Herbalists' Cache hold my cup

@Blackfell

the den was dim, scented thickly with crushed herbs and the lingering musk of caribou hide. star eater sat near the entrance, the cold air threading through the opening, rustling the loose tufts of fur along her shoulders.
her mind was still sharp with the weight of recent meetings, thoughts stacking like stones, one after the other.
she exhaled, steady, bracing herself, then lifted her head.
a soft howl.
his name left her lips as a summons, firm but quiet, meant only for him. she did not call for others.
she would speak with him alone.

it is not long before he appears.

onyx fur smelted by silver pushing past the bare brush of her densite. he had been skinning hide from a fox, when she called, and now had it clutched in his jaws as he approached.

he is silent as he moves before her den, carefully depositing it at the foot, stretched out so it might feel the sun's wrath come morning. then crimson eyes swivel to the mouth of the den, where star eater sits, watching him quietly.

he licks blood from his mouth.

star eater’s gaze flicked downward, settling on the fox’s lifeless body. then, slowly, she lifted her eyes to him.
what do gjalla and veksar think of this? you, staying.
her voice was quiet, unreadable, but there was weight beneath it. blackfell had always been many things—warrior, shadow, hers—but never careless.
her pale eyes lingered on him, searching, before they narrowed slightly.
where is veksar?
a simple question, but not without meaning. not without suspicion.

his face betrays nothing as she appraises him with questions. affixing that beady, silver stare upon him that often and always sought to penetrate the deepest layers of his conscious. blackfell, kol, blackbird, uuts'taa—he is victim to it.

he affixes her with his own judgemental gaze for several long beats, then comes a scoff. characteristic of him, brushing aside her for his complex, turning upon thick shoulders.

i haven't spoken to gjalla. it is the truth. and he does not plan to speak to her until after they return from their trip. need i give her any reason to change her mind? words muttered quickly, coldly beneath his breath. he thinks star eater—no, morwenna—would enjoy that!

veksar is a grating topic. he had not seen his brother in several days, not since he left. blackfell tsks, teeth clicking, and he does not realize that he has begun pacing. i am not the boy's keeper.

star eater watched him, unblinking, as if she were waiting for him to catch up to a truth that should have already been clear.
if she is to be your lady wife, would it not be wise?
the words came smoothly, evenly, carrying no judgment, only certainty. she tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady as he turned away, brushing off her question with that familiar scoff.
but she did not relent.
you may not be his keeper, she continued, watching the way his pacing set his shoulders taut with irritation, the way his teeth clicked in quiet frustration. but he is still a boy.
her meaning hung between them, weighty and undeniable.
and boys who feel forgotten often make foolish choices.

a muscle tenses in his jaw, irritation flaring in his chest, curling tight around his ribs. it is not her words that unnerve him—it is that she is right. he says nothing more on gjalla.

he will not be forgotten. his voice is clipped, dismissive, as if saying it will make it true. but the words do not settle right. because veksar is young, ambitious, reckless. he wants something to prove, and nothing to lose. a dangerous combination.

you know this, a voice murmurs in the back of his mind. you were the same once.

his lip twitches. his pacing ceases. with a huff, he turns back to her, crimson gaze sharp.

you did not call me here to lecture me on my brother.

star eater sighed, the weight of it slipping past her lips like a cold breath into the den’s dim air.
no. i did not.
her gaze did not waver from him, silver eyes steady, searching. there was no amusement in them, no taunt, only something quiet. something calculating.
i want your unfettered opinion on my husband.
there was no preamble, no softening of the words. she spoke as she always had—with purpose.
she watched him now, waiting. waiting for the truth, for the judgment she knew he carried but had yet to voice. blackfell had never been a man without opinion, and she had never been a woman to shy from it.

blackfell exhales. he feels the answer he must give her deep in the marrow of his bones. and when he looks at her, really looks at her, for the first time in this conversation, he hesitates. yet persists: i do not like him. honesty that twitches his jaw, rippling tension beneath the scarred skin.

but he is strong.

the words feel like pulling steel from flesh, reluctant but irrefutable. blackfell cannot deny what is true. sun eater is a leader. a warrior. he does not rule with fear, nor with cruelty. he holds his people together as tightly.

but—

you bow before him. you were not born to bow.

there. the truth of it.

