Qeya River weeping willow

gjalla was tired. she had not truly slept since their return, not really. she dozes—brief, fitful half-sleeps where exhaustion drags her under like a tidal wave, only to spit her back onto the shore, gasping, heart pounding. it sits heavy on her, pressing into the marrow of her bones and manifests into soreness. she carries it well, she always has, but even steel bent under enough strain.

the taste of iron still lingers on her tongue. rotten flesh, snake venom for blood. she remembered it clearly, it clung to her senses still like smoke. she can still feel the flesh between her teeth, beneath her claws, staining the fur of her throat. the way his head came free. the sound it made, bone snapping and flesh tearing.

she had no regrets. no hesitation—she knew that much, but that did not mean she was untouched. 

she lays curled, body tucked along the back wall of the den. moonlight spills through the mouth, wind whistles through the trees, but it is not enough to pull her from her own head. she stares out at the distant stars, jaw set tight, breath slow. she tells herself she is fine. and even if she wasn't, that she will endure, because she must.

but her limbs feel heavy. she is cold, colder than she has been in a long while.

---

for @Blackfell

sleep eludes him, as it often does. too many thoughts. too much rage still simmering beneath his skin. and as always, he finds his mind drift.

to her. to gjalla.

iron. venom. blood.

stirred from his sleep, he began the walk through the evergreens; one paw after the other. his mind a turbulent storm. he reaches the entrance of her den, steps slowing as he peers inside where she’s curled against the back wall. a rigid body, starlight eyes pinned to the night sky. blackfell heaves a sigh and his breath fogs.

his black crown appears in her vision, crimson eyes softened only by her.

may i come in?

she smells him before she sees him. ash and cedarwood, heavy on her nose but hardly unwelcome.

she does not answer him immediately. silence stretches between them, but it is not rejection. if she wished to be alone, he would know. instead, she pushes out low hum that ends on an exhale—does not bother with words. her body uncoils to create space at her side.

a wordless invitation. he does not hesitate, but he is slow to join her. she shifts, just enough that her shoulder barely brushes his. it is not much, but it is enough.

"tired," she mutters.

blackfell moves closer, shifting alongside her till their pelts meld. lowering his head, resting it lightly upon hers. breath warm as he tucks her into the curve of his neck; offering quiet comfort in the touch.

he doesn’t speak; there is no need for words. instead, he matches her breathing—steady, controlled. the tension in the den easing as their sides rise and fall in rhythm.

his eyes lift to the stars where cold light flickers above, endless and distant. whatever storms rage within her, he stays.

she does not resist when he presses close, nor pull away. she had not realized how cold she was until now, not until he pressed himself to her side and offered her something to anchor to. 

the silence between them is not an empty one. she had grown accustomed to it, leaned to read him through it. it is safety, security. comfortable, now. her gaze lingers on the night sky, the distant glow the stars reflected in periwinkle irises.

she wonders, vaguely, if the dead watch her now. if they whisper of the things she has done, the things she will still do. if they approved. she hoped they understood, at the least. saw all her rage and saw it for what it was. an act of loyalty.

her head shifts, slow and contemplative, before her tongue rasps against the thick fur of his throat. it is brief, fleeting, but the intent lingers in the space it leaves behind. done partially to self-soothe, because he would let her.

he doesn't stir when her tongue rasps against his throat.

the warmth of it contrasts the chill biting through the den. fleeting, but it lingers.

he exhales slow, steady. are you thinking about it?

his crimson eyes flick toward her, searching. if she wanted to speak of it, she would. if not, he would not push. the man shifts closer still, brushing his nose lightly along the curve of her neck.

silent comfort in the storm.

her ear flicks, but she does not immediately answer. she breathes against him, her jaw resting near the rise and fall of his chest.   

she was. how could she not? it played over and over in her head, not as regret, not as something to mourn, but it rooted itself deep. a permanent thing.   

