Shadow Mountain [m] And I think that she knows, I'm out of control

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Depictions of self-harm

All welcome but maybe @Hunst since we were already gonna have another thread? <3

It almost felt good to take flight, a little dip of the toes back into the acid waters of old habits. She would find her way back to Sunbeam Lair eventually, obligated as she was. For now Reverie slipped away from her guards, feeling girlish and daring and hysterical in her grief. She ran the mountainside; she cut the burdens free from her shoulders and let them fall into the wind.

He should have been here.

He should be here.

Was that why she'd sought solace in the arms of another man? A loose rock caught her paw and sent her stumbling, slowing to a halt. Reverie realized all at once that it was dark. Back to reality — and the weight of it struck the air from her lungs.

She turned the rock beneath a soft pink pad, pressing it harder into the earth until crimson welled from beneath her paw. She hardly realized what she was doing. It seemed she never did. Her thoughts turned back to Dusty Rose, darkening, twisting until her paw slipped on all the blood and the rock tore a raw red path up her foreleg; a mirror of the scar already there from nearly a year prior. Reverie lifted her paw gingerly, startled but not quite shocked by herself. I guess I'll tell them I fell, she thought numbly, studying the wound as it dripped blood in steady protest.

Hunst's pulse thrummed with urgency, his normally stoic demeanor cracking as he tracked her frantic path through the mountainside. Her scent wove sharply with the cool night air, laced with blood—far more than he wanted to find. Quickening his pace, he followed the metallic thread, each stride filled with a grim determination to bring her back safely.

Then, in a hollow darkened by shadow, he saw her—blood trickling down her foreleg in thin, red trails. His heart clenched, but his face remained impassive, masking the swell of relief that she'd been found. Hunst approached slowly, his pale eyes narrowing as the coppery scent of her blood intensified, mingling with another—a familiar, masculine scent that clawed at the edges of his memory. Bearclaw Valley. His gaze hardened.

He moved closer, wordlessly assessing the damage, a frown deepening as he noted the fresh gash trailing alongside the old scar on her leg. Standing tall beside her, Hunst’s jaw tightened, but his voice softened as he asked, What happened? Only the faintest thread of worry cut through his usually steady tone.

Every instinct told him to press further, to demand why she had left so recklessly, why another male’s scent lingered on her. But he swallowed those questions, letting his presence speak instead, solid and unwavering. For now, he would let her explain—or keep her silence—while he stayed close, steady as the mountain itself, ready to shoulder her burdens if she allowed it.

For a fleeting moment she imagined it was Dusty Rose who had found her, who swept to her side in his effortlessly confident way with some flippant comment to mask his concern. He'd never been much good with herbs, but he would have done anything she asked. Then the questions would have come, the questions like whose scent is that all over you? Questions like —

What happened?

Hunst's voice shattered the daydream, for better or for worse.

I fell, An unconvincing lie even to her own ears — but maybe there was a simple truth to it, in a way. That was how the story always went: and then she fell. Reverie drew in a breath to steady herself and looked up. We shouldn't linger in the valley. Haze can stay behind to meet with Gossamer and Gemini - I can find us a path through the mountains.

Hunst narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, watching her with a trace of doubt. Fell? The word didn’t sit right with him. Reverie was sturdy, rooted, one who didn’t just fall. But he kept his thoughts to himself, his silence lingering, steady as always.

As she laid out her plan, he listened intently, nodding once. The valley wasn’t safe, and though he knew nothing of herbs or winding paths through mountains, he trusted her instinct implicitly.

I’ll be right behind you, he replied, his voice a quiet, reassuring rumble. Let her lead the way—he would follow, as he always had.

Reverie nodded as he spoke, hot tears welling in her eyes for a moment. They faded just as quickly. Steady as the mountains beneath her feet, Hunst often seemed as if he might outlast even the oldest stone. Hadn't River promised as much?

When the time comes, he'd told her, Hunst will not question you.

What he hadn't told her was why. The Sea-Snakes had refused to meet with any ambassador before Reverie. Her arrival had been a blessing for Witch Island; not only had the Sea-Snakes welcomed her, they'd joined the war, sent one of their own to travel alongside her, all the while never answering that single most important question. Why her?

Hunst would not tell her now, she thought, even if he knew it himself. She'd asked so many times. River had only ever smiled in response.

Instead of asking again she drew herself up with a soft exhale. I'll need to wrap this, She murmured. It'll heal alright if I keep it clean. I have what I need at the cavern. Reverie beckoned for Hunst to follow.

Why did you choose to come?

This was a question she hadn't yet asked.

River told me he could have sent someone else.

Hunst had been his first choice, he'd said, but he wouldn't force the man to do anything. It'd seemed a surprise to River when Hunst had agreed. Reverie, truthfully, hadn't paid enough attention to be surprised. Everything had still been a haze then. But now she was curious.

Hunst paused as Reverie stopped to tend to her paw, his eyes following her movements with silent patience. She was delicate in her own way, but fierce beneath it all, carrying an unassuming strength that had earned his respect—a strength River had seen, too, and which had sealed Hunst’s own decision to follow her. He stayed still, allowing her the time she needed, the rough lines of his face betraying no impatience, only the steady resolve of one who was accustomed to waiting.

Her question reached him, cutting through the quiet. "Why did you choose to come?"

