Wild Berry Meadow Tell everybody I'm on my way

@Needle

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Stark moved slowly across the meadow, his statuesque form cutting a pale silhouette against the lush green and wild colors that carpeted the open plains. The scent of ripe berries and rich earth filled the air, mingling with the faint warmth of midday sun that bathed the land.

He glanced back to where Needle trailed a few paces behind, frame partially hidden by the thick growth around her. It had been several days since he’d chosen to let her stay, to take her under his wing. Creatures stirred and scattered, rabbits and field mice darting into cover at their approach, and he could feel Needle’s gaze flicker to them with interest.

Stark knew she was still adjusting to the idea of traveling with him rather than on her own, still learning to trust his quiet guidance. He also knew that she knew he was amongst her best chances at thriving, instead of just surviving.

He paused near a thick patch of berries, the bushes heavy with ripe fruit. "Eat," he said, nodding to the abundance around them. His voice was steady, neither warm nor cold, but firm. “The mountains aren’t close, and we’ll need our strength.”

The soreness from her first hunt had ebbed along with her apprehension towards the deerhunter. As an adolescent, it was natural for her to follow. It took a lot of the pressure from her inexperienced shoulders.

At the basilisk’s indication, she gave the plump berries an incredulous sniff, curling her nose in distaste. It wasn’t so much the smell that upset her as it was the unfamiliar concept. Though these delightfully colored fruits were quite aromatic, they were a far cry from meat.

His voice could be as firm as he wanted, but gosling was still Needle.

What am I, a squirrel? She scoffed. That’s prey food.

Unfortunately for her, none of the rogues who’d taken her in had been particularly keen on teaching her in a practical sense. Fighting and shit-talking seemed to be their only talents at any rate. They had kept her around as more of an inconvenient pet than one of their own, and this was probably why none of them came looking for her.

The dark tips of her ears swiveled, searching futilely for a hint of live meat that hadn’t already been frightened away by the prowling wolves. Can’t we hunt?

He was El Cazador, after all.

He scoffed, as well.

"You’d do well to eat what’s in front of you," he replied evenly, "and not complain." Her ears swiveled, her restless energy palpable, and he could almost feel her frustration. The itching ache for action. But Stark wasn’t moved by impulse. He was deliberate, methodical, and he expected the same from her, even if it meant breaking some of her bad habits.

Turning his head toward her, he leaned slightly closer, his voice dipping lower, almost like a growl.

"If we hunt now, you waste energy chasing shadows. There is nothing here. Eat, or don’t. But if you collapse, I will not drag your corpse up those mountains." He looked upon her, not with ill will, but with something just as equally harsh. The impatient, intolerant glare of a ruler.

That was what he was. It was what he'd always be.

The soft spot he was developing for the annoying burr in his fur that she was didn't change that. As if willing to impart her some encouragement, his head moved suddenly from hers and towards one of the many ripe bushes. Teeth parting, plucking several berries from their stem and indulging in them with little complaint.

Needle’s ears splayed in contempt.

So bossy.

She was getting used to it—enjoying it more than she would ever care to admit. The structure he gave her, the teachings, the directions, it all came harshly. Unforgiving. Uncompromising. But he stimulated her mind, gave her purpose. Where the rogues had expected her blind obedience, cazador expected her to be better.

Still, she was a child; one who snorted at his explanation, turned her nose up at it and pretended not to listen. And neither would she quail beneath his withering gaze, a look that would cut lesser wolves to ribbons. To the threat, she huffed before mocking him. You’d do well to drag my corpse up those mountains and not complain.

Then from the corner of her nosy little eye, she spied him take one. A bouncing little fruit. The leaves rattled from where he had plucked it.

Her posture loosened, slowly easing into another investigation of the berries. Gingerly, she plucked one of her own and burst it between her teeth with more force than necessary. It was not nearly as tough as meat and gone in an instant.

Surprised at first, Needle’s eyes lit up at the taste, then pushed forward to rifle through the foliage, reaping berry after berry.

Stark didn’t respond immediately to her quip, he instead continued eating, the soft rustle of the meadow grasses accompanying the shared noises of their berry picking. At her mockery, he spared her a sidelong glance, his yellow eye looming at her as it usually did, but the faintest twitch of his scarred lip hinted at his restrained amusement.

“You think your corpse is worth the effort?” he replied evenly, but his sharp tone betrayed his musing. If she wanted to bark, he was more than willing to bark back. “Better to leave it for the crows. They would see to it that you were put to good use.” His nostrils twitched, inhaling an even, grating breath in attempt to bite back his laughter at his own joke.

