit from some... restructuring. Or maybe that was the red-hot fury thinking for her.
There are more tears from her lover, and this time, Wren reaches forth to dab them from her cheeks with gentle kisses. They are sincere, tentative, as if she is afraid she may be met with gnashing teeth for coming so close. She cries not for Wren, but for Crowfeather — someone Wren could never compete with, and she knows this, and she cannot decide if that is a good or bad thing.
Her own eyes have become glassy again, too, but that was not of importance in this moment.
Una nuova, nuova vita, insieme,
so similar were their mother tongues, the slightest of differences that made them intertwine in a blue-green haze. Riverclan is yours, Silver. Don't let any man take that from you.
I would love you the way he could never.
But she decides against saying that.
A touch, two noses pressed together. Wren's eyes squeeze shut, just long enough so that when they open, the tears roll in beads down to her chin and it confirms that Silvertongue is still here. She did not run, did not look at her in horror, did not scream.
And nor did Wren.
So foreign, so new, this tender silence between them. The emotions roll in tidal waves, so much of everything that she almost wondered if it was nothing. Every instinct tells her to flinch, to raise her hackles and then her paws, to beg Silvertongue to admit that she is lying. It does not make sense for her to still be here. She will grow tired of this, she will turn the other cheek once the truth sets in. The beast known as Wren is nothing more than a vessel, a catalyst; a creature of destruction, both of herself and others and everything she loves.
But maybe that is what Silvertongue thinks of herself. Maybe that is why they are both still here.
A long, lonesome foreleg snakes up and over the smaller's slender shoulder. Stay with me tonight,
not a question nor a command. I-I don't wanna leave you alone.