Blackfoot Forest starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters

and then he was before her, and she made still.
he brought back sharply the sting of burning river, of cutting darkness and twisted sadness so sharp it'd cut deep into her chest. too of fear and hurt and the dark stench of stone; of whispered oaths and a birth better unseen. of a witch and a pact; yet better things too. a love that existed only where the canopy blotted out the sun and she was little more as an experiment.

she does not speak but draws in his scent, carefully, moss-green gaze meeting his. she is silent is she is stoic; opposite of the spitfire in the cave, opposite of the woman who sought death in order to feel. and he is not the king he was, a titan yet but without the thick mantle of the wood. she wonders what became of his throne. she wonders what became of all of them, after whispers of war. she does not reckon they were defeated or driven out, at least not for long. 

she does not care and yet she has questions, does not care yet wants him to burn for all that he has stolen. these things war inside her as her tension joins his.  "hello, vaati."