He'd let her find her own way, as he always would, observing silently as she plucked a berry with exaggerated force, crushing it between her teeth. It was then he allowed himself a laugh, as brief as it was, head tossing in a bemused jerk. She began to greedily snoop through the bushes, and Stark's tail tucked along his haunches, swaying ever so gently.

He offered no indulgence, no coddling, because she didn’t need it. She needed the truth, harsh and unyielding. And yet, in moments like this—when her guard fell, and her youthful eagerness broke through—he couldn’t help but feel a grudging pride. He tsked, snorting as her maw began to stain dark with the juice of the berries she gorged herself on.

"You eat all the berries, there will be nothing to feed those deer you love so much."

Maybe if they starve, they will be easier to catch, Needle gargled through a mouthful of berries. She’d discovered that collecting three or four at a time made for a pleasant burst of juice. She smacked on them noisily, shuddering the entire plant as she snuffled around for more. What do I care anyway? We’re leaving.

Once she’d left a place for good, she’d never seen it again. Like when her family moved from Riverclan to the river of Qeya. Or when she became lost in those woods. There was also that sandy place, those seemingly endless dunes. And all the thousands of acres of wilderness in between. This was simply the latest region in a land of many to abandon.

There was no reason to suspect this time would be any different.

In her haste, she accidentally drew an unpleasant sprig between her teeth and ground it into a disgusting poultice. She slavered and tried to force out the mush of twig and green leaves with her tongue, but mostly managed to just make a mess of it. ¡Qué asco! she spat, giving her head a fierce shake. Okay, that’s enough of that.

Needle looked to the hunter, her face a stained, dribbled mess. And if she had seen the way she looked compared to him, she would’ve been embarrassed. For he, stonemason, lord of cathedral gargoyles, and statue eternal, appeared as regal as ever. His jagged, wartorn edges having smoothed in her eyes. From a figure of warning to one of safety, nobility.

There was still a wild air to him, the promise of savagery behind his cyclops eye, but the tempest of his thinly veiled ire had been turned away from her. All things frightening about him had lifted to unmask the protector underneath. This was all she saw now. All that her mind could comprehend.

I’m ready.

Stark’s gaze swept over her, lingering on the mess she’d made of herself—her muzzle sticky with berry juice, leaves clinging to her fur, and a dribble of green mush smeared along her chin. His expression didn’t change, but a faint huff escaped his nostrils, something between exasperation and muted amusement. His lips curled, teeth unveiling as he looked upon her with judgmental scorn.

He had always been a bit of a... neat freak.

“You’ve done a wonderful job of decorating yourself, gosling,” he said flatly, vox bleeding of dry humor and a sarcastic bite, “Quite an... interesting design.” He spoke freely now, offering her more than he had as of late. Slowly, but surely, the stoic man opened up to his small, spitfire of a comrade.

He moved as she did, turning to begin a slow waltz as she announced she was ready. His tail swayed, his gaze jerked towards her, and he caught the glance she cast toward him, her eyes darting to his scarred face. Sometimes it felt as if she stared right through him.

He hummed for a moment as he looked upon her. Searching her thin, youthful face tinged in berry juice. A thought, then, blipped into his sharp mind. “Does a little urchin like you even have a name?” Stark's round ears twisted, “Parents?” He added, his eye drifting elsewhere.

As if afraid of the answer. He had grown attached to his gosling, in some odd way. Unspecific to him. He totally wasn't paternal.

Her tongue flashed across her lips self-consciously, then a wrist to dab her sodden chin. Whether she liked it or not, his opinion mattered to her, influenced her in a way she wouldn’t understand at this age. His attention to her appearance would be a foundational brick in her growing complex.

She was trotting alongside the gray sentinel, thinking about herself, thinking about him, what she must look like to him, before his voice drew her attention. Her ears twitched at first, slowly registering what he’d asked, and then her head bobbed in a little hmph. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t come up.

The surprised ebbed quickly. It wasn’t like they talked a lot or anything.

He wouldn’t look at her now, even as she fixed his profile with a searching stare. This turned into a frown, and she faced forward again, turning her glare to the path ahead.

It’s Needle, she said sullenly. And I don’t have parents. None that had come for her anyway. Maybe if he hadn’t looked away, maybe if he looked like he cared, she may have told him—

You got a name? She was quick to redirect the attention.

Needle.

Stark, against his better judgement, snorted. What sort of name was Needle?

