Qeya River weeping willow

she does not resist when he presses close, nor pull away. she had not realized how cold she was until now, not until he pressed himself to her side and offered her something to anchor to. 

the silence between them is not an empty one. she had grown accustomed to it, leaned to read him through it. it is safety, security. comfortable, now. her gaze lingers on the night sky, the distant glow the stars reflected in periwinkle irises.

she wonders, vaguely, if the dead watch her now. if they whisper of the things she has done, the things she will still do. if they approved. she hoped they understood, at the least. saw all her rage and saw it for what it was. an act of loyalty.

her head shifts, slow and contemplative, before her tongue rasps against the thick fur of his throat. it is brief, fleeting, but the intent lingers in the space it leaves behind. done partially to self-soothe, because he would let her.