Qeya River brother's blood

yikaas heard. she knew it by the scent in the air— distant, yet so familiar. they'd been born together, after all, the stench of his afterbirth forever etched in her young, youthful memories. but what became of him? what morsels of her brother had been left? did she, after all this time, make a crucial mistake?
@Gjalla, the starwoven called for her. her arrival, new and shiny, was the uproar of saatsine. with @Ghelan's mistake, his toilsome, teenage nature, she needed to see her star sister once more.
she lay there, at the entrance of her den with the collection of caribou hides and oils. they were a perfume that wafted through the winds that terrorized their lands, but it had been a comfort more than anything else.
and that was what she had needed. comfort. where ever her husband had gallivanted off to, was no business of her own. he seemed...okay with what she had told him. but that was it. okay. a shrill sigh left her throat, waiting for gjalla to heed her call.

ghelan tag for mention

gjalla was not one to be summoned, not one to come at the beckoning of another, yet the voice that called for her was more than a mere command. no, they were tethered—an invisible string, a thread that tugged at something deeper.

scent of oils and caribou hides greeted her before she reached the den, a stark contrast to the bite of the wind outside. it was an old comfort, one she had known well.

her shadow stretched long as she stepped inside, cold air clinging to her fur like a second skin. her gaze settled upon her star sister pensively, measuring the weight in her shoulders, the sigh that had carved its way from her throat.

“you called,” she said, voice even, though not unkind. there was no softness to it, but there was understanding—an unspoken willingness to listen. she did not sit, did not ease into the space. it did not feel quite right.

star eater watched her from where she lay, the weight of her own thoughts pressing heavy upon her spine. gjalla did not sit. that was the first thing she noticed, and it was enough to tell her everything she needed to know.
she exhaled, slow and measured, eyes flicking over her sister's frame, searching for something unsaid between them.
what of my brother? she asked at last, voice quiet, but firm. she knew the answer before she even spoke it. knew it in the way gjalla held herself, in the way the air between them felt taut, unyielding.
and yet, she waited. because to speak it aloud was to make it real.

gjalla did not flinch. the truth sat heavy between them, thick as the tundra fog, a thing unspoken yet wholly understood. and yet, still, she was asked. she did not know why.

her breath curled in the cold, slow and steady, but her heart—her heart was a drumbeat against her ribs, unrelenting, merciless. she had known this moment would come. knew that she could not ignore it, only dig her own grave.

“he is dead.”

she did not dress it in softer words, for there was no way to make it gentle. it settled between like stone, immutable, immovable. she did not look away, did not let her gaze falter under the press of her sister’s grief.

“i killed him.” she had been many things in this life—soldier, executioner, survivor. and yet, standing beneath star eater’s gaze, she found herself bracing for something far worse than battle. she did not know how she would react, not really.

star eater sucked in a breath, slow and sharp, as if the air itself had turned to glass in her lungs. silence stretched between them, heavy and unmoving, thick as the blood that once bound them.
she had known. perhaps not in certainty, not in words spoken aloud, but she had known. still, the weight of it settled deep, curling itself around her ribs like a vice.
her gaze did not waver from gjalla, though something within her shifted—something old and aching, something she had buried beneath duty and fire.
and then, after what felt like an eternity, she exhaled.
how are you doing?
her voice was softer than it should have been, quieter than the storm she felt within her chest. she did not ask why. she knew why. it was on her husband's order.

gjalla’s breath did not hitch, did not falter, but something in her chest twisted—something sharp, something that did not belong to the part of her that killed without hesitation. without regret. 

she expected fury or resentment or grief. she had expected star eater to rise, to snarl, to turn bitter. expected something that would make it easier to bear.

the woman does not even look upset.

how are you doing?

the question did not belong here, not when the blood had barely dried, not when the wound was still fresh in the space that separated them. gjalla had stood in the face of rage, had endured hatred like the bite of winter’s breath against her skin, but this—this was something else entirely. 

“i have been worse.” she said at last. it was the truth, mostly, simple and cruel. a truth that did not deserve the kindness she had been given. she was stunned at first, locked into stillness, but love and loyalty would always outweigh her guilt.

“it was necessary.” it was. she certainly thought so. all of it, it was done in the name of love. she did not think of him, even as she sunk teeth into porcelain furs. she thought only of her—of the woman before her, carved from fire and sorrow, looking at her not as a killer, not as an executioner, but as something entirely.

a beat. ”how are you?”

i'm glad it was you.
the words fell from her lips in a whisper, but they carried the weight of something much heavier— something that trembled beneath the surface like an earthquake waiting to split the earth. she had thought she would know what to say, thought she would have something inher chest, something pull from the marrow of her bones.
but she did not.
a quivering breath, a small thing, fragile. i do not know. because she did not.
and it was the truth. star eater was a woman who had known suffering, she wrote the fucking book on it, who had weathered storms and held fire in her belly, but this? this was an unfamiliar void that stretched out before her, vast and endless.
but she did not know how to mourn him. she did not know if she could. but her heart yearned. it ached.
she only knew that he was gone, and gjalla had sent him there. to meet the seven. and still—still— she could not bring herself to feel anger. only something quieter, something nameless.

