Qeya River [m] ghosts

he is sure. it is something he has known for all the years he has lived. he would die by the teeth of his own son, the way his died. he had wept the day his father died. he had been scarred by the taste of his mortal blood caking his tongue, his mouth, teeth. but the memory of his father is one he honors. weeping was natural. as was grief. it made him no less man. no less crownore.

he repeats his thoughts to her. i am sure, a glance back at her as she pauses pace, but it is ultimately out of my paws. i can only hold close my faith.

he stops, as she had. finding the distance between them lingering with a softness that had not been present between them, ever. it is progress. he knows that. and he knows that he must not push gjalla, he must not rush her. she is not a shield to be used, but a sword to be cherished. and he would cherish her. she must only let him.

he looks at her like she is the stars, all while her eyes are cast to the ones she reveres. she only glances at him again when they fade. her words stir something in his chest, something like hope—but not nearly as childish. he cannot help but chuckle, and engage in her banter, even if that is all it is: banter. any daughter with you would be worth ten sons. 

he steps closer to her. perhaps seeking to test the boundaries of their words as his eyes mischievously rest on her own gaze. do you hate the thought? a genuine question, his chin tilting to the side. he clarifies: a little army of fierce shield-maidens and berserkers with our faces.