Sunbeam Lair vicariously I live while the whole world dies

aw, but makes sense if wren finds him, I thought? up to you, twin!

Nothing left within—Akavir found himself numb for the moment. A feeling unlike him—his eyes staring distantly to the stone of the mountains.

He should head back. Should seek out @Wren, for it was now an alarming thought leaving her alone with the soldier.

He wanted nothing more then to be back into the thick foliage of lost creek hollow, seek Silvertongue out and place her upon the pedestal in which she belonged. Lavish her with a life she deserved. Ensure nothing of the sort happened to her, or to any of his loved ones again.

The very real possibility that Lilitu was within this kingdom held him fast—and again, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

He stood up abruptly, a silhouette against the moon—the stoical mask of a fallen soldier as he considered the facade he would need to play over the next few days—no longer just in the presence of Akashingo, but of the mean leading them there.

pounces on this

 

He was not hard to follow. A trail of smell that led her to footprints that led her to the sound of jagged breaths and a figure shrouded in shadow. A cavern, a spacious nook hidden in the ridgelines, was where she found him. 
Hey, she is soft, small as she approaches him, head held low. There is so little light, and yet in the dingy glowing bluelight that breaks in from cracks in the ceiling, she can see his eyes. I'm sorry. I know. I'm sorry. 
She offers an outstretched paw that touches his shoulder that melts into an embrace, should he accept it. And it's then that she falls silent, allowing him the chance to break it when he is ready. 

She found him—lingering close to the entrance of a cavern, and when his eyes drew from the stars and moon encompassed by the opening, they then traced over her, wordless. What could really be said in this moment?

An outstretched paw given. A moment—‘I know.’ But did she? Did she know that Silvertongue had tried to barter herself in terms of an alliance to the creek? Akavir might have turned the notion down spoken in such a way—but he had still ravished her. Was he just as much a perpetrator in this?

His feelings for the woman unchanged. Despite knowing she would never return his affections, not the way he wanted her to—but now that he knew… He could see why.

Was his daughter trapped in an equal state?

“I’m afraid if I look at him… I won’t be able to stop myself from trying to tear his throat out,” he finally broke—the seriousness of the sentiment lingering. He had chosen the path of battle many times—but he refrained from outright murdering, unless self defense deemed it a necessity.

But now…

And as she moved closer, he pulled her to him, his muzzle burying into the soft fur of her nape—a familiar scent that was distinctly home, just as much as it was Wren. “But I need to see if my daughter is there… And then. Then I don’t know.”

There was, in truth, little Wren could say to truly comfort him. She knew nothing of his daughters, of where they were, of who they were. Nothing of Akashingo. And it's in this time that she feels useless. 
Fuck him, she curses, twinged with a serpent's venom. I'll go with you. For Lilitu. For Silver, the second name comes out in a drawl, wrapped in a cloak of melancholy. 

Not for a second did she regret her words to Germanicus. But what she did regret was not being with Silvertongue right now. And maybe she had already grown far too attached to the thankless idea of her, but the memory of Akavir's lingering scent on the fur between her shoulders brings a small wave of resentment that arrives before she can stop it.
And yet, she does not mention it, because if in some universe where Silvertongue shed her feelings for Crowfeather and had her pick of those from the Creek, Wren felt — knew — that she would not be her choice.

And so Wren sinks to the ground just beside him, languid movements as back is pressed to the floor and limbs are left open for the Mayfair to come closer. She came by it honestly. Silvertongue aside, he needed her. C'mere. 

She coaxed him—he hesitated only a moment before sinking to the ground, allowing himself to sink into her arms—his face pressed to her chest and taking solace only in the rhythm of her heartbeat. 

The silence stretched—his mind a painful back noise. But then: I think I can see why the kids like being held like this, he offered—if only to sober the moment. 

He shifted, propping himself up for a moment, looking down to study her features. What do we think is worse… Finding my eldest daughter there… or not finding her at all?

Unanswered questions. There were so many. He had failed as a father far too many times to count—and the impending doom of this next failure hung heavy over him.

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Her offer is accepted. Rawboned limbs wind around his neck, coming to rest atop his shoulders. There's a soft hum that rumbles deep in her chest, muzzle finding a place between his ears. 
It's strangely intimate; much more so than they had ever previously been, but now was not the time to question it. She chuckles at his comment about children, and briefly, she thinks of what her life would have ended up being if she had given into temptation. If one day, she would have held a child this way; if she could ever love one enough to do so. If she could feel so strongly as Akavir does about Lilitu. 
If you're asking what I think, she mutters. I think if she's not there, then, y'know... that's a good thing. It means she's not-- dealing with them, anymore, probably. And for all we know she's somewhere else entirely, and she's safe, wherever she is. Wishful thoughts spoken in a hushed tone, anything she could think of that may provide him with comfort. 
We're gonna find her, Akavir, one forepaw pulls back to cup his cheek. and you're, you're-- you're gonna be okay. Y-- we will figure it out.

