Herbalists' Cache supposed to be on stage, but fuck it, i need a minute

@Blackfell

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gjalla had done well avoiding him. Or maybe he had done well avoiding her. either way, whatever they were doing was working. until now, of course.

she smells him before she sees him—before she rounds the bend and nearly collides with him, the space between them narrowing too fast for her to turn away without making it obvious. gjalla refuses to look like she’s running. not from him. (—though she certainly was)

her step falters, just slightly, before she plants her paws firm, gaze drawn up to meet his, and for a moment, there is nothing but silence. it is a heavy one—stifling. 

she should say something. acknowledge him, apologize to him, but all that lingers on her tongue is venom, and she is tired of fighting. so instead, she exhales sharply through her nose, brows furrowing.

of course it would be like this.

"blackfell."

he had not been expecting this.

gjalla, here, now. he is still covered in the blood and gore of his manhunt, and gawks for a few moments, at the woman. standing in front of him.

here, now.

his heart cries. tells him to speak, to pull her into his embrace. to tell her that she was right, even though she was not, only if to put aside all this bother. but he does not. his pride does not allow it, and blackfell looks upon her with soft eyes only for a second—before they harden. expression shifting from surprise to a cold, quiet indifference.

he shoves past her.

gjalla doesn’t move when he shoves past her, doesn’t even flinch—just watches the crimson smear of dried blood across his fur as he brushes by. for a moment, she considers letting him go. letting him sulk and stew in whatever gods-forsaken pit he was about to drag himself into, covered in someone's spilled guts.

she does not—it raises too many unanswered questions, and it would only sever the bond futher. something about it—about him, covered in gore, reeking of old blood and sweat, unhappy—unsettles her. irritates her like an itch beneath the skin she cannot reach.

so she turns on her heel and follows. 

"ishmira told me she saw you covered in blood." that, most certainly, did not happen. a blatant lie, delivered flatly, effortlessly. too practiced at deceit for it not to be. "i see she wasn’t exaggerating."

gjalla does not wait for him to acknowledge her, nor does she give him a choice. Her nose judges the thick ruff of his scruff, a gentle touch, a request rather than a command. her voice is softer when she speaks: "come."

she follows him. to this, in reply, his tail lashes. once, like an agitated cat and then once again. her footsteps fast, paced, to catch up to the relentless stride he set. he felt her graze his flank, and then soon she was shoulder to shoulder, and yet his eyes remained forwards.

if he looked at her, he would break.

he thinks of suliya, though. he thinks of how he knew when sun eater suggested he go to her, that he would not be able to follow through. gjalla, she was far too embedded in his heart. a perfect, amethyst stone that slotted into her own personal seat upon his calloused, crag of a heart. to this he huffs.

when her nose finds his scruff and noses gently there, the man looks at her. she beckons him, goes forward, and he stops for several seconds. debating. thinking. but he moves, eventually, like he knew he would. allowing her to lead him. his eyes lacking much emotion falling over her, kneading their way emotionally through the rivulets of her raven fur, tracing the curve of her muscled body.

she does not speak as he follows, nor does she acknowledge the victory in it, for this was not a battle won. this was something else—something more fragile, uncertain. a truce, perhaps. the clouds breaking between a storm.

her touch lingers, just barely, as she guides him forward. nose brushing along his shoulder before falling away. she can feel his gaze on her, tracing over her like he is searching for something. maybe she is doing the same. looking for the man she feels such love affection for,
buried beneath all that dried blood and weary anger. 

the water is close now. the sound of it reaches them first, a steady murmur against the night. she slows, tossing him a side-long glance before she steps in, coaxing him to follow. the chill bites at her ankles, then her hocks, and stops at her stomach as she turns around to him.

"let me," let me help you, as you helped me. an invitation she is not sure he will take. she is offering something in the only way she knows how.

water. it flows soundly, softly, a trickling tune that is both melodic and terrible. melodic, because it reminds him of the waters that settled at the base of the crags. at the base of home. terrible, because he knew why gjalla led him here. and he was not okay with it. but he did not find it okay to deny her.

his movements are slow and dipped in hesitation. his eyes look, to her, then around. he feels the grime that coats him, that darkens the pale of his fur into a swampy brown, and he feels his jaw quiver. with emotion. with remaining anger. with residual regret.

his paws reach the water, then his legs slice through the surface. he comes slowly, until he is at her side, his breath fanning gently over her forehead, where his mouth lingers in frozen pause. quiet. saying nothing.

waiting.

in truth, she had expected resistance. expected some bitter, reluctant surrender, but not this. his silence is eerie, heavy like a storm pressing against the horizon. he moves—slow, uncertain, like he is waiting for her to pull away first.

she does not.

she lets him linger there, his breath warm against her forehead, a stark contrast to the cool bite of the water around them. her throat tightens, and she does not know if it is because of him or the sheer exhaustion of it all.

she reaches gingerly, carefully, as though he might recoil if she is not careful. her touch ghosts over his shoulder first, barely there, before she presses firmer to work through the filth, through the blood and whatever else clings to him.

it is an excuse.

a reason to be close without saying what she really means. gods know that was her favorite thing—closeness without reason, physicality without brutality. it is a statement without letting the words fall from her lips, the ones that taste too much like an apology, like an admission of how she has missed him.