he does not hate sun eater. he resents him. resents that he has her. resents that he has what blackfell had once wanted, long ago, when the halls of blackmarch were still warm with her presence, when she was not yet a wife, a mother, a queen of men who were not her own. yet blackfell has his own path now. his own woman, his own future. and still—

still.

i do not think he is a bad man, resignation, then. but i do not think he knows the woman he has.

he meets her gaze, steadfast.

does he?

star eater chuckled, low and knowing, as if she had expected nothing less from him.
of course you don’t.
her voice was light, but there was something behind it—amusement, perhaps, but also understanding. blackfell was as stubborn as the north wind, unyielding in his judgments, and his resentment was not something she had ever been blind to.
but still, she did not waver.
he comes from a world where women were property. her tone was matter-of-fact, not cruel, not excusing—simply stating what was. and yet, he gave me power. he listens.
her silver eyes searched his, unflinching.
he is a man who gets things done. stark. captives. revenge. she gestured faintly, as if to encompass all the ways sun eater had made his mark. you cannot deny that.
then, softer, almost thoughtful. he knows what i was. her lips curled, just slightly, something like satisfaction flickering across her features.
and he fears it.
she let that truth settle between them, her gaze steady, unwavering.
he asks for advice, not blatantly, she echoed, tilting her head slightly. i think he changing.

blackfell spits, the sound sharp against the cold hush of the den. a world where women were property. the very thought curdled his blood, left a bitter taste on his tongue. he had never known such a thing—not in the crags, not in blackmarch. men and women were carved from the same stone, shaped by the same brutal winters, expected to endure all the same. the only thing to separate them was nature itself, and even that was not always enough.

if he fears it, then it is only a matter of time before he reacts. he sneers. and let us hope that he reacts well, for your sake, to prevent your widowing twice over.

the idea of sun eater acting against her—blackfell would like to see it.

his loyalty to sun eater is as thin as ice over a fast-moving river. he does not follow the man. he follows her. blackfell had sworn himself to morwenna long before she became a wife, long before she became a queen. and no title, no husband, no claim to her body could sever what had already been bound in blood and history.

what would sun eater do, if he knew?

blackfell wonders. he casts a scornful look upon her, as if to say: are you a fool? his teeth unclamp to speak, and it comes forth in a hot rush of air. men do not change.

maybe.
star eater did not shrink from his scorn, nor did she balk at the heat in his voice. she met it with something quieter, steadier, the weight of her gaze pressing into him as though she could will him to see what she did.
or he will come to respect it.
her breath curled in the cold air between them, pale eyes unreadable. i must believe in change. a pause, a beat heavy with meaning. you changed, did you not?
it was not a plea, not a soft thing, but a challenge wrapped in certainty. blackfell was not the same man she had once known—not entirely. time had sharpened him, tempered him, carved away what had once been. but beneath it all, there were still pieces of the wolf she had known, the wolf she had trusted. was that not change?
her tail flicked once, measured.
i would like to see you get on with him.
a request, or perhaps a command, though she did not force the distinction. she only watched, waiting, knowing full well what kind of answer she would receive.

respect it? it is almost laughable.

his lip twitches; a laugh, perhaps, though there is no humor in it. he wants to refute her, wants to tell her she is wrong—but the truth sits thick in his throat. he is not the man he was when they were young. time had taken a blade to him, carved away the excess, left him something harder, sharper.

but the core of him? he huffs, turning his head away—away from her.

respect is not given. it is taken. she should know that. she had taken hers, long before sun eater ever handed it to her.

a low, slow exhale through his nose. you ask much of me, my queen. and it is mocking the way he says it, as his crimson eyes lazily slide back towards her.

he knows what i am, she concludes, unshaken by his mockery, by the way he turns from her.
blackfell was predictable in his defiance, in his cynicism. she had known him too long, known the way his pride coiled around him like armor, how his loyalty to her did not extend easily to others.
but that did not mean she would stop asking.
must i make it a command? her voice is lighter now, not sharp but pressing all the same. a challenge, a warning. a reminder.
she tilts her head, studying him, silver eyes glinting with something insinuating. i would like to see it— you, him, camaraderie. just as i and gjalla share.
her tail flicks, idle, as if the request is not so heavy. but it is.
you might have more in common with him than you think.