Nonetheless, he offered her a tilted look, something soft swirling through his hardened, beady pupil of malice. No parents, either. Poor girl. Almost as if he felt for her, his ears pinned to his rounded skull, molding briefly into the soft, plush fur of his neck.

It was a sad life to have no sovereign. No sense of order. Perhaps that was why he felt so compelled to take her beneath his wing, to teach her what no one had cared to. Eyes back to the sprawling landscape ahead of them, they bounced from tree to tree, sliding through the autumn tree line with perplexed scrutiny.

"Hmph." A grunt, shallow and quiet. "Whoever named you Needle must not have cared for you." It was a sore, calloused assumption. The heavy thump of his pawsteps grew more pronounced as his pace quickened, black-tipped tail swishing like a white flag above his rounded pelvis.

She asked for his name, and even though he wanted to pause, he kept moving. He kept going. But his nose did twitch, whiskers following suit. "Stark." A cold response, knitted with a distant longing and a solemn, sad air. "Prince Stark Haelvyr." He made sure to lilt his voice into a more... precarious manner, overly exaggerating the way he spoke his title.

He thought she might find that amusing. He did. He hardly felt like a Prince anymore.

The girl rankled under his scrutiny, his muted pity, yet couldn’t understand why. She had also hated the name for a time, as it was given to her as an insult. But it was hers now. It belonged to her. And anything that belonged to her was surely above reproach.

They didn’t, she sniped, defensive despite agreeing with him. They said it was because I annoyed them, just like a dry pine needle stuck between their pads. Her tail lashed at the memory. Eyes squinted, recalling something painful. But now I like this name. Es mía. I want to be the needle in the paw. It means no one can forget I’m there.

Needle lifted her chin again, pride intact. There was absolutely nothing wrong with aspiring to become a bitter annoyance. Especially to those who wronged her.

It was a good thing for everyone that she did not think herself physically capable of murder.

Stark, he said, melancholic.

Prince Stark Haelvyr.

Prince? She was incredulous, one brow arched high as she stared up at him. I think your imagination’s got the better of you. Princes are just for stories.

Stark’s gaze didn’t falter as she spoke, her defensiveness rippling through the air like the lash of her tail. He listened, his expression unreadable, though the faintest quirk of his brow betrayed mild intrigue at her explanation. A needle in the paw—an irritation, a reminder of presence.

He laughed, then. It was certainly true.

When she questioned his title, disbelief coloring her tone, he let out a low, humorless breath that might have been mistaken for a chuckle. “Is that what you think?” a heavy, amused murmur.

He shifted slightly, his posture as steady as the mountains on the horizon, yet there was a faint shadow in his eye—a flicker of something she wouldn’t yet understand. “You could not be more wrong, gosling.” His tone grew colder, sharper, like a blade pulled from its sheath. “Stories written in blood, betrayal, and ash—yes. But they are real. As real as crowns lost and kingdoms burned.”

He watched the distant horizon now, tracing the peaks silhouetted against the pale sky. “I have toiled for some time, eager for a taste of what my elder sister was freely given.” He was willing to impart her some small view of his past, or at least, what he could remember of it. “I am,” He paused to correct himself, a flash of longing for something past present upon his scarred complexion, "—was, a Prince."

His ears swiveled, listening to the sharp whistle of the wind as it billowed past the two of them. Ruffling his thick fur, sending it flying in rough, messed plumes. In the distance, the mountains stared down upon him—daunting, intimidating, whole. They gleamed within his stare, calling him forth.

"There, in those mountains, I shall be more than just a Prince. I will be King." A glisten of ambition swallowed his gaze whole. He lowered his head so that his face was more level with Needle's, seeking to speak to her on a more personal level. "Do you wish more for yourself, Needle? To be more than a little wastrel toiling at the heels of another?"

His laugh, full and true for once, eased the furor of Needle’s spirit.

She listened to him then, quietly enraptured, imagination pooling into fantastical scenes she hadn’t thought up in many moons. She’d forgotten she was even capable of this conjuring. Constant fear and scraping and scrounging didn’t often afford her the privilege of enjoying childish notions such as using her imagination.

And not since losing her family had she thought of courtly things. Bryony Aquilanera hadn’t been royalty, but she’d certainly been treated like a princess.

It had become easy to forget this bittersweetness, through all that had happened since then.

However, Stark’s tale was drawn in rueful strokes, honest and bare, constructing a portrait that was saturated in dolorous grays and singed on the edges by longing. Needle felt her heart lurch for him, settling as a hard lump in her throat, more due to his tone than out of any depth of comprehension. But the more they would speak on it, the more she would come to understand.