"what happened?"

it is hard to let go. hard to forget what transpired. why would it not be? it had only been... a handful of days. but it felt like eternity. was that truly how deep the hold that she held upon him grew? a ditch, a rut, in his heart that only grew wider with the length of any absence from her. when she touches, he feels the deep disturbance in his chest quiet.

his breath hitches; she steals it from him, but he sucks it back past agape lips, watching the way his warm breath disturbs the thick fur that envelops her. he wishes so deeply to reach out and to touch her; to embrace her, to hold her in the waters as they lap delicately at the both of them. she works at knots in his muscles, while removing the blood that clings to him, and he watches her with an intense smolder.

what happened?

he turns his head. i killed. an admittance of guilt, but he feels none. it was out of duty, out of necessity—and too, out of pleasure. he was protecting her, protecting the children she grew. he trusted no one, not even the man who she had lain with to create them, yet here they were. nothing to be done about it. he had said: he would not involve himself in another man's marriage—he had meant it. but it was not just her. it was pride. he protected the food he had hunted, the food meant to feed the children, the women.

do not pretend as if you care, gjalla. he grumbles. save us both the trouble.

her movements falter—just for a second, just long enough for her hands to still against his fur before she forces herself to continue. a pause that says too much. 

do not pretend as if you care.

the words strike something deep, something raw, something she wishes she could carve out of herself and cast away into the river’s current. 

she scoffs instead. a sharp exhale, bitter, almost amused. pretend? as if it were that simple. as if she could pluck him from her heart, from the marrow of her bones, and be rid of him. as if he did not live there, embedded so deep that no amount of distance, no amount of hurt, could make her forget. 

"i care," she says, and it is neither a confession nor a plea—just the truth—one she could never quite hide with him. it is simple. unshaken. "you know I do."

her touch remains gentle, but there is an edge to it now—deliberate. stubborn man. if he does not believe her words, then she will make him feel it instead.

"you can hate me all you like, blackfell." her voice dips lower, slipping into their mother-tongue. "but don’t you ever tell me I don’t care. you know i would not be here if i didn’t,"

he makes a noise in response to her words. it is like a grunt, stuck in his throat, not making it past to the cage of his teeth. molars crush down. his teeth connect, in symmetry, as he stares into the distance. feeling her work his muscles, only now she did so harshly.

a welcome feeling, as pain knotted in his muscles and eventually alleviated into a numb softness. his head lowers, slowly, as he lets himself relax into the feeling. eyes cascading closed, his breathing pulsing, flanks pressing against hers. he welcomes her touch, even if his mind tells him not to.

he is not ready to forgive. but it does not mean they must be apart. he knows this much—and he must set aside his pride. not for him, not for ishmira, but for her. for the woman he had pursued for long. she had slipped from his grasp once, that day moons ago. he got her back, and did not seek to lose her.

he turns his head halfway to her, letting his chin—tentatively—find her head to rest upon. his voice rumbling in his throat against her fur. i do not hate you. he says, and he is silent for several long, stifled seconds. as if he may suffocate to get out what he says next:

i love you.

he does not hate her. the words should not feel as relieving as they do, but she feels the tension in her ribs ease, just slightly. and then—

"i love you."

oh.

gjalla swallows thickly. her heart flutters, skips a few beats. he loves her. it settles like a stone in her throat, a heavy, aching thing, because she knows it is true. he is many things—bitter, stubborn, infuriating—but he is not a liar. he would not have said it if it weren’t.

she exhales, slow and measured, before finally turning her head just enough to look at him, to press her forehead against the curve of his jaw. and then, in the softest whisper against the dark of the water’s edge, she breathes the words back;

"i love you, too."

and she does. she loves him fiercely, desperately, even when he makes her blood boil, even when she wants to tear into him with bared teeth and seething words. she loves him in silence, in the way his weight settles against her now, like maybe—just maybe—he does not wish to be apart either.

i love you, too.

blackfell feels his eyes close, connecting, as he seeks connection with her. she presses to him and he presses back, ignoring the anger that yet still conquers his heart. there was much, and it was overwhelming. much frustration, much resentment, much yearning for blood. blood to be spilled.

he told himself: he would be contained. he would be docile. he would be loyal. but this loyalty burned, it burned like hot metal poured atop his head, down his back, amongst his neck, hardening and choking. it was a loyalty he had not ever known, and if to be loyal to morwenna was to suffer the fool of a man she had taken to husband, could he be?

could he be?

his eyes open and he instead refocuses upon her. she was the source of many things, but one beat out all: love. he loved her. he had desired her, but then his desire had turned to the vapid beating of his heart, the way she said his name and it engraved upon his skin. this is not the end but the beginning; there will be obstacles to come, but they should face them together, no? he swallows, bitterly. i do not wish to marry you, like this, gjalla. he says.

i wish to marry you in the way of our people. this is not us. this, what was around them. his muscles which she had worked so hard to alleviate pressure from only tighten once more, this time constricted by a smoldering desire for, what was it? revenge? vengeance? no. liberation. tell me, gjalla. he urges.

tell me that you will fight by my side when the time comes.

and it would come—he just didn't realize then how soon it would be.

be my wife now. we must not wait. let us be unified. he demands of her, and he knows that she does not like when he demands of her, but he does it anyway. grappling her face with a paw raised from the waters that lap around their bodies, drawing them only closer together. we will have our wedding one day. but now, he looks upon periwinkle eyes with crimson, be my wife.

it is rare for him to be so open, but here he stands before her, soaking in blood and water, offering her something she is not sure she deserves. not like this, when she still had not apologized—soon. let this moment not be soured by bad memories.

his touch is possessive, burning even through the cold of the water, his palm firm against her face as he demands what he knows she would never give to another. his touch feels like home. she has spent her whole life fortifying herself, yet with him, she crumbles.

"i will," she breathes, and it is not submission—never—it is a promise, unwaveringly honest. "i will fight by your side. I will be your wife." the words are binding, sealing something neither of them will ever be able to undo. whatever lies ahead—vengeance, war, bloodshed—she will stand beside him, through it all.