his lip curls, just slightly, though the scoff never leaves his throat. always the same. pressing. demanding. challenging. she had never been a woman content to let things lie. and he—he had never been able to deny her.

but camaraderie? the thought alone makes his teeth clench.

he stands rigid beside her, the breath of his sigh visible in the cold air between them. she is baiting him. he knows it. feels the tug of it like a hook in his gut, and he resents her for it. she speaks as though he and sun eater might sit together, drink together, speak of war and wolves and her in equal measure.

she moves closer, prying him open without a single claw.

do not insult me.

it is you who feels insulted.
star eater does not move, does not waver. she only watches, tilting her head slightly as if he is something to be studied. something to be understood.
why? her voice is smooth, edged with something wry. afraid you might actually enjoy his stories?
her tail flicks, slow, measured. she knows what she is doing, knows the weight of her words. knows him.
blackfell has always been a storm contained, but she? she has always been the wind that pressed against it, testing where it might break.

ha! expression of joy at her blasphemous words. his chin, scruffy with wild tufts, juts upwards; a display of pride. it is his shield, it is his sword. he clings to it even now, as he squares his shoulders and walks a few paces away. only to turn once more.

he lingers.

his weight shifts, the thick fur along his spine bristles. she is right. because he is insulted, and he does not know why. because sun eater is not a man he loathes—no, that would be simple. he is tangled in things far more complicated, far more wretched. he does not like how morwenna bends, does not like how she kneels, does not like that she has bound herself to this life of submission, even if she claims it is her choice. and yet, she tells him it is not all as it seems.

he should believe her.

his lip curls and he huffs, blowing smoke from nostrils wringed by wet, his jaw flippant as he stirs to fire off another round of ignorance. but he does not, instead facing her with a stiff lip, turning cheek to her insistence that he come to know her husband. why do you want this? he asks, bitterly, searching her face. as if it may reveal what she toys at. what does it gain you?

star eater does not rise to his joy, nor to his bitterness. she only watches him, calm as the tide before a storm, her expression unreadable.
her gaze drops to the curve of her belly.
the promise of protection. of unity.
the words are quiet but firm, weighted with faith. something she so rarely felt.
it benefits all, blackfell.
her pale eyes flicker back up to his, steady, unwavering. you may not see it now, but you will.
he bristles, but she does not back down. she has never asked for his approval, only his trust. and that, she knows, she still holds—no matter how deeply he buries it beneath scorn and old wounds.

his ears pull back, eyes dark just briefly. what good was unity, when it came at the cost of herself? what good was protection, when it required her to bend? but she is looking at him with that certainty, that stubborn faith she wields like a weapon, and he cannot meet it with his usual cynicism.

because he does trust her. because, despite everything, despite the years and the distance and the choices that have led them here, he still believes in her.

but that does not mean he has to believe in him.

he does not say it. instead, he huffs, shaking his head, stepping back as if to put space between them, as if distance might cool whatever fire burns in his chest. i will see what i see, morwenna. he pauses. for you.

thank you, kol.
the name slips from her lips like a whisper, a thing long buried beneath the weight of time and titles.
blackfell. he has been blackfell for so long—a shadow, a blade in the dark. but before all of it, before bloodlines and duty and war, he had been kol.
his ears pull back, just slightly, the reaction brief but not unnoticed.
she does not press. does not push. only lets it settle between them, offering him something he has not been given in a long time: remembrance.
star eater tilts her head, watching him with something softer, something knowing. for me, then.
she lets him take his distance, does not call him back. because he will return, as he always does. as he always has.

kolfinnr was a boy buried beneath the weight of expectation, of tradition, of a father’s iron rule. blackfell had been born in blood, carved from the marrow of duty. he had shed kol like a skin, left him behind in the dark corridors of blackmarch. no one called him that anymore. no one remembered.

except her.

his ears twitch, just barely, and for a fraction of a second, his breath hitches. not enough for her to hear it. his tongue presses to the roof of his mouth, searching for words he does not have. he should scold her for it. should tell her that name is dead. but the words do not come. instead—

he fixes a final look on her. cold, red eyes that bear the weight of a thousand bygone ages. distant, cloudy with an emotion he cannot name nor begin to fathom. and he turns, leaving, wordlessly, without sound. and she does not try to stop him.

exit blackfell