"not intentionally." when his nose brushes along the curve of her neck, she does not stiffen—she lets him. quiet comfort, unspoken understanding.   

her voice is quieter when she speaks again, rough around the edges. "I don’t regret it." a pause. then, almost absently: "it was easy." easier than it should have been.

then what tortures you?

he waits.

she has told him more than she realizes. he listens, reads her in the quiet—her shifting weight, the flick of her ear, the tension she still holds.

he does not press her further. he knows her mind, knows how shadows can linger long after blood has dried. blackfell understands it better than most. his life has been built on blood and duty. but for her, he would shoulder anything.

gjalla is his. he is hers. she may not fully understand it yet, but he does. she is the storm and he is the fire—violent, unrelenting, but together they survive. he would bleed himself dry if it brought her peace.

his gaze drifts briefly to the stars. there is a future there—one he cannot yet name but feels burning deep in his bones. a future with her. with children of their own. he will build it with her, fight for it, fight for her.

he lowers his muzzle to the curve of her neck, breathes in her scent.

you can lean on me.

she does not answer at first—mostly because she does not know.

she knows he sees it—he sees everything. it unsettles her, but there is no space for anger. he has wedged himself too deep beneath her skin for that.

it was not the kill. not the blood. that had been simple, instinctive; no hesitation, no regret. 

easy. it had been too easy. perhaps that was the problem. it had not shaken her, not rattled the foundations of who she was. she had killed before, she had bloodied her claws—and she would again—but this had been something else. this had been with a purpose, a single-minded certainty that did not waver. She had taken his head between her teeth and ripped. and she had not felt— 

she does not know how to put it into words. not even sure she wants to, really.

he is a grounding force at her side. the woman puffs a breath at his encouragement, lean on me, and she did. Her paws shuffle beneath her, inching closer to realign herself to him until her side was to his belly, cheek pressed back to his throat.

"nothing. i suppose that is the problem."

he laughs and drags a tongue across her forehead as she leans back into him. he enjoys the warmth that comes as he cups her body with his own larger.

he huffs softly. disturbed... by not being disturbed? the look upon his face is quizzical, but nonetheless, he looks to her for answers. expecting clarification.

he pulls her closer, body warming against hers.

maybe you are overthinking, hm? he nudges her face to turn and look back at him, where brows raise softly, as playful as he could be while still remaining soft. soft, only ever for her. you do that often.

black lips pull into a knowing smirk.

gjalla exhales sharply—something just shy of a scoff. debatable statement, perhaps true, but this was different.

her gaze flickers upward, meeting his crimson eyes in the dim light. soft, always soft for her. they were a contradiction wrapped in fur and fire, and yet, she does not recoil from it. she should, but she doesn't. she leans into it instead, just as she leans into him.

"i think you are underthinking," she concedes, voice low, nearly lost beneath the hush of wind through the trees. "it is common for most people to have some sort of reaction."

he huffs softly, eyes rolling in exaggerated dismissal, and points a cold nose at her.

i do not overthink.

he tucks his head gently against her thick guard hairs, comfortably fitting like the last piece to a puzzle. gazing up at her with innocent, red eyes—puppy dog eyes.

he could get used to this. but first, another quip:

common doesn’t apply to you. a soft murmur caught in the beginnings of a yawn as he snuggles into her. stop thinking about it. he urges.

nosing her fur affectionately.

he’s insufferable. a hound wrapped in warmth, devoted in a way she doesn’t know how to refuse. it comes to him easily, and he wears it with pride, as if love has never been something to be questioned—only given. “you do not think at all. you are lucky you are pretty.”

her ear flicks at his words, at the gentle push of his nose through her fur, at the quiet insistence of stop thinking. if only it were so simple. but she exhales anyway, falling back into him.

“i don’t think you understand how my mind works.” she murmurs into the slope of his nose, presses a small kiss to the space between his brows.

she settles into the shape of them, runs her snout down the side of his neck. she inhales him and leaves her own scent to mask it.

her kiss lingers between his eyes; he brings his nose to brush against her ear, returning the gesture with a gentle nip to her cheek.

he adores her. utterly and completely. it is not weakness to him—never has been. it is strength, a driving force, a fire that warms the coldest reaches of him. she could ask anything of him, and he would give it without question. he would follow her to the ends of the earth if that was what she wanted.

he growls playfully, nips at her cheek fur. i understand enough.

but soon as he taunts her, he presses a kiss to the crown of her head, and drags his tongue through the thick fur behind her ear. sucking up so that she will not bite him back.