i’m glad it was you.

she felt star eater's words in her bones, felt them sink into the marrow and take root like something dangerous. the words twisted inside her, an ache that was neither grief nor relief, but something else entirely that she could not name.

she was glad, too, though she would never say it outright, not to her. the moment stark became a threat, the moment she saw his existence as something that could bring harm to her, it had already been decided. he had never stood a chance. she had relished it—gods, she did—the way his life drained from his eyes, body crumpled beneath her teeth. there had been no hesitation, no second thoughts, only the sharp, unwavering promise of safety. safety for her star-sister, safety for the pups she would welcome come spring.

a muscle in her jaw twitched, but she said nothing, only watched her. she did not know. gjalla had supposed she wouldn’t. how did one grieve a thing they had already lost long before death came for it?

she inhaled slowly, deeply, as if tasting the weight of the words, letting them settle where they pleased. there was no anger, no blame, only something quieter. melancholic, perhaps doleful.

she should not want this. this nearness. this understanding between them that was more than blood, more than fate. but she did. her body tensed, an urge suppressed. to reach. to hold. to comfort.

“i would do it again, if it meant you would be safe.” she said, voice low, certain, as if swearing an oath. she would do it a thousand times over, but gjalla does not dwell on the topic. “how is your pregnancy fairing?”

her breath trembled in her chest, her ribs rising and falling with a weight she had not expected to carry. she had told herself she would not cry, had convinced herself there was nothing left to grieve. stark had died long before his body had fallen. he had been gone for seasons, for lifetimes, for as long as she had known she could never love him as he was.
but when she moved, it was without hesitation. she reached for gjalla, pressed herself into her, held her with a quiet desperation that went unspoken. her face buried against her, and there, in the silence between them, she wept. quietly, steadily. her shoulders shook, but she did not sob. she simply let herself grieve in the only way she knew how.
thank you, she whispered, barely more than a breath. her voice wavered, but she held firm, as if speaking the words aloud might make them real. that was not my brother. she said it like a conviction, like a truth she needed to believe. because if she did, maybe it would not hurt so much.
she pulled away only slightly, enough to meet gjalla’s gaze. it is fairing well, she answered, voice steadier now. she inhaled sharply, as if drawing strength from the woman before her. strong, like their father. like the man who had given her a new life. a safer one.
she searched gjalla’s face, her own wet with the remnants of her sorrow, but she did not pull away completely. will you stay?

gjalla stood frozen for a moment. the tenderness of it was unexpected, something she hadn’t anticipated, and yet it felt right. she didn’t pull away when star eater reached for her, didn’t flinch when the warmth of her body pressed so closely, like the quiet yearning of two wolves bound by something beyond words.

she held herself steady for a moment longer before tucking her head into the she-wolf's neck.

thank you.

the words were soft and laden with something raw, something fragile. but there was no sadness in her eyes as she looked down at her sister, no pity. just a quiet understanding—one that she couldn’t fully explain.

“i’m not going anywhere, mo.” she replied.

star eater inhaled, the weight of gjalla’s presence grounding her. she pressed her muzzle into the crook of her sister’s neck, silent for a moment, as if committing the scent of her to memory.
good, she murmured. stay.
it was a command wrapped in something softer. something she would not name.
when she pulled away, er paws found the familiar furs beneath her as she exhaled, willing the last remnants of grief from her chest. she needed to move, to do something with her hands.
would you like to help me? she asked, casting a glance toward the scattered bundles of herbs that lay near the den’s entrance. dried stalks, fresh leaves, roots half-sorted. we need to collect more before the freeze sets in, and i could use another set of eyes.
her tone was light, but there was something in the way she looked at gjalla—an unspoken offering. something to keep their hands busy. something to keep them both here.

gjalla did not shrink from the woman's touch, nor did she speak as she pressed her snout into the space of her throat. she simply let it happen, let the warmth of her linger against her skin, let the scent of her fold into her own.

gjalla’s jaw tightened, something deep in her chest twisting at the softness beneath the command. she would stay. she had already promised as much, but hearing it—feeling it—made it something real, something tangible. 

when her sister pulled away, gjalla watched, catching the way grief still lingered at the edges of her. gjalla did not name it—she had never been one for words of comfort, never been one to offer empty reassurances. instead, she watched as star eater turned her attention to the scattered bundles of herbs, to the work that needed to be done. 

"would you like to help me?"

oh. she is giving me something to do, she thought. a distraction, perhaps, from the storm beneath her skin. her gaze flicked to the herbs, then back to star eater. her sister was staring back, and gjalla found she could not refuse. 

