Qeya River do i wanna know?

her fury does not move him. not the snap of her teeth, nor the fire in her voice. he had wanted to rile her; had wanted to force her to see the truth of herself. but he had not expected this—not the wound of her voice. his words have shattered her.

when she collapses, the fight draining from her like blood from an open wound, his breath catches. not because he has never seen her weep, but because it still does something to him. because no matter how much anger, how much resentment has festered between them, she is still morwenna. she is still the woman he once...

he does not finish the thought.

instead, he watches her. listens as she speaks their tongue, a piece of home slipping past her lips. veksar. the name twists something bitter inside him. blackfell exhales as of result. the heat of his breath hot, curling into the winter air like visible frost. it takes great effort, and much swallowing of his pride, but he lowers himself beside her—not touching, but near enough that she would feel the ghost of his warmth.

you lied to protect yourself. but what of those who— he cannot finish the sentence. those who loved her!

and then, softer. reluctant. a truth that he does not want to say but cannot keep from slipping free. i will not apologize for the boy. because that was what veksar was! a boy! he wore the body of a man but his mind was not matured. his thoughts were fueled yet by a boyish desire for revenge, a boyish longing for a throne—any throne!—as if it might prove something. you fault him for remembering you? what you meant to him? what you meant to me, he nearly said. morwenna had been something to all of them! like a mother, to veksar. showing him the warmth in place of the callousness their own mother had. and to him? she had been... his teeth grit. he would pull her close, hold her, if not for the stench sun eater sowed upon her fur.

morwenna could not admit when she was jealous. when it struck her true and poisoned her heart. but blackfell could—and did, with the twitch of his jaw, with the rawness of his voice when he spoke. he dare not say it, lest forfeit his own pride, but it was there. visible across his entire being.

i served you faithfully. even now, still! toiling under the half-gaze of your husband. the whisper is rushed and fervent, laid thick with his loyalty—to this day, undying, despite the anger it brings him. he was not a man who served under others, yet here he was. still, staying, following the commands of sun eater like a loyal dog—because when his loyalty was given, that was what he was. he may dislike the man, for they shared their earthless differences, but it did not stop one thing: loyalty. he comes to this realization as he looks at morwenna, as he watches her. for so long—her word ruled his heart. and even now, it did.

with conviction, he grabs her; paw to her cheek, forcing her to look at him. uncaring of how word might find itself wriggling in sun eater's ear, of how blackfell had touched his wife. when she looks him in the eye, there is a rush of cold. it is not warm. not warm how it once had been, when things were simpler, when time and the cruelty of their world did not steal her from him. he hisses: you think me some kind of monster? his voice bleeds with a swath of disgust. am i cruel to not wish this for you? cruel to say what we all know is true? a violent inhale for air now. you still burn. i see it even when you stand at his side, cleaving for any scrap of— he backs off for her now, briefly silent as he struggles for the word he seeks.

leering at her like she had robbed him of all he knew yet again. dignity!