Qeya River do i wanna know?

intended for @Blackfell : @Other Shore welcome to join

the snow had softened beneath the weight of spring’s breath, but it still clung stubbornly to the earth. star eater lay upon it, her side pressed into the cold, as though it might soothe the ache of her swelling body. the curve of her belly was taut and round, her whelping points pink against the pale of her fur. each day, she grew heavier, but she bore it with the same stoicism that had carried her through every trial.
her eyes drifted to other shore, the young wanderer whose curiosity had yet to wane. she lingered close, as she often did now—a shadow eager to learn, eager to please. not far from her was the ginger girl sun eater had brought to her side. she had not been cruel to the girl, nor had she been especially kind. she watched her, measured her, waited to see what usefulness she might bring.
the world was quiet. the herd had moved further into the valley, and the saatsine followed, their new camp settled against a gentle rise. from here, star eater could see the trails carved by the caribou, the distant shapes of their hunters stalking through the frost.

his path carries him along the river, eyes sharp for any sign of gjalla; he had yet to see her—and he thought they needed to speak. about a surplus of things, and few of it, he feared, would be pleasant. his search led him to the den of morwenna, where he thought he might find her, if nowhere else. but he did not find her, only morwenna, sprawled in the snow, heavy with child.

he had been avoiding her. not that it had been difficult—she had kept to her den, and he had kept to his duties. but now, here she was, in the open, with nowhere for him to turn but forward. so he steps toward her, ignoring the way his shoulder throbs beneath fur matted thick by blood.

mor- his voice is stifled, then. eyes cutting coldly over her, then to her audience; narrowing softly, while he clears his throat. chin coming to press into his neck fur as he mutters: star eater. correcting himself, bitterly.

gjalla—have you seen her?

the sound of his voice stirs her from stillness—heavy-lidded eyes lifting from the swell of her womb, breath like fog in the brittle air. her gaze, pale and cutting, finds him at once. blackfell.
a flicker of surprise laces her features before it is tempered beneath that regal restraint. she drinks him in—the taut line of his jaw, the stiffness of his limbs, the dark bloom of blood matting his shoulder. a subtle shift of her brow. displeasure. concern. both veiled beneath the steely poise of a queen.
blackfell, her voice is low, smooth, steeped in authority and something softer—like embers beneath ash. what do you seek of her?
she rises with grace, the weight of life within her lending gravity to every movement. though burdened, she is no less a force. snow clings to her coat like stars, glimmering as she steps forward, closing the space between them.
you are wounded. do not insult me by pretending otherwise.
a breath. her eyes soften.
come, she bids, voice lilting with something near affection, though cloaked in the cool dignity of her station. let me tend to it. i will not ask again.

blackfell watches her rise. sees the way muscles pull taut as she heaves her new weight. she is heavier now, round with the weight of unborn children. and yet still, she moves with the grace of a queen, with the authority that once made men kneel at her feet. and seeing this, supplants some hope lost to his black heart.

she reminds him of what he had been ignoring; the wound upon his shoulder, put there by the angry kick of a doe he had been hunting. he had not meant to be seen like this. bloodied, tired. exposed. she questions him about why he seeks gjalla—what he wants with her—and amusement shadows two crimson eyes.

perhaps because she will be my wife soon. blunt, firm. truth—the truth he would not hide from her. if she was asking, he assumed she didn't know yet: that gjalla had made her decision. to welcome him into her heart, her bed. and now, there was no going back. even if he wished to... which he did not.

but it is not the question that unsettles him. it is the command that follows. her voice is iron wrapped in silk, and he answers it as he once had. muscle memory, or habit; whichever one it was, it commanded he obey her. even now, with what all—he found himself victim to her whims.

he scoffs, as if to recoup some pride, turning his head slightly, but does not pull away.

i have suffered worse. an arrogant comment; but true. he comes forward, because despite everything, despite the distance, despite what she is and what she no longer is—she is still morwenna. and a part of him is still blackfell.

he exhales sharply. a flick of his ear, a twitch of his jaw as he exhales: if you must, then be quick about it.

