Qeya River heavy is the head

for @Star Eater

blackfell’s paws pressed into the icy edge of the qeya river. the ground beneath him gave way with muted squelches, snow and water mingling in his wake. crimson eyes swept the horizon, but his gaze wasn’t searching. he wasn’t looking for anyone—just walking......

then he saw her.

star eater. she moved ahead, light of the morning catching faintly upon dark fur. painting her something of the women from his past. his pace slowed, then stopped entirely, his head lifting as his gaze fixed on her. this was the first time he’d really looked at her, not just in passing or from the corner of his eye.

something about her... familiar. he chuffed and began moving again, this time parallel to her, keeping a measured distance. his flank turned to her as he walked, the ripple of muscle and scars on full display. before she can even truly react to him, he breaks the silence with:

why did you speak for me?

star eater did not like to stray far from where she had set up her den of snow and caribou hides. she had started the task of drying out meats for @Sun Eater's pleasures, hoping that he would see the value in preservation as well as fresh kills.

she had been grooming a caribou hide, fresh, in the snow. raking her paws across the seams of fat, plucking it from the source and piling it amongst its own self. she grimaced, fur rising at the sound of the crownore voice.

she did not look at him. blackfell crownore. his name, bitter. son to nemos, it wasn't a question. it was a statement.

you would know me once as morwenna drakaryn, lady of the seven. rip at the furs, the knot was undone. perhaps it was the kindness of my heart.

blackfell freezes. the name she calls him—his name—sends a jolt of surprise through him. her tone is bitter, heavy with disdain, and when she speaks her own name, the pieces fall into place with a clarity that makes his blood turn to ice.

morwenna drakaryn. lady of the seven. the queen of evenspire.

the bitch queen who so staunchly upheld his uncle's traitorous reign; the murderer of his grandfather.

he snorts, a sharp and derisive sound, and cuts her off with a single, clipped correction: blackthorn.

his voice is hard as the ice beneath them. my father is no longer nemos.

his tail lashes once, a whipcrack motion against the cold air, before he moves. prowling to her left, his crimson gaze flicks to the work at her paws—precise, methodical, undeniably effective. it grates against him as much as it impresses him.

his eyes narrow and he says: thanks are in order, then.

she chuffed softly at his correction, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. blackthorn, then, she murmured, the name rolling off her tongue with deliberate weight. she knew that fire—had carried it herself once, burning against the past she could not escape.

then we both shed old blood, she continued, stepping forward with calm purpose. i am star eater now. wife to the chieftain of saatsine, and a woman far from the throne of evenspire.

her gaze shifted, following the ripple of his prowling form, her expression steady. now, blackfell, she said, her tone dipping into something sharper, a thread of curiosity woven into her words. why have you come here? what do you seek among my husband’s people?

she tipped her head slightly, her voice softening just enough to make the question feel less like a demand and more like an invitation. is it purpose, or something else entirely?

blackfell's huff is low and gruff, a sound that carries both his pride and a faint note of begrudging respect. he finds her presence tolerable in a way he hadn’t expected. there’s steel in her words, purpose in her posture.

when she questions him, he doesn’t hesitate to say:

i want gjalla.

his chin tilts upward as he speaks, crimson eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. her gaze appraises him, measuring him but he doesn’t falter. blackfell is a man who knows what he wants, and he has no intention of hiding it.

the past is behind us now, he rasps, but that doesn’t mean we should forsake what our ancestors fought so hard to build. there’s a conviction that runs deeper than his pride in the words he speaks.

his eyes narrow slightly. i will follow that woman until she accepts me. and i will hunt as one of your people while doing so; i admit, i had nothing good to say of your people before. but now i see, or i can understand. gjalla has chosen this, and i have chosen her.

star eater let out a soft laugh, warm and sharp like sunlight breaking through a cold morning. her amber gaze swept over blackfell appraising him with the quiet confidence of a woman who had seen much, endured more, and yet still stood tall.

you should be grateful, she said, the faintest edge of amusement curling her words. grateful i vouched for you. grateful i didn’t let ice diver snap her jaws around your neck when she saw fit.

her gaze lingered on him, a flicker of something knowing passing through her eyes. gjalla, she began, her tone shifting, softer now, but no less firm, will take time. she is not a woman to be swayed by words or stubborn devotion alone.

she stepped closer, just enough to make her presence loom but not overwhelm. but perhaps you’ve already figured that out, she said, her smirk returning, a hint of challenge behind it. if you’re to follow her, then do so wisely, blackfell. prove you’re worth her notice—not just with your words, but with every step you take in her shadow.

she turned then, her dark fur catching the faint light of the day, her voice lingering behind her like an echo. you’ve chosen her, and now you’ll learn what it means to earn her. with that, she moved back toward the gathering, leaving her words to hang in the cold air between them.

he didn’t scoff, didn’t offer any of his usual sharp retorts. he listened, his ears tipping forward slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he absorbed her meaning.

blackfell straightened slightly, his broad frame holding steady under her scrutiny.

i know what she needs. i know what she deserves. he says as she walks away, his ears swiveling with contemplation. i will be that.

and maybe he was a fool for trying, but he'd gladly be one.