Qeya River weeping willow

gjalla’s ear flicks, half in thought, half in amusement at the way he tries to escape her teeth—he cannot, and she nips at the tuft of his cheek with little effort. once, she would have scowled and bared teeth, but tonight she is too tired, to comfortable to pretend that she does not like the way he touches her. 

her warmth seeps into her bones, lulls her into something quieter, softer. he grooms her, and she allows it.

his question lingers for a long moment before she raises her voice to answer. ”no.”

“not this den. not serving saatsine.” she mutters in truth, “not as nehzuunxel.” she was not meant to stay here. there was no permanence in the den she sleeps in, in endless servitude. she did not belong here, not really.

”you were right, that day.” it comes out begrudgingly. she shifts, pressing her weight against him, her cheek grazing the line of his jaw. ”i do not belong among nomads. i belong on a throne. as do you.”