Qeya River do i wanna know?

it should not mean so much, and yet it does. it does because it is her, because there was a time when her voice was the only thing that could calm him, when she was the only one who could call him back from the edge. because no matter how much distance, how much time, she is still his morwenna, even when she does not belong to him.

her breath ghosts against his fur, her forehead barely brushing his. it is fleