Herbalists' Cache hoof cache

@Blackfell

the snow shelter stood firm, a testament to her husband’s strength and care. thick-packed walls, sturdy against the wind, a hollow carved within, dark and secret. a place for the future, for the life growing inside her. star eater moved around its entrance, careful. in her teeth, she held caribou dewclaws, placing them in a rough circle around the den’s mouth—warding off ill fate, honoring the spirits that would guide her children into the world.
it was hidden well, away from prying eyes, away from the common spaces where the others gathered. they cannot know. no one but sun eater. this was a place meant only for her, for their blood, for the moments when she would be at her weakest.
but though the shelter called to her, she would not linger. not now. not yet.
with a slow exhale, she turned, leaving it behind, letting the snow drift in the wake of her departure. her steps took her toward the common areas of saatsine, where voices carried on the wind and the scent of pack life filled the air.

his mind is elsewhere. gnawing at the marrow of his thoughts: gjalla. svalla. the fight that still burns in his bones. the words she spat like venom, the way he turned away. pride and anger battle within him, neither willing to yield.

and then—morwenna against the snow.

blackfell keeps his course, but his ruby red eyes flick to her briefly. his raven, perched on his shoulder, lifts its wings and lets out a shrill, rasping caw as they pass.

blackfell does not acknowledge her. not with words. not with anything more than the briefest glance. he just keeps walking.

she watches him pass, eyes narrowed with a knowing glint. that weight on his shoulders is impossible to miss—she's worn it herself. without a word, star eater falls into step beside him, matching his stride with ease, head tilting just so, gesturing with a flick of her muzzle toward the trees where the snow drifts heavier, thicker. a place where the others won’t hear, won’t see.
when she speaks, it’s low, as if coaxing a wild thing from the brush.
you look aggravated, she says, voice smooth, nearly teasing but edged with quiet concern. her gaze lingers on his face for a long moment, searching, before she turns away to lead him off the path, trusting he'll follow.

his blood still sings from the fight, from the words gjalla threw at him like knives, cutting deep, deep, deeper. he stops short, snow kicking up around his legs, his body taut with the force of his ire. your friend has lost her good sense. his words come in a sharp, cutting exhale of his warm breath, before he fires out another comment: i was attacked, and she chose to berate me like a child instead of standing at my side. and apparently, i am a fucking idiot for defending myself.

he laughs then, but there is no humor in it. only something bitter, something that tastes of resentment, of exhaustion. he turns his head, crimson eyes finding morwenna, where he sees her and he inhales heavily past frozen nostrils. she can be alone and miserable. i do not care. i will not marry a woman who seeks to squash me beneath her self-righteous paw.

it is a lie. because he does care. because he wants to marry her. but gjalla does not appreciate him! not for who he is, not for what he has done for her, not for how he treats her. he could have torn her down for what she did, could have let the full weight of his forefathers’ wrath fall upon her—but he didn’t. he let her speak. he let her challenge him. and it was not the first time! blackfell had never treated her lesser than, but she saw fit to do just that to him. it was fucking—he grits his teeth. his emotion is palpable, wrought by the unfairness of it all.

blackfell snorts. i have tried, morwenna! there is only exasperation. i have been good to that woman. i have been what she seeks in a man. but at what point— he hesitates.

at what point am i sacrificing who i am?

she listens. carefully. quietly. watching the tension in his shoulders, the anger spitting from between his teeth like embers, as though they might catch the snow on fire around them if she does not smother them first.
when they are far enough, when the wind drowns the others and leaves only them, she steps closer. her breath curls, soft as smoke, and she hushes him—not with a sound, but with a glance, with the faintest shake of her head.
gjalla? she echoes, as though the name tastes foreign on her tongue in this context. there’s a frown etching across her face, carved deep. she finally grew a pair then? a bitter sort of jest, but even saying it aloud doesn’t sit right. star eater wants to defend her—truly—but the weight of her husband’s words is heavier still. do not speak against him. it is improper.
her jaw tightens, muscles ticking as she turns from him, pacing a sharp line through the snow. it is easier to walk than to face him, than to admit how unsettling it is to hear all this about gjalla—her gjalla—acting like some foolish girl who doesn't know when to hold her tongue.
star eater sneers, glancing over her shoulder. she has gone too far this time.
and yet...
blackfell’s words hang between them, and star eater feels the truth of them. at what point am i sacrificing who i am?
slowly, she stops. turns to face him again, head tilted, eyes narrowed as if weighing him on some invisible scale.
you shouldn’t have to, she murmurs at last. you’re not a man made to be small. not for anyone. a pause. her gaze softens just slightly. but tell me... what did you say to her? before it came to this?

blackfell lifts his head, chin high, eyes like garnet shards in the winter light. voice a candlelight against the dark of his anger: i told her it was none of her fucking business—and it was not.

he stalks, pacing, his movements sharp, restless. a habit he has never been able to break, one that has haunted him since childhood—an outlet for his anxieties, his frustrations, his fucking rage. every few steps, his head snaps to her. he exhales sharply through his nose, a sharp huff of breath curling in the cold, and continues.

a girl i was friends with long ago came. she attacked me. accused me of abandoning her. a wildling from the northern clans. his teeth click as his jaw tenses, his voice rough with disbelief, with scorn. she was gone to her insanity. and gjalla— his breath shudders, his shoulders coil with frustration, the memory of it sparking fresh resentment in his chest. she tackled me!

the words leave him like a growl, his hackles bristling with the force of his fury.

as if i was the insane one! i could have killed them both!

relax, relax, star eater soothes, stepping close enough that her flank brushes his as she circles him, halting his pacing with the smooth press of her presence. her voice is low, cool as the snow beneath their paws. it was just some random woman. when have you ever let that get to you?
but gjalla—ah. that, she cannot dismiss so easily. her brow furrows, a crease deepening as she listens.
no one else saw, she assures, casting a quick glance over her shoulder as if to confirm. this is the first i've heard of it. had word spread, i'd have known.
she tilts her head, observing him with an unreadable glint in her eye. so, she tackled you? there's the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, a glimmer of humor she doesn't quite allow to surface. gods. what a mess.
but then, more seriously, her gaze sharpens. you did not kill them, kol. that is what matters. a pause. leave gjalla to me. i'll see what’s gotten into her.
but privately, her mind churns. gjalla had finally struck? her loyalty to the woman tastes bitter on her tongue now.

blackfell stills beneath her touch. she slips past his defenses, worms into the cracks of his anger and makes him stop long enough to listen. her voice is a silken vox and he finds it calms even the worst parts of him. her body, her fur, a touch that is his kryptonite. pressing against the sharp edges of his rage like river water against stone. but he is not soothed. he rebuts angrily, but his voice has lowered, head going with it, jaw agape as puffs of air breathe. it is not about them. it is about her.

gjalla.

he watches morwenna closely as she speaks, searching her face for something—what, he does not know. some reassurance, some understanding, some fucking explanation for why the woman who was meant to be at his side had turned against him. his ear twitches.

you think it’s that simple? his laugh is bitter, jagged at the edges. she thinks she was right. and if she thinks she was right, she will not yield. blackfell is begrudging now. and without thinking, he reaches for morwenna, pressing his forehead into the backside of her neck, seeking the comfort of her body. breathing heavily, taking deep gulps of her scent as it is woven within her. she would have me be her subordinate the rest of our lives.

it is the bitter truth he had not seen before. had refused to see. i have only ever been complacent for you. he whispers, fanning breath up her neck and against her cheek where he noses softly. and even then, i am a stubborn bastard.

her smile tilts, slow and knowing, as if she’s savoring the very sight of him unraveling beneath her touch. well, that simply cannot do, can it? she murmurs, voice dipped in something warm, something coaxing. not mockery. no, never that. something closer to admiration, to the quiet praise he rarely hears but craves in secret.
when he leans in, pressing his weight against her, star eater exhales softly—a hitch, unbidden, catching in the hollow of her throat. she lets him have it, this closeness, this stolen comfort. lets him breathe her in as though it might steady the fire beneath his ribs. her gaze flickers, cautious, scanning their surroundings as though the wind itself might whisper of them. but there is no one. no one who matters.
her nose brushes along the edge of his ear, her breath delicate where it spills against the dark velvet there. i would never ask you to be complacent, she whispers, the words meant only for him, like the night air between them. but it is only before me that you yield so viciously. there’s a smile in the curve of her mouth as she says it, fond and edged in the history they share.
and then, quieter still, almost regretful, she finishes, she is simply not the woman for you.
her paw slides along the curve of his shoulder, as if to ground him, to remind him he is still here, still worthy, still seen. blackfell, she says, his true name soft as silk, a dragon is meant to be met with fire.

she speaks to him as one might soothe a wounded beast, with words spun of silk and steel. blackfell—kol— exhales a white breath, and it is warm, ruby eyes slipping shut for the briefest moment as he allows himself this. allows himself to be seen.

it is dangerous, this: the way she speaks his name and it is a prayer. the way her breath ghosts along the edge of his ear, soft, as if she means to brand herself into his very bones. it is dangerous and it is what he has longed for, and he cannot—will not—deny himself that.

and what do you think i am, if not fire?

it is a rasping breath that kisses upon her ear, where his breath ghosts. his tongue parting from his mouth to press against the cup of her ear, tenderly, gently grooming her. selfishly washing away the scent of her husband as he does, wishing only that she be covered in his fragrance. he knew it was dangerous, wrong, and it invited chaos; war. but for this moment? he would risk it all.

and she is right, of course. she is always right. gjalla is not the woman for him. he has always known this—known it in the way she grates against him, in the way she challenges and resists, in the way she does not understand that his loyalty is not meant to be tamed but honored. but still.

i chose her. and he was a man of his word, as all crownores were. he looks upon her, eyes of flame, eyes of fire, and sees burning in her that same desire for him that he feels for her. his jaw tenses, his pride a living, breathing thing coiled tight within his chest.

if she cannot be what i need, then she will have to decide if she can be anything at all. he presses heavily against her, now, seeking to bear his weight into her. he wishes for her to feel him. he sees the way she looks around—nervous, fearing. he thinks that he would cut her husband down now and take her away—he could raise the cubs in her womb as his own, that was how deep his devotion to her burned. but that is an impossible dream, is it not?

still.

what are we doing, my queen? a daring exhale of words.

her eyes drift shut at his touch, a slow, languid blink like some great cat basking in the warmth of stolen sun. she allows him this. allows herself this. the weight of him pressing in, the roughness of his breath at her ear, the steady thrum of his presence grounding her where she rests against the stone. for a moment, she forgets the names that bind them. forgets the blood that would spill if the wrong eyes found them like this.
you are smoke now, she murmurs, low and knowing, her lips barely moving. dissipating into ashes under her hand. her gaze slides to him, half-lidded and unimpressed. and you were meant to burn.
her belly shifts with the movement of life within it, and the ache of it is eased only by the sheer, solid presence of him pressed into her side. a sound escapes her, a breathless hum, something dangerously close to pleasure. you chose her, she concedes, rolling her head to rest against the stone, casting her gaze skyward as if the stars might offer some counsel. and i chose my husband.
yet here they are.
his question lingers in the cold air between them. she tastes the danger of it on her tongue. what are we doing?
her smile is slow and sharp. a queen's smile. the kind that holds kingdoms in its teeth. what we have always done, kol. his name is a whisper, a sin. surviving. taking what we can... because we can.
her tail flicks, brushing against his flank. you often think my fire has been kindled. the wind was listening. with the mountain watching.
a breath against his jaw. but there has been none to ignite it.

blackfell moves without thought, without hesitation. because she allows him. because she does not pull away, because she does not tell him to stop. because she whispers his name like that. like it still belongs to her.

his breath is hot where it spills against her throat, the faintest growl curling from his chest as his teeth find the delicate skin just beneath her jaw. you are a dangerous woman. she was and too few realized it. perhaps blackfell was the only one. he saw it now: he had doubted her. called into question. and she had been here all along, playing the game; surviving.

he shifts, pressing his nose to the hollow of her throat, dragging his mouth lower, grazing sharp fangs along the ridge of her collarbone. he is careful and gentle but there is nothing hesitant about him, nothing uncertain in the way he urges her downward, guiding her not beneath him but to the ground alongside him. until she is against the stone, and he is against her, caging her in. drinking gulps of cold breath to contain his desire, his urges. he burns hot and it is not just with what he feels for her, but his frustrations with gjalla. he yearns like a dog writhing for a bone; let us hide from them. he says to her. we can be together… an idea.