“I am—was, a Prince.”

The wind seemed to howl distantly at this, keening of a great injustice. Needle’s ears fell back against her crown and refused to hear the sound.

A proclamation followed. Ears righted themselves and she looked upon him with growing admiration and wonder. She swallowed thickly, dry-mouthed from all the sugar, and felt the weight of his question settle like a warm cloak over her slender frame.

For once, Needle was speechless. The intensity of his single eye, the prospect of more, the hope that ventured to flutter between her ribs had all stricken her silent, wide-eyed, and starved. She searched his gaze for a hint of a joke, a morsel of deception. After a moment, her eyes dropped to the ground.

She didn’t dare to want something. She hadn’t the purse to afford desires…

But then she looked up again, jaws set and eyes full of fire. She nodded once.

I want more.

I do.

Stark’s eye bore into her, unflinching, the weight of his stare enough to crush weaker spirits. Her answer had been small but resolute, and though the fire in her gaze was admirable, he wasn’t one to let sentiment cloud his purpose. If she wanted more, she would have to prove it—and words alone wouldn’t suffice.

“Want more?” he echoed, his voice sharp and cold, slicing through the air like a blade. “Then take it. The world doesn’t bow to wishes, gosling. It devours the weak and mocks the desperate. If you want something from it, you tear it from its jaws.”

His gaze lingered on her, cutting through whatever doubts might linger in her mind. He didn’t sugarcoat the reality she would face, nor would he soften his words for her comfort. He stopped walking only to turn and stand before her, his movements sudden and breathing cruelty.

Comfort forged nothing of worth.

He stepped closer, towering over her as the wind whipped around them, ruffling his scarred coat. His tone lowered, not with kindness, but with a deliberate weight. “You want more? Then show me. Every step you take, every choice you make—it must be toward that goal. You falter, and the world will crush you underfoot. I won’t stop it.”

Stark’s gaze shifted toward the mountains again, their peaks rising like the backs of great beasts, uncaring and unyielding. “Those mountains,” he said, voice steady and regal, “will not welcome you. They will test you. If you survive them, you’ll be stronger for it. If you don’t—” He turned back to her, his single eye gleaming with cold expectation. “—then you’ll prove you were never meant to rise above the dirt.”

He moved then, his steps purposeful as he began toward the looming peaks. Over his shoulder, his voice cut through the air once more. “Now come, Needle."

His words cut her. Due in part to the power and sharpness in Stark’s tone, but also because he felt the need to say them.

I know. Needle’s jaws clenched. The ferocity behind boneyellow eyes flashed.

Did she seem to him as someone who’d had it particularly easy? Had she not shown her grit? Her resilience? Her daring?

The starveling expected constant hardship. She was impoverished and gluttonous; destitute and covetous. All she understood were needs, though now it was time to learn about wants.

She would show him. That she was more than willing to fight, plot, and needle her way into getting what she wanted. She was capable of it. But until this moment, she simply did not have the means. Ideas must be planted before they could be watered. Kingdoms weren’t built alone. And little Needle had not been able to see past her own belly, her own flesh and fur, to see a castle in her stars.

No one since her absent mothers had told her she could have more.

Her existence had subsisted on whatever scraps she managed to rake from an unfeeling reality, and now the entire world was lain at her paws, stretched forth so endlessly that her eyes could never perceive its end. What he offered was incomprehensible to her, and still the desire remained. Firm as her beating heart.

The Haelvyr King suddenly loomed over her, as tall and piercing as the mountains he sought.

He said the world would stamp out the flame of her life if she faltered. That to fail among the peaks would be to truly prove herself weak. And she was silent, accepting. Unable to assert that she would rise above the task. He was being honest with her, as cruel as it seemed, which meant she had to be honest with herself.

I might not make it…

The girl understood that the obstacles ahead were simply the way of things, the way life would always be. She’d learn it would take tooth and nail to conquer them. And her resolute expression told him that she was not afraid of the path that lie before them.

Still, I will try.

She didn’t believe he would let her be extinguished. Couldn’t believe it. Was it even possible to follow someone while knowing that they wouldn’t hesitate to let the world crush you? Especially when you did not need them to survive? A glissade of fear passed through her heart at the notion as she watched him turn from her and heard his stern command. It was infeasible for the girl, starved for affection, to accept that Stark might not truly care for her…

That he was just as cold as the distant mountains and as treacherous, even to her.

Needle followed, wondering quietly if he expected her not to care for him, too.