as he grooms her, though, his eyes seem to drift. spacing out in the silence of their shared affection. there are things to consider. futures to shape. he pulls away, if only slightly, and moves a paw to press firmly but gently to her flank.

is this where you want to spend the rest of your life?

gjalla’s ear flicks, half in thought, half in amusement at the way he tries to escape her teeth—he cannot, and she nips at the tuft of his cheek with little effort. once, she would have scowled and bared teeth, but tonight she is too tired, to comfortable to pretend that she does not like the way he touches her. 

her warmth seeps into her bones, lulls her into something quieter, softer. he grooms her, and she allows it.

his question lingers for a long moment before she raises her voice to answer. ”no.”

“not this den. not serving saatsine.” she mutters in truth, “not as nehzuunxel.” she was not meant to stay here. there was no permanence in the den she sleeps in, in endless servitude. she did not belong here, not really.

”you were right, that day.” it comes out begrudgingly. she shifts, pressing her weight against him, her cheek grazing the line of his jaw. ”i do not belong among nomads. i belong on a throne. as do you.”

he exhales slowly, hearing her words. the truth of them is one he has carried in silence. neither of them belongs here—not in this den, not in service to others. he licks her cheek softly, a tender touch, before pulling his head back to meet her gaze.

you know it too, then.

the red in his eyes darkens with thought. she served saatsine long enough—and blackfell understands her loyalty to morwenna. but what is the price of it? this was not where they belonged. it was not where blackfell's siblings belonged. it was not where he wanted to raise their children.

i said once that i would follow you. that has not changed.

he had tried to adapt. become something he was not, something he would never be. and he knew that the lanzadoii chieftain saw it. he saw right through blackfell, yet blackfell had never given him reason not to. the language, the culture—it was lost on him.

he would not live in falsehoods as @Star Eater did, and neither would gjalla. you know that i will do as you do. he says warmly amongst the fronds of her raven fur. he raises a paw to cup her cheek, the rivulets of her fur. but this life... he trails off.

a pause that curls discomfort through out his all. there is no purpose to it. it is empty, cold. i see how it has changed you, how it has whittled you down. and now it is not just you i must protect. mind drifts to thoughts of veksar, kaedra. he was man now, but that changed nothing—not in the long run. my siblings. his lips press into a thin line upon sighing. and the girl.

gjalla listens. he speaks of things she has known, truths she has refused to voice, but that have burned her regardless. this life—the one they have lived now, the one they left everything for—is not enough. 

her loyalty to morwenna was real, but it was not her life's mission. gjalla was meant to rule, to command. she has always known it, even if she left it behind. she did not dare claim it again, for fear of no payoff.

blackfell dares. he speaks of her throne as if it is already hers, as if he has never questioned that she would take it. the certainty in his voice, his gaze, it stirs something in her chest—deep and violent and right.

“it has tempered me,” she corrects him. she has not been broken by this life, she was not so weak. it has shaped her into something ruthless, something she could no longer ignore.

and now, it was time to take what is hers. 

her ear flicks as he speaks of his siblings, of the girl. she has no love for children, no true desire for them—but she understands. they cannot remain where they are. they cannot stay in a world that will only seek to diminish them. 

gjalla tilts her head, lips curving slightly—not quite a smirk, but something close. 

“then we build something greater.” a throne. a kingdom. a future where they will not bow to anyone. no longer a servant to another’s will. her nose brushes against his, her breath warm against his lips. “we will keep them safe.”

---

i love.

he stares into her eyes and feels it—they are aligned in purpose. her heart, mind; it mirrors his own and stirs in his chest something akin to love.

he thinks of blackmarch, of the blood spilled and the sacrifices made. he had tasted power, fought for it, bled for it. he thinks of mistakes he won't make a second time. instead of running, he would fight. instead of speaking, he brushes his snout along hers in agreement. he is not a man of many promises, but this one—this he would stake his life on.

yes. something greater. for them. for us.

his thoughts turn to gjalla’s fire, the way it has tempered her. made her sharper. she has never been broken, never bowed. he admires that, though he does not say it aloud. words were not enough for a truth like this.

fade!