Her eyes are locked on the gunsmoke guard hairs that run down his nape, the faded scars buried beneath it, and she thinks of her own father. How this is what real men, real fathers did for their daughters; how her own would have never done the same. How her own raised her under lock and key with drunken slurs and teeth that pierce the skin of his own blood. And suddenly, she cannot stop the tears that well in her eyes. 

“Then the hope is that she’s not there,” he confirms, as if the words spoken would make it be so.

But now, it would only be a partial relief to the man—for the man that lead them to the palace had done deplorable acts that it seemed almost impossible that Germanicus’ only trial was that of allowing the witch to slip away from their grasp.

Where, then, was the justice that Silvertongue deserved?

Wren drew his gaze up—the pull of a paw, his eyes sluiced through the dark to settle upon honeyed brown. Eyes that could befall any man, if she ever chose to—and then: “You left that day. I want you to know that I know you didn’t want children… I never would have pres—“ but then he faltered—because tears brimmed in her eyes, and as if branded, he was then the to shift them, pulling her to him, his features pressing to a frown. “Wren I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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Oh, Akavir, if only you knew.
Of course he's quick to assume his own fault. She's just as quick to sniffle and shake her head fervently. It's not-- it's not you, it's-- Through broken, winded breaths, she tries to collect herself. a-and it's not that I don't want to fuck you, like, seriously, there's a hint of laughter there, if for no other reason than to avoid taking her own emotions seriously. I'm, I'm not crying because of you. Or-- anything you did. You did nothing wrong. I, and stammering, sheepishly, weakly, she blurts out: I just wish my dad was half the dad you are. 
Her eyes squeeze shut as she sucks in a deep breath, letting it reach the bottom of her lungs before she can bring herself to look at him again. And I'm afraid of-- of being like him. Or my ma. Or worse. And I just panicked, when-- when you said that guy abandoned his wife and kids. It's stupid, I know, and I know you wouldn't have pushed me, t-- to do anything, I just... 
She lets him hold her, a return of some kind of favor, although her face remains in its place, apart from his. She wishes she were invisible. I'm sorry. The last thing you need right now is my bullshit. 

He snorted—rueful, perhaps, but more in the drawing of a sardonic humor where there was very little light in the moment. In doing so, he drew her closer, hoping she didn’t take it the wrong way. As Arric would probably say… It’s all fucking bullshit.

He didn’t know what her parents had done to her—didn’t pry. Even with a twist of his thoughts, withholding from pointing out that he wasn’t much of a father if one of his daughters lived with slave keepers, the other had joined a bear cult and his current trio barely even saw him, and thus, preferred the company of Arric. 

She didn’t need his bullshit, either. 

I know we don’t know each other very well, but you don’t seem the type to just abandon those you care about, he reminded her, given she was here with him now, on a trip she held no true stake in except to prove herself.

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Ha!
The implication behind his statement gives her a chill. The assumption was that she would care about her children, would feel any kind of maternal connection; and if she would or not, she didn't know, and didn't want to find out. 
And as if she wasn't doing such a thing right now, with Marcus, with Silvertongue, with—
I'd be a shitty ma, she grumbles, another sniffle as she blinks away the remaining tears. I'd be a shitty wife, too. Meat. I am meat, a vessel, temporary warmth. And I don't think this fuckin' planet needs any more of my genetics flopping around and causing a disaster. Especially not if they come outta me. I don't even got the looks to justify it.
Had she hands, she would have lit a cigarette then, sucking the bitter smoke into her lungs and let it flow from her nostrils until they burned.
I'm glad we didn't, she murmurs, chestnut gaze falling upon him with the rimlight of the stars in her eyes. but I kinda wish we did. 
And in those six words lies a philosophy, a self-portrait. A sad, lonely girl, scratching at walls and begging for just a taste of what real love could be like. One night where, if she squinted, she could make out a silhouette of happiness, a painting where she cannot see the brushstrokes. But even still, she would not beg him for it. 

There was a lot to unpack in the words she spoke—words he felt came so much more easily to share in the dark of the night. A frown pressed upon him, his arms tightening around her, as if he could protect her from the ugly words she spoke of herself—the ugly thoughts.

When she murmured to him that she was glad they hadn’t explored one another physically—with an add on that the prior statement wasn’t necessarily true—all he could imagine as he looked to her somber eyes was someone had done one hell of a job on her.

“You can’t possibly think anything you just said about yourself is true?”

He understood self deprecating. Indulged himself with it as well from time to time—a dead wife, two missing kids, a new litter with a missing mom… things tended to add up.

But this was a whole new level. And while in the back of his mind, he had been wondering how he could protect the woman from the place they currently traveled to, he never once imagined he would need to protect her from herself.

