Duck Lake what have they done to us?

her breath trembles against his, but she does not pull away. she should. she should recoil from his closeness, from the weight of his words, from the tenderness she does not feel she deserves. and yet—she does not. 

he lowers his crown to hers, black to raven, shadow to shadow, and she lets it happen. lets him hold her, lets the warmth of him press against the cold that still lingers beneath her skin. 

he is right once more. death doesn't come easy, not for the living, nor the dying. not for her, who has carved a path in its name, nor for him, who watches her do so and does not flinch. 

and does not flinch. that was the part that surprised her. it was startle most people, surely, make many run for the hills. but not him, never him.

the kiss he steals is not soft, not coaxing, not sweet. it is something raw, stripped bare, desperate and clawing and fierce. a plea as much as a vow, and she takes it, takes it all, because he gives it freely, unconditionally. she is selfish for it, she does not deserve it.

she is drowning, but not in blood. drowning in him, in the press of his paw against her cheek, the grip that tightens, the force of his devotion doubling down only to reassure her, soothe her. suffocating her with love, with loyalty, with something she cannot name and does not know how to bear.

he tucks her against him, and she lets him. he speaks, and she listens.

"ég myndi ganga með þér í þessu lífi og inn í það næsta. ekkert gat snúið mér frá þinni hlið."

"gott." she breathes, "vertu hjá mér."