Hunst exhaled, the weight of unspoken thoughts filling the air between them. It wasn’t an easy answer—not one he would offer her fully, though she deserved at least part of the truth. The real reason? River, his blood, his kin. River had asked him, but he hadn’t pressed, hadn’t commanded. Just a request—and in that, an implicit trust. Hunst knew River could have chosen others. But none with the same unbreakable loyalty or the familiarity with the cost of war that Hunst carried. No, River had only ever trusted him with this.

The thought of the Sea-Snakes brought a shadow to Hunst’s gaze. The Sea-Snakes—obliterated in one brutal sweep, their numbers thinned and options scattered like dust. They’d once been allies, but such alliances were brittle, easily shattered by the whims of war. Without them, Witch Island’s strength was tested, every move teetering on a thin edge. And River had sensed that, sensed how precarious it was to send Reverie alone, even in times of peace.

Hunst looked at her, his answer plain but firm. Because it had to be me, he said, voice low and certain. River trusted only me with this. He let the words settle, knowing Reverie could read the unspoken—that he had come for her, yes, but also for River. It was a family duty, a bond he would not break.

As she turned to lead the way, Hunst fell into step behind her, his gaze steady on the path ahead.

Reverie wondered, not for the first time, what history lay between the two men. Maybe she would never know. But she'd trusted River, she still did, and perhaps that was what led her into soft confession:

Basil asked me for - for a promise. In exchange for soldiers, and Gemini.

Basil Cyanea. She hadn't even dared to utter his name on Octopus Island. The slightest mention of Cyaneans to any Sea-Snake —

Reverie hadn't truly understood their reputation until she'd made that mistake. Now she tumbled headlong into dangerous territory, it felt, continuing in hushed tones:

A Medeiros wife. If not me, another, Reverie laughed softly as she said it, but there was no humor in her voice. I can't ever go back. I can't give him that.

You Casco Bay wolves and your - your bloodlines, She could scarcely hide her disdain for the notion; why should her parents define her? Why should anyone be defined by their blood? My father has done nothing but cause suffering. Medeiros is a cursed name.

But you follow it. All of you. The Cyaneans and Sea-Snakes as much as Sunfil. Atlas Medeiros - you all seem to know that name better than I do. Or was it Atlas Keil? Or Atlas Sea-Snake?

The last was a name he'd never borne; Reverie meant only to strike a nerve. Her eyes were gilded fire as she finally turned to Hunst.

Medeiros is a curse.

Uttered like a warning; like a prophecy. The tears fell freely now.

Hunst's face darkened, the shadows sharpening his angular features as Reverie's words cut through him like a serrated blade. He listened to her dismissive remarks, the sneering, cold contempt in her voice, each word twisting the knife she wielded. She called his bloodline a curse, scorned the very name that had defined him, shaped him, forged him into a weapon. For her.

A flicker of something—grief, rage, something he couldn’t hide—flared in his eyes. His jaw tightened, his body tense as a coiled spring. He could almost taste the disdain in her voice, and it was too much, too sharp.

He took a step forward, his voice raw and ragged, barely a whisper above a growl.

All of it, Reverie. Every battle, every bloodstain—it's for you.

But he didn’t wait for her reaction. He turned abruptly, shoulders squared, paws clenched, as he willed himself to harden once more.

Pull your shit together. I'll carry you back if I have'ta. His accent from Witch Island pooled in his voice, the shred of emotion reverting him back to what he once was.

Did he frighten her then?

She saw how a man might quail before him, might see his own death written into those frostfire eyes. It'd been a long time since Reverie had truly feared fire; the heat of his anger scarcely touched her.

But she hadn't been prepared for his words; a confession of his own, perhaps. For you. Protest rose in her throat and died on her lips, and Reverie was left breathless and staring and caught in the storm of a thousand thoughts all at once. For her; all of it for her, Medeiros that she was, gilded little songbird always trailing flame in her endless flight. She was cursed, too, couldn't he see?

It couldn't be for her.

Pull your shit together.

Numbly she nodded again. Hunst was right, of course — and she couldn't deny that some secret selfish part of her was soothed. For her. That was all she'd ever asked of the world: something just for her. How many times had she found it? How many times had it been ripped from her grasp? And this — this was a truly selfish thing, a dangerous thing, more than ever before.

But it'd been a long time since she'd truly feared fire.

Reverie drew in a tremulous breath. Let's go, then, She murmured. She wouldn't apologize, not to him. Medeiros is a curse; she would say it with her last breath. It was her right, after all.

She'd always been Medeiros to the core.

Hunst didn’t speak a word. His presence seemed to grow heavier, colder, as if the air around him thickened with his unspoken rage. His frostfire gaze was fixed ahead, distant, unreadable, the heat of his anger radiating from him like an inferno contained by the thinnest of ice. His broad shoulders were tense, coiled like a predator preparing to strike, yet there was something more in the way he carried himself now—less an ally, more a storm.

He gave a low grunt, a guttural sound that broke the silence between them, a simple command for her to move. He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment, nor did he offer any. His silence was thick, and it spoke volumes more than words ever could. With one final, icy glance in Reverie’s direction, he turned, stalking ahead without looking back, the ground beneath his paws seemingly groaning with each heavy step.

They walked in silence, the air between them charged, heavy with the things unsaid.