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You... don't? 
And there's genuine surprise in that, a suspicious squint as she looks up to him. Laughter, again, a bundle of nerves this time. 
In that statement was years worth of ideas that had been shoved so far down her throat she choked if she tried to spit them out. Words on young ears, far too young to understand; and words that became harsher when she started to. And so, in a moment of weakness brought on by a late night that would later turn into a burning memory, she repeats to Akavir what she had been taught. 
That she was her father's daughter, and that was enough reason for her to be punished. A daughter, who should have been a son but wasn't quite. A daughter, who had inherited the shape of her father's teeth and his large shoulders, the inflection of his laughter, his brawn and his temper and his misery. A daughter who was not good enough for the purpose of giving him grandsons in the way her sister was. A daughter who spoke too loud and too often, who tried to save her mother from those same claws that struck her. A daughter who deserved a fate worse than death, and at least her mother had been granted that mercy. 
She tells him everything, everything, everything; the story behind every scar that lines her legs and her hips and her neck. She tells him of the lullabies of her mother that drowned out the drunken screams, the trembling of her sister's shoulders on late nights and the fear in her eyes the last Wren saw her. The many paths of escape that were planned that never worked until it was much too late. 
She tells him how personal Lilitu's situation is to her, too; how she was not all that unlike her once, and how badly she wished that one day her real father would come to save her and how he never did.
And by the end of it, she is breathless, and she says to him: Does that answer your question? 

He remained silent through out. His expression muted, spare the fleeting pull of his brows or the tightening of his hold on her. She rolled from him—showing him the scars upon her body, and when she stopped speaking, he felt a long pause between them—because if he said the wrong thing in such a moment he would never forgive himself. 

It tells me that a man who didn’t deserve the title of your father has made you believe so, he murmured then, and as his eyes drifted from her doe-like eyes, he pulled her close, dipping his muzzle down and trailing light kisses upon the scars she had revealed—the ones that brazenly fanned across her shoulders and neck.  Another quiet moment, as he considered his words. 

I don’t think any of those things are true. And when this is all over… And things settle at the creek… I hope you can realize everything he told you was a lie, too.

A dead mother. An abusive father. A life of misery. Nothing he said could ever put that right—not at once. Over time, hopefully, he could peel back those layers.

Everything falls quiet, and she lets it. She feels as if she's been picked apart by vultures, raw and pink and burning bright and rotting from the inside out. 
And what do you do? What do you do with pain, anger, resentment, misery; years worth of it, that has nowhere left to go? How are you meant to feel when pale gold eyes look down at you with utmost pity, and all you hear are car alarms, and you're shaking so much your bones may slide right out from your skin? 
Nothing, that's what. She does nothing. She is nothing. 
Akavir — oh, sweet Akavir, how hard he tries to soothe those wounds and patch up the scabs. How badly she wished she could believe him, hear what he said in more than just one ear. How little she had to offer him in return.
When he kisses her, dappling her arms and sure not to miss the sporadic ones that hide beneath the coarse fur of her neck, his face is held between two trembling forepaws and brought to her lips. Just one, though she lets it linger, and it is soft and full of words she cannot say. And when she grants him air, she leaves her nose pressed against his.

Pulled forward with gentle paws, a kiss was shared. Chaste, or more, he did not know, but the lingering of it was surely one of two broken souls seeking a reprieve in one another, even if brief. 

Her nose pressed to him, he simply holds her for now, in the dark and quiet. It was with great reluctance that he would begin to draw away—to be the one to push them back to reality. We should return, he spoke quietly, grazing her ear with his mouth and stealing once more embrace of his forehead pressed to her. 

The idea of relying on a man who had traded another as a slave revolted him. 

The fact it had been Silvertongue ruined him. 

And he did not know how he would not attack the man on next sight, as if any form of justice could be had in such an act. 

But there wouldn’t be. It was not his justice to take. And for now, he needed the fallen soldier.

Akavir is the one to break the spell of silence. The absence of his breath against her lips is felt strongly when he pulls away, and her skin prickles with goosebumps.

He's right. They should. But.

Are you sure...? she murmurs, one paw reaching out to rest upon a foreleg. I don't exactly think he'd judge us if we spent the night away from him. Maybe-- maybe it'd, help us clear our heads. I don't know. she hoists herself up to her elbows, then, a crestfallen, wide-eyed look that drapes from the pale gold weariness of his eyes to the silver-scruff of his chin.
Stay with me, without saying it. Kiss me again.
It's up to you, though. Just in case.

Her reluctance wasn’t necessarily something he was willing to push aside right now—not when the warmth of her against him was a balm to the writhing pain in his chest—anxiety, guilt, remorse.