and not be together.

it was untraditional—but perhaps that was what they needed. it is uncertain. but there is nothing uncertain in the way he tastes her. in the way his tongue flicks against the curve of her pulse, mapping her with his mouth. the slope of her shoulder, the dip of her collar, the center of her chest. slow, reverent and worshipful.

star eater's breath trembles, caught somewhere between longing and restraint. his mouth against her neck, his teeth dragging so carefully along her skin—it draws from her a shiver, not of fear, but of something dangerously close to need.
but she shakes her head, slow at first, then firmer. i am... the words feel fragile, like spun glass. i am a faithful wife.
she says it aloud, to remind herself as much as him.
and yet...
you want me? it slips from her like a child's secret, soft and unsure, that glimmer of yearning he alone seems able to pull from her. the part of her that has always craved more. that has always craved him.
but still, she presses her brow to his, holding him there, keeping him still. her belly shifts between them—rounded, heavy with sun eater's children. it is grounding. sobering.
not... she breathes, voice low, hesitant as her gaze flicks over his shoulder, wary of shadows. sun eater... he will be leaving soon. somewhere far, to carry out his vengeance.
her lips press into a thin line, her eyes searching his face, as if the answer lies there, as if he might give her permission to feel what she should not.
and still, her body leans into his, savoring this stolen moment. for now.

he knew what her answer would be but it had been worth asking. he is not disappointed. he is not upset. he only tends to her more, grooming, touching her gently, showing her only the beginnings of how his passion may bloom. dressing her in his affections, so pure.

i know.

and he does. he has always known.

but knowing does not stop him from pressing the barest kiss to her collar. from pressing his weight into her just enough for her to feel the shape of him, the depth of his longing. it does not stop him from worshiping her in this way, quiet and reverent, nor from whispering against the shell of her ear, his voice a fragile, aching thing.

if we cannot be together, then give me one night. one night to pretend. it is a prayer, a promise, a desperate plea wrapped in the silk of his voice. when he is gone, i will make love to you beneath the stars.

his nose brushes her cheek, his mouth lingering just at the corner of hers, close enough that he can feel the ghost of her breath. but he does not take. not yet. his touch lasts only a moment longer before he pulls away, before he forces himself to let her go.

if he does not, he will not stop.

her body yields beneath him, at first. she relishes in the worship, the softness of his mouth against her collar, the heat of him pressed just close enough to make her breath hitch, her pulse thrum. for a moment, she allows herself to believe it. the dream. the possibility of more than stolen glances and forbidden touches.
but reality is never far.
her lashes flutter as her eyes open, her belly heavy between them—a reminder of the life she already carries, of the man who built the snow shelter waiting for her return.
slowly, gently, she begins to shift beneath him. her paws find his chest, not to push him away, but to steady herself, as though pulling back from the edge of something vast and dangerous.
i am not worthy of love, she whispers, and they both know it's true. she says it not to wound him, but as fact. as law. she has never been worthy of anything but survival. of power. of control.
her nose finds his, brushing, teasing in a final, fleeting touch—a silent apology for all they are and all they cannot be.
now i must bathe, she breathes, her voice like wind over ice.
and she slips from beneath him like mist, leaving only her scent tangled in his fur, her warmth fading from where it pressed into him.
without looking back, she moves toward the water. toward duty. toward her husband.
but her heart stays with him, trembling, aching, knowing it cannot remain there for long.

exit SE :(

he does not stop her.

he should—but doesn’t.

his body remains still, his breath slow and controlled, though every fiber of him screams to keep her against him—to hold her there, to tell her she is wrong. that she is worthy! that he would love her anyway, despite all the laws she binds herself to, despite all the gods she prays to in silence.

but he is not a fool.

blackfell lets her slip from his grasp, lets the warmth of her leave him, lets the scent of her fade into the cold. and his red eyes follow her, watching as she moves toward the water, toward the life she has chosen.

it is a quiet sort of agony. and blackfell must live with it, and too move toward the life he has chosen.

— “norse“ · common