Qeya River that wears the crown

the qeya river ran sluggish and cold. and there blackfell walked its length.

the wound of his eye throbbed faintly. it was swollen shut now, the skin tight beneath the crust of a scab and the acrid sting of the salve put upon it. it smelled like death—worse, even—but it worked well enough.

the ache was manageable.

he stopped briefly, the river murmuring softly beside him as he tilted his head to catch its chill on his good eye. the cold air filled his lungs, sharp and bracing. he felt idle, like a blade dulled from lack of use.

the chieftain's wife had been meddling with herbs on the riverbed. her paws worked diligently washing through the dirt of her stock, letting it rove down the river in a dark stream. a tune, one her own mother had sung, left her lips beneath her breath; featherlight.

it was until her breath caught in her throat; agony of choked blood squeamish as it festered in the air. star eater looked up— sun eater? no, it was not her husband who bled today. it was blackfell.

despite his insolence and negging of gjalla, she put it aside. jumping from the curt area she had been keeping with the boundary of rocks and hides, she called to him.

come. quickly. she urged him, before others come.

he turned his head slowly, crimson eyes narrowing as they fixed on star eater. despite suliya's insistence in employing her help, he had taken it upon himself. hence, the foul smelling job of doctoring he had done upon his own eye. it was a feasible attempt; it would work, but only for a short time.

he was a stubborn beast.

"you worried someone’s going to scold me?" he muttered, biting. despite his quip, he moved toward her.

as he approached, he glanced at the makeshift workspace she’d carved into the riverbedl; her paws worked with an expertise he wouldn’t have credited her with if he hadn’t seen it himself. his pride chafed at the idea of needing her help, but his pragmatism won out.

his complaints would fall on deaf ears; she was not worried that her husband would appear from the reach, dire smug look on his face— no, she was worried about others who'd find them oh, so, vulnerable!

a ruler she once was, a tyrant she will not be. when they reached the bed of her supplies, she began to chew a dried clump of oils to a paste. she forced him to sit down with the jut of her head.

outsiders cannot see if saatsine weak, she uttered, working hastily around the scabbing. chieftain do not tolerate weakness. it would appear as though her own common tongue would falter, hesitate to slip from her lips as she'd been so accustomed to lanzadoii.

lathering to paste of his eye with a single swipe of her tongue, she'd wrap the rest of him in moss. every where there had been blood, replaced by the mucking green of the forests.

do you understand this?

blackfell’s tail flicked sharply against the ground, the only outward sign of his irritation as star eater worked. her words were met with a scoff, a faint curl of his lip betraying his disdain for the notion of vulnerability.

i am not weak because of a cut, he snapped, crimson eyes narrowing as he glared at her from under the weight of her care. but before he could lift his head in defiance, she shoved it back down; his teeth grit together, though he made no move to resist her.

i could cut down this realm's finest knight even now, he muttered, the edge of his tone sharpened with frustration. anyone who questions saatsine will find my teeth in their ass.

a dangerous promise, uttered with the quiet conviction of a man who had nothing left to lose. as the moss was pressed firmly against his wounds, blackfell exhaled through his nose, the tension in his frame easing by a fraction. a wise wolf doesn’t make an enemy of a crownore. he refused to relinquish the weight of his pride.

but it was not only pride that spoke now. it was years of history, of legacy. it was truth—and this woman knew it.

she didn’t flinch at his defiance, didn’t waver at his pride. instead, she moved closer, her voice lowering to a fierce whisper that carried all the weight of her conviction.

what do you not understand? her tone bit through the air like frost, sharp and cold. her muzzle hovered dangerously close to his, and then she struck—not with teeth, but with the weight of her own fury. her muzzle met the side of his head, not to harm, but to drive her point home.

there are no knights, she hissed, her breath hot against his ear. no kings. no queens. there is no honor. no duty.

her voice cracked like a whip, but her anger was not reckless; it was purposeful, precise. she pulled back just enough to meet his crimson gaze, her own eyes aflame with something raw and unyielding.

there is only survival. her words were as unrelenting as the winter wind, her posture rigid with authority. you want to serve saatsine? then leave your titles in the dirt where they belong. honor will not save you here. pride will not save you here. only strength.

and with that, she turned her focus back to his wound, her touch firm but careful. she would ensure he survived, not for his legacy, but because his survival was now entwined with theirs.

her words struck him like a whip, but he did not recoil.

you think because you talk like your husband, speak his language, that it absolves you of what you are? his voice was a venomous hiss, a dagger aimed at the heart of her conviction. he leaned in just enough to let his breath graze her ear as hers did his.

but when her work was done, he pulled back abruptly, his massive frame retreating as if her presence itself had become unbearable. he scrunched his nose, a derisive snarl curling his lips.

blackmarch was no land of leisure, he spat. we did not sit above like lordlings; do not mistake me. i know what it is to work. to survive. he turns then, quickly, tail lashing like a pissed off cat's.

so i will not sit here and be berated like a cub.

she slammed her paw into the frozen ground, the sharp crack of ice splitting beneath her weight resonating in the stillness between them.
i am the chieftain’s wife! she roared, her voice carrying the authority of her position. her breath puffed in sharp clouds against the cold air, her chest heaving as she stood tall and unyielding. nothing more.
lanzadoii, lanzadoii, lanzadoii. rhaegon! her children!
her eyes bore into him, seething but steady, her composure teetering on the edge of wrath and resolve. and you will not forget that.
no no no! stark...
she motioned with a sharp flick of her muzzle toward the horizon, her voice dropping to a dangerous low. go. and i will spare gjalla this conversation.
her command was final, her tone brooking no argument. star eater turned her back to him, her posture rigid, the weight of her words lingering in the icy air like a storm waiting to break.

her outburst, however unexpected, earns her a spare glance over a strong shoulder. paws like stone upon the cold ice of the ground, steel, unable to be moved; crimson eyes bearing down upon the queen.

the chieftain's wife. that much was true.

but behind that veneer was so much more. and looking upon her now, there is the faintest of sympathy within cold eyes. a sneer pulling at his lips, though, as he finally begins to move.

tail swaying along with the lumbering trot of his gait. he said nothing.

only turned eyes ahead and burned down the length of the river.