“okay,” she said, nodded.

star eater did not press her, did not seek words where none were needed. gjalla had already given her answer.
instead, she turned back to the herbs, the scent of them filling the den—earthy, sharp, familiar. she did not speak at first, only moved with practiced ease, sorting, separating. it was a quiet, steady thing, something to ground them both.
i used to do this with my mother, she murmured after a moment, voice low, distant. before i was queen.
her eyes flickered up, searching gjalla’s face, the set of her jaw, the tension still lingering in her frame.
you hold yourself like her, you know. proud. unshaken. a pause, something unreadable passing through her gaze. she would have liked you.
it was not an empty comfort, nor was it a gentle thing. it was truth.
she pressed another bundle toward gjalla, a silent invitation to take part, to share in something that was neither battle nor power struggle nor the weight of expectation.
watch me. i’ll show you.

gjalla hovered over the bundles of herbs for a moment, her eyes tracking their shapes and textures, cataloging. the faintly bitter smell of dried leaves thickened in her nose, but she did not mind it. morwenna did not press her, did not search for something that wasn’t there. gjalla appreciated that. it was a small comfort, a reminder that she was not expected to offer more than what she could give. not now. not here.

gjalla felt her body settle into the rhythm of it, the soothing repetition of the task grounding her in a way she didn’t realize she needed. she let herself slip into the moment, the only thing on her mind the next bundle of herbs.

it was a long moment before either of them broke the lingering silence. "I used to do this with my mother, before I was queen." oh. "you hold yourself like her, you know. proud. unshaken."

the words strike a chord in her chest, something that makes her feel floaty for half a second. she was not used to hearing anything of that magnitude, least of all directed to her. when she first came to evenspire, she had only known morwenna as the queen. never had she delved into her star-sister's family history, not truly, for fear of being invasive.

she wishes she had, now. to know more of the woman who birthed morwenna. she would have liked you. "thank you." the words are short, but undeniably heartfelt. "..would you tell me about her? besides that, i mean."

the woman pressed another bundle toward her, the unspoken invitation clear. gjalla looked at it, then back at her sister, meeting her gaze without hesitation. watch me. i’ll show you.

star eater pauses, her touch lingering on the herbs between them, fingertips gentle as if handling something far more fragile than dried leaves. for a long moment, she says nothing. only her eyes move—lifted to the ceiling of the den as if searching the rafters for the woman who has long since left this earth.
then, softer than most would ever hear from her, she begins.
the queen mother was kind, she says, the words brushing the air like snow falling on still water. the light of my father's life. he... wasn’t always the man the stories tell. not when she was there. she used to light up the halls of our keep.
a quiet smile ghosts the edge of her mouth, distant and fleeting. there was laughter, back then. music. she loved the night, you know. would stay awake until the early hours just to watch the stars fall across the sky. said it reminded her that even queens are small beneath the heavens.
star eater breathes in slow, steady. the memory sits warm in her chest, though it aches. when i was little, she would take me to the ramparts. teach me the names of the constellations. tell me that a good ruler isn’t made of iron, but of light. that the world already has enough sharp edges. queens should soften the ones around them.
the silence lingers. only the rustle of the herbs between them.
and then, as if to mask the sudden swell of emotion curling at her throat, star eater presses another bundle toward gjalla with a faint lift of her chin.
come on then, she murmurs, the corner of her mouth curling, soft and wry. i’ll show you how she liked them tied.

gjalla did not move at first. she watched instead, her gaze pinned to the delicate way morwenna hovered over the herbs. it was not grief that clung to her now, not truly, but something quieter, softer. love. or perhaps the remnants of it, lingering like the dying glow of embers long after the fire had gone out.

and when she spoke, soft as breath, gjalla felt it in her chest like a cold blade. the queen mother was kind.

her throat tightened. she did not mean for it to.

it was the way morwenna spoke that did it—not of power, not of legacy, but of her. the way she laughed. the way she stayed awake to watch the stars. the way she softened the world around her despite the crown weighing heavy on her brow. gjalla did not know this woman, not in flesh, not in spirit, but in that moment she could almost see her — a queen made of light rather than iron.

the world already has enough sharp edges. queens should soften the ones around them.

gjalla’s chest burned. i am not made for softness, she wanted to say. but the words were bitter, and she did not speak them. instead, she swallowed them down like shards of ice and kept herself steady, to keep her focus locked on the herbs before her. it was morwenna’s smile, faint and ghosting, that struck her hardest. there was laughter, back then. there was.

and how dare she—how dare she look at gjalla like that, like she was worthy of hearing such things. like gjalla herself was some reflection of the mother she had lost, like she could ever hope to match the brilliance of a queen made of light. the compliment she had received earlier—you hold yourself like her, proud. unshaken.—now burned in her ears like a curse.

another bundle was nudged toward her, and her sister's voice came again. gjalla's paws flexed as she nodded, waited. anticipatory.