Qeya River weeping willow

gjalla was tired. she had not truly slept since their return, not really. she dozes—brief, fitful half-sleeps where exhaustion drags her under like a tidal wave, only to spit her back onto the shore, gasping, heart pounding. it sits heavy on her, pressing into the marrow of her bones and manifests into soreness. she carries it well, she always has, but even steel bent under enough strain.

the taste of iron still lingers on her tongue. rotten flesh, snake venom for blood. she remembered it clearly, it clung to her senses still like smoke. she can still feel the flesh between her teeth, beneath her claws, staining the fur of her throat. the way his head came free. the sound it made, bone snapping and flesh tearing.

she had no regrets. no hesitation—she knew that much, but that did not mean she was untouched. 

she lays curled, body tucked along the back wall of the den. moonlight spills through the mouth, wind whistles through the trees, but it is not enough to pull her from her own head. she stares out at the distant stars, jaw set tight, breath slow. she tells herself she is fine. and even if she wasn't, that she will endure, because she must.

but her limbs feel heavy. she is cold, colder than she has been in a long while.

---

for @Blackfell