Stone Circle stand next to the spire of my crumbling

His thrall does not rouse from within the den. His ears flick and twitch but there is no sound of scuffle as she unfolds herself, no sound of nearing footfalls. It has been some time since Wardruna has worried over her dying on him: with her form filling out from the food he brings her his worry had gradually lessened. “Noma!” He chokes out in a barely audible whisper with a tremble to the sound, hating the waiver of his voice. Still, she does not rouse. Dread fills him: icy cold and adrenaline pulses through his veins, increasing the beat of his heart as it threatens to beat from his chest and into his throat. He does not want her to leave him …in any capacity. It never actually occurred to Wardruna that during the process of nursing her back to health and caring for her that he would actually grow attached to her: that he would actually come to feel things for her. That he would need her — mostly because that wasn’t how it was supposed to go but damn the gods if his life has gone all askew. So, of course, why wouldn’t this, too? Developing feelings for a thrall; how far the mighty commander has truly fallen, Wardruna thinks bitterly. A discovery brought to light by the unpleasant fear that he’s failed and that she’s perished in his care.

He barges into the den without preamble, a tremble to his legs that he tries to ignore as he wills them forward, his functioning eye focusing upon her silhouette in the dark. He presses his muzzle to her cheek intrusively, heaving a sigh of relief to feel that her flesh is still warm, still soft beneath his touch. She is not a corpse. Annoyance at himself, at the situation, at emotions and attachment that is far out of his control grows in equal measure. He wants her to prosper, to grow into her potential at his side but he also wants her to stay and Wardruna has no idea how to ensure both. The realization that he’s way more involved and invested in his thrall then he wanted to be, than he expected to be only …complicates everything. Does he tighten his reigns or loosen the hold and pray to his deities that she chooses to stay? He has given her no reason to, admittedly. He is not a beast born of gentle things and he does not know how to be kind.

“Vaknaðu Þyrnirós,” Wardruna murmurs the northerner words into her ear, his teeth grazing the velveteen tip of it in a small nip. An attempt to rouse her from her deep slumber. He’s almost envious of her ability to sleep like the dead and wonders if that is just how she is or if she feels secure enough in his presence to trust that he would not turn upon her and that he would, accordingly keep her safe ( as best he could anyway ). Wardruna makes no attempts to flatter himself with the last consideration though: likely, he thinks, she’s just gifted with the ability of deep slumber.

524 words