And so he was easily swayed to agree. “A little while longer,” he offered, his voice hoarse as he pulled her closer to him, settling them both to the ground where he would bury his snout to the back of her nape fur. They could return in a bit—he didn’t much care how inconvenienced they might have made the ranger with the pause in their journey—he still didn’t trust himself within the man’s presence.

Silvertongue. This revelation changed everything. And there was nothing he could do about it for now… all he could do was hope his daughter had managed to become free from any links of this Akashingo.

And in turn, bar Germanicus from the creek. What it meant for their alliances, he did not know. Kvarsheim hosted a man who had bartered and traded other souls for his own gains. And yet speaking of it would uproot Silvertongue and likely any shred of anonymity she had wished from that life to now.

It hadn't taken much in the way of convincing at all to get him to return to her side. She is swallowed in another embrace, his arms around her torso and his nose pressed against her neck. A soft moan of contentment, followed by a gentle, encapsulating silence.
It wasn't much in the way of easing the anguish of the trials they had before them, but it was something. He had her.
After a long, dull quiet, she whispers; Promise me you won't tell her if I don't, a shudder runs from skull to tailtip. Silvertongue. We-- we shouldn't tell her we know. Let her live in peace.
And maybe there was some kind of implication in her desperate tone. But what did it matter? To Silvertongue, neither Swiftcurrent man or woman were better. She did not love either one, not really, nor would she grow to.
Right?

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Her remark—as if they both lingered on the same thought. And yet—what was Silvertongue to Wren? The Sharpfang was about often—it didn’t surprise them they had come across one another. “I gather you’ve met her,” he murmured, a small smile pressing to his lips at the back of Wren’s neck.

But, the question hung between them… “I don’t know if I can do that, Wren. Do I bar Germanicus entry from the creek? Gunnar will have questions. But it’s not my story to tell.” He paused. “But fuck if I don’t want to tear into that man for what he’s done to her. The worst part of it... Crowfeather and Germanicus are together... or something.”

Crowfeather.
With Germanicus.
Wren finds herself unable to breathe upon this revelation. He was the man the riverwoman spoke of. The rage surges, snarls within her chest.
I do, she swallows the anger with a dry chuckle. They did not need two spitfires taking turns ripping Germanicus a new one; not with a task so important at hand. we're... friends. or not. Or more than that, or nothing at all. But these were not things she could — or would — say to Akavir. It wasn't exactly inconspicuous how strongly he felt for the sharpfang. It was hard not to love her, she'd gathered.
But, Akavir, look, she would have turned to face him, then, but instead, she slinks further into his embrace. Silvertongue has... clearly been trying her best to start a new life. Who would we be to take it from her? That's-- it's not our decision to make, I don't think, she squeezes her eyes shut. just-- take it from me. It's her choice. Whether she wants to forget or forgive or, or neither. And if you're gonna bar Germanicus from the Creek, that's-- it's your decision, but don't make it because of Silver.
Her cheekbone against his wrist, she places a kiss to the back of his paw. Please.

He was still as she spoke, only his forelimbs tightening as she nestled closer to him—cloaking him with her warmth and acting a voice of reason. It was a situation that held no great outcomes—only a bitter realization that Germanicus had been on trial for the wrong thing.

The silver lining there, however, was that perhaps the Mayfair could bar him from lands with the assumption of the trial outcome—for the betterment of the creek in general.

A kiss to his wrists—placating. Coaxing. He inhaled sharply—eyes shutting, the sharp eyes of Silvertongue coming to the forefront. “Okay,” he offered, his voice quiet in the night. Opening his eyes, he pressed his snout to the back of her neck—if he tested her scent, he would have swore he could scent the traces of the Sharpfang there. But surely, it was only because she rest at the forefront of his mind. “I’ll try my best.”

And then, silence. Because what else was there to say on the terrible circumstances that had befell a woman who they had both clearly become fond of?

fade?

He did not understand. Perhaps Wren didn't either, not fully. But she did know what it was like to escape the confines of men, to push away the grief and shame and anger; let the bitter pill dissolve beneath your tongue. Start anew. Try to forget.
Maybe Silvertongue had more forgiveness in her than Wren herself. Or she was just really, really good at ignoring it; share a roof with Crowfeather even as he laid with the man who caused her so much misery. Either way, if she chose to turn a blind eye, Wren understood that much.
Sometimes that's all you can do to feel safe.
She thinks of the next time she will see her when the creekwolves return home, and decides she will not mention it.

Thank you, Akavir.

She would stay there as long as he would allow, let the intimacy of shared loneliness wash over the living dead girl's body. There was no lust, only the raw, chapped wound of vulnerability. Safety. Compassion. He knew her now, possibly better than anyone else; the underlying rift of shared bubbling feelings for the same girl unspoken and perhaps willingly ignored.  
For once, she welcomed it, welcomed him; and soon, back into the eagle's nest they would go. Only this time, she would let her absent touches linger longer than usual.