Qeya River do i wanna know?

blackfell watches her rise. sees the way muscles pull taut as she heaves her new weight. she is heavier now, round with the weight of unborn children. and yet still, she moves with the grace of a queen, with the authority that once made men kneel at her feet. and seeing this, supplants some hope lost to his black heart.

she reminds him of what he had been ignoring; the wound upon his shoulder, put there by the angry kick of a doe he had been hunting. he had not meant to be seen like this. bloodied, tired. exposed. she questions him about why he seeks gjalla—what he wants with her—and amusement shadows two crimson eyes.

perhaps because she will be my wife soon. blunt, firm. truth—the truth he would not hide from her. if she was asking, he assumed she didn't know yet: that gjalla had made her decision. to welcome him into her heart, her bed. and now, there was no going back. even if he wished to... which he did not.

but it is not the question that unsettles him. it is the command that follows. her voice is iron wrapped in silk, and he answers it as he once had. muscle memory, or habit; whichever one it was, it commanded he obey her. even now, with what all—he found himself victim to her whims.

he scoffs, as if to recoup some pride, turning his head slightly, but does not pull away.

i have suffered worse. an arrogant comment; but true. he comes forward, because despite everything, despite the distance, despite what she is and what she no longer is—she is still morwenna. and a part of him is still blackfell.

he exhales sharply. a flick of his ear, a twitch of his jaw as he exhales: if you must, then be quick about it.