her brow lifts—sharp, precise—as though carved from stone. for a moment, she says nothing. lets his words hang between them like a blade, twisting bitterly in her chest.
gjalla—his wife.
something tightens behind her ribs. not jealousy—no, not that. something older, colder. a wound left to fester. she presses it down, buries it beneath the cool veneer of queenship.
does gjalla know this?
her voice is smooth, but the edge is there—like ice over running water. eyes like stars, watching him too closely, seeking weakness in the cracks of his pride.
she steps nearer, breath feathering against him, the scent of frost and earth laced with the faint musk of motherhood. the starling queen bends to her work—practical, efficient. her touch is not gentle, but it is skilled.
hold still, she mutters, though she knows he will not flinch. she presses against the wound, examining torn flesh, the clotting of blood.
there is silence save for their breath, the faint hiss of snow beneath her shifting paws.
you are stubborn, she breathes, almost fondly, though the ache in her heart lingers. her gaze flickers upward—meets his.

his breath curls in the cold, slow and measured. her hands work, deft and practiced, and he does not move. he watches instead, red eyes shadowed, unreadable.

she knows. blunt. absolute. nothing more needs to be said.

she steps closer, and he does not step back. her breath ghosts against his fur, thick with the scent of earth and ice, and something else—something new.

she works quickly, without tenderness—with skill. this, at least, remains unchanged. his lips twitch with amusement, though it is faint and fleeting. the silence which comes between the two of them is numb, filled with a tension he does not understand.

and her words fall on receptive ears, that twitch in quiet reply, head bending downwards in the relent of a dark crown. his rebuttal comes quick upon hissing tongue, behind a cage of teeth, neither of which are meant to bring her harm but to behave defensively and with humor. and you are not?

then comes a scoff, quiet as it is rough. the both of them know better. and then that familiar silence is back, mind-numbing, and ever so slightly causing his guard hairs to twitch in instinct. this was so different from how things had once been between them. years had sowed something ridden deep between them; and it was full of regret, and suppressed feelings. he cannot bite back the grating, annoyed chortle.

is this what you wanted? his eyes flicker down, to the swell of her belly—betraying him.

she huffs—sharp, dismissive—though it is not anger that fuels it. something more tired, more wounded. the sound of a woman who has bitten back too much for too long.
his question cuts deeper than he likely intends. or perhaps he knows exactly what he is doing. blackfell always had a cruel sort of precision, even when he thought himself gentle.
her eyes flicker down to her belly—full, heavy with sun eater’s claim. the future of his bloodline carved into her body like an oath she could never undo.
what have i done that was not expected of me? her voice is low, hoarse with bitterness, though her hands do not falter from his wound.
i was alone, blackfell—alone! her breath sharpens, a ragged edge to the otherwise smooth veneer. the wound beneath her paws seems suddenly so small compared to the one inside her.
i was made queen because it was expected. i bore rhaegon’s sons because it was expected. i bled for them—buried them—because i was expected to endure it. i stood before the gods and took sun eater as husband because what else was there?
her throat tightens. she exhales sharply, willing herself not to crack.
i chose him. i survived. endured what very tested to kill me.
she dares to meet his eyes then—cold starlight clashing with crimson.
what am i to have when you black march boys leave?

his teeth grit, a muscle jumping in his jaw. she speaks of endurance, of survival, of duty—and he is sick of hearing it. sick of the way she frames herself as a woman who had no choices, when he knows that is not true.

his voice: a whetted blade, scraping up from his throat, fixed between pointed teeth that do not bare at her, but unveil with the shake of his jaw. he speaks and words are quiet, hushed, but voiced with an intensity that could make her furs curl.

you did not have to choose rhaegon. he does not look at her; looking at her now may illicit thoughts he long buried. you did not have to choose sun eater. words she surely did not want to hear, but would anyways.

something sharp cuts through his chest, a feeling he thought long buried. anger, resentment, the ugly shadow of what once had been. she had not waited. she had never even considered waiting. not for him. of course not—and hadn’t he told himself, time and time again, that he did not want her? that whatever had existed between them had been scorched away, burned beneath his rage?

was that why he disliked sun eater so? petty jealousy? the thought spurned even him. stirred questions—against his own self—in his mind. pulling his honor into question. when had he ever been the victim of envy? when had he ever allowed it to cloud his judgement so severely? and yet... he could not shove it aside.

but here she is, standing before him, speaking of what she has suffered, of what she has endured. and he sees her, truly sees her, and knows—she has done this to herself.

his teeth click: look at yourself.

steel in his words, in his voice. gurgling in his throat upon the emotion he suffers. i know that you could do nothing against your court. i know you could do nothing against your husband.

but this—this life she has chosen, this cycle she has willingly subjected herself to again—this is different.

his final lash: are you not tired?

her breath hitches—just once—before rage swells to fill the hollows of her chest.
she rises swiftly, as though her burden were nothing, the swell of life within her failing to slow the snap of her jaws as they clap inches from his face—teeth bared like a crown of knives.
i know of nothing else!
her voice rings sharp against the cold, brittle with anger, but beneath it—a fracture. pain. of duty. sacrifice. it is all i have ever known!
her eyes blaze, pale like frozen starlight, boring into his as though she might pierce him straight through.
and you sit here—berating me for it, as though i were some foolish girl. she steps closer, fur bristling, muzzle wrinkling as if she might strike again. i took it as a challenge when i was young. but i am a woman grown now.
her breath clouds between them, hot and furious.
i have challenges enough, blackfell.
her chest heaves, but her voice softens just slightly, though it quivers with the weight of her bitterness.
tired? a scoff, brittle, humorless. you ask a pregnant woman if she's tired? does the sun not rise? i am urinating like a river spout, eating for a cavalry, and not once has someone asked if i am okay!
she turns her gaze from him, then, letting her body fall to the ground with heated exhaustion that overtook the tendrils of her muscles. and she wept— a common courtesy of his presence. it is more than enough having veksar breathe down my neck— blackmarches. when i lied to the chieftain that i had not known him. she said in the crownore tongue, a variant of which she coveted.

her fury does not move him. not the snap of her teeth, nor the fire in her voice. he had wanted to rile her; had wanted to force her to see the truth of herself. but he had not expected this—not the wound of her voice. his words have shattered her.

when she collapses, the fight draining from her like blood from an open wound, his breath catches. not because he has never seen her weep, but because it still does something to him. because no matter how much anger, how much resentment has festered between them, she is still morwenna. she is still the woman he once...

he does not finish the thought.

instead, he watches her. listens as she speaks their tongue, a piece of home slipping past her lips. veksar. the name twists something bitter inside him. blackfell exhales as of result. the heat of his breath hot, curling into the winter air like visible frost. it takes great effort, and much swallowing of his pride, but he lowers himself beside her—not touching, but near enough that she would feel the ghost of his warmth.

you lied to protect yourself. but what of those who— he cannot finish the sentence. those who loved her!

and then, softer. reluctant. a truth that he does not want to say but cannot keep from slipping free. i will not apologize for the boy. because that was what veksar was! a boy! he wore the body of a man but his mind was not matured. his thoughts were fueled yet by a boyish desire for revenge, a boyish longing for a throne—any throne!—as if it might prove something. you fault him for remembering you? what you meant to him? what you meant to me, he nearly said. morwenna had been something to all of them! like a mother, to veksar. showing him the warmth in place of the callousness their own mother had. and to him? she had been... his teeth grit. he would pull her close, hold her, if not for the stench sun eater sowed upon her fur.

morwenna could not admit when she was jealous. when it struck her true and poisoned her heart. but blackfell could—and did, with the twitch of his jaw, with the rawness of his voice when he spoke. he dare not say it, lest forfeit his own pride, but it was there. visible across his entire being.

i served you faithfully. even now, still! toiling under the half-gaze of your husband. the whisper is rushed and fervent, laid thick with his loyalty—to this day, undying, despite the anger it brings him. he was not a man who served under others, yet here he was. still, staying, following the commands of sun eater like a loyal dog—because when his loyalty was given, that was what he was. he may dislike the man, for they shared their earthless differences, but it did not stop one thing: loyalty. he comes to this realization as he looks at morwenna, as he watches her. for so long—her word ruled his heart. and even now, it did.

with conviction, he grabs her; paw to her cheek, forcing her to look at him. uncaring of how word might find itself wriggling in sun eater's ear, of how blackfell had touched his wife. when she looks him in the eye, there is a rush of cold. it is not warm. not warm how it once had been, when things were simpler, when time and the cruelty of their world did not steal her from him. he hisses: you think me some kind of monster? his voice bleeds with a swath of disgust. am i cruel to not wish this for you? cruel to say what we all know is true? a violent inhale for air now. you still burn. i see it even when you stand at his side, cleaving for any scrap of— he backs off for her now, briefly silent as he struggles for the word he seeks.

leering at her like she had robbed him of all he knew yet again. dignity!

her lips curl back, baring her teeth, but it is not enough—not nearly enough to wound him the way she wishes to. so she spits. hot, bitter, scornful, the wet slap of it against his cheek punctuating the rage in her eyes.
then go, then! she bellows, her voice raw, shaking with something greater than anger. run, like you have before! like you did years ago!
but she does not want him to go.
she never wanted him to go.
her chest rises and falls, heaving with the force of her fury, but beneath it all—beneath the fire, beneath the sharpened steel of her words—there is something ruinous. something breaking. her claws curl into the frozen earth as if she might anchor herself there, as if it might keep her from crumbling outright.
you speak of dignity, her voice is lower now, trembling, frayed at the edges. tell me, blackfell, where was mine?
she leans into his grip, into the roughness of his hold, forces herself to meet him where he demands it.
i was given nothing! nothing but duty, nothing but expectation—i was never afforded the chance to want. her breath shudders, eyes glinting like shattered glass. but you, you think you are noble, standing here, preaching to me about what is true?
a scoff rakes from her throat, sharp and bitter.

a wildfire rips through all he has tried to bury, all he has tried to quell. he does not flinch when she spits at him, does not recoil when she bellows her fury into the night. run. the word is a blade, not for its truth, but for the way she wields it against him. as if she has any right! as if she was not the one who had gone first, left first, chosen first! his lips curl. teeth flash in something close to disgust.

do not speak to me of what was taken from you!

the words are guttural, ragged, torn from a place he does not wish to name. his voice lowers, the edge of a blade to a throat. i have lived my life in the wake of you, morwenna!

her name falls from his tongue like a curse, like a prayer, like something he does not know how to let go of. his voice, once strong, once powerful, now weakened by the affairs of the heart. cracking flimsily with the ambitions of the soul. let her see him, for what he was! what he had been.

years! he whirls on her, eyes of crimson bearing the fruit of his soul, laid out for her to see. he meets her scoff with one of his own, but this laden with pain and a tortuous agony that has claimed him longer than he can remember. years you have tormented my mind. a confession wrapped in the cloth of a madman's bleeding heart. and now you have the nerve to accuse me a disloyal man. he takes two steps backwards, tail a lashing arc above his pelvis. eyes narrowing as he looks upon her with not disgust but something clothed in a similar fabric. yes! it has been discussed.

he is quiet for but a moment as the storm gathers between them, dark clouds full of tempest and sorrow. gjalla wishes for something more. veksar wishes for something more. his voice now is filled with sarcasm dripping with anger. what about what he wanted? what about—

blackfell spits. forget all that he had said to them! all that he had thought. the woman before him only ever brought up second guesses, drawing him to question what he thought was ever true and what was. he tells gjalla one thing, he tells veksar another. but what is it that he truly wanted?

i fill my mind with thoughts of duty. with thoughts of love for stormrift's great heiress. but it is—... he shakes his head. looking to morwenna as if something might change. her mind, perhaps! her loyalties, maybe. but there is fear—fear that that is far too late. that they have went down paths that they may never return from. but it is— another long, dramatic pause, as he searches morwenna's face. as he looks upon the tears that sodden her cheeks in graceful, crystalline pools. he stalks towards her once more to close the distance between them, a slight tremble in each stride as if he might be overwhelmed by his emotion and urges at any moment.

morwenna...

gjalla still gripes for power?
the words slip from her lips before she can stop them, a flicker of stunned disbelief crossing her features. her stomach tightens—not from the life within her, but from the bitter weight of realization. after everything she had done for her, after all that she had given—gjalla still wanted more.
she exhales, slow, but her voice wavers beneath its quiet strength.
what do you think my life has been since then, by comparison?
a breath.
a droll tragedy.
her fury has burned to embers now, cooled by something quieter, more fragile. blackfell had always had a place inside her, a place untouched by rage or reason. he is woven into the memories of a life that no longer exists—a life of traipsing through blackmarch camps, eating aged berries, dancing beneath the pale moons with naught a care in the world.
but that was then.
now, she is sun eater’s wife. now, her body swells with his legacy.
still, when he says her name, when he speaks it like that—morwenna—it is not the name sun eater calls her, not the name that belongs to his wife. it is hers, hers, and it sends a tremor through her chest.
she does not step away when he closes the space between them, though her breath catches. she looks up at him, searching his face as he searches hers.
speak it plain, blackfell, her voice is softer now, quiet but steady. her throat tightens as she forces the words out, forces herself to give shape to the fear that has been gnawing at the edge of her heart.
will you leave me again?

blackfell falters.

will you leave me again?

his jaw clenches.

he should say yes.

he should turn, leave, rid himself of the ghost that she has become, the phantom weight of a past he will never stop carrying. but she is looking at him like that, with the same eyes he once knew, the same eyes that once held him in the halls of blackmarch.

a time before war, before betrayal, before the weight of their names crushed them beneath duty.

he had spent years convincing himself that he hated her. that she had chosen her fate, that she had forgotten him as easily as the court had dismissed blackmarch. that she had never been his to mourn.

but gods be damned, damn her, because part of him is still hers.

he feels it now, burning beneath his skin. it sickens him, the way her voice still cuts through him like a blade, the way his heart clenches at the tremor in it. she should not have this power over him.

but she does. she always has.

but she is not his. she is sun eater’s now, belly swollen with the weight of a future that does not belong to him.

a claim that should be a comfort. a boundary he should never cross.

it does not stop the ache in his chest.

i never should have come. words ripped from a wound that has never quite closed. his voice a fragile whisper meant for only her ears, as their foreheads come to hover only a breath away. it is steel wrapped in grief, in anger, in something far too deep to name.

but i did—and i will leave only when you ask me to.

her breath stutters, shallow and uneven, her body betraying her even as she wills herself to steel.
i am morwenna to you, she murmurs, voice edged in something raw, something fragile, something that only he had ever seen. no others.
her name. her true name. not the one sun eater calls her in the dark, not the one whispered in reverence or obedience—but the one that belongs to her. the one that belongs to him.
her head tilts, and before she can think, before she can stop herself, her forehead brushes his—featherlight, barely there, yet everything.
a breath.
perhaps you should not.
her eyes flicker shut for only a moment, the weight of all they have lost pressing between them like a phantom. her voice is but a whisper now, soft as falling snow.
leave me again at your own peril.
and she means it. gods help her, she means it.
a queen does not indulge in folly.

it should not mean so much, and yet it does. it does because it is her, because there was a time when her voice was the only thing that could calm him, when she was the only one who could call him back from the edge. because no matter how much distance, how much time, she is still his morwenna, even when she does not belong to him.

her breath ghosts against his fur, her forehead barely brushing his. it is fleeting, almost nothing, but it is enough to unravel him. and her words sink into his ribs like iron. he knows that he should have never come. should have never let her draw him back into this. but she speaks, and he listens. she asks, and he wavers.

he should leave—but he has not ever been a man of shoulds. the faintest tremor of his breath betrays him before his own mind can catch up to the new reality unfurled before him. there lay concerns on the horizon. there lay shit that would, sooner or later, hit the fan. but now, here, his head lowers, leaning into her touch, and relishes in the small security of it. there is thrill in this danger. and he is uncaring for who might see it.

for a moment, just a moment, they are young again. blackmarch halls and midnight dances. stolen glances and whispered names. before duty, before war, before everything that tore them apart. his jaw clenches.

i could not. he breathes out. i tried. he lifts his head just enough to meet her eyes, crimson and blue, winter and blood. my queen. the title that has never lost its hold on him.

my queen.
it is the word that restores her.
not wife, not mother, not star eater, nor any of the other titles that have been thrust upon her like chains. queen. the one she had forged herself, the one that had been taken from her, the one she had worn as both armor and crown.
it should not mean so much, and yet it does.
because it is him. because it is blackfell. because there was a time when she was the only one who could steady him, the only one who could call him back from the edge—and because, even now, he still bends to her. still kneels to her, even if not in body, then in spirit.
her breath stills in her chest, her eyes flickering over his face, searching, seeking. he has always been so difficult to read, but not to her—not when she knows the way his voice breaks when he is wounded, the way his breath wavers when he is torn.
his head lowers, and she does not stop him. does not move away.
for a moment, they are who they were before.
the quiet laughter of a stolen youth. before duty. before war. before the weight of their choices crushed them beneath its heel.
her lips part, but no words come. her throat tightens, the memory of her past self clawing at her ribs, whispering that this—this—is what she should have held onto, what she should have fought for.
but her belly is full with sun eater’s claim. and that—that—is the truth of her now.
her breaths slow, as her forehead brushes his once more, the barest touch, the last remnant of something she can never have again.
you could not, she echoes, softer now, her voice something fragile, something meant only for him.
and then, quieter still—softer than a prayer, heavier than an oath;
but you tried.

fade?

it undoes him.

not wife. not mother. not sun eater’s woman. but the title that was hers before anything else. the one that had belonged to her alone. the one he had followed, had believed in, had loved.

she still held him, even now. even when she was not his to hold.

his throat tightens. his breath comes slow, controlled, as if the careful pacing of it might keep the rest of him from unraveling. her forehead finds his again. the barest touch. like a memory, fleeting and distant.

his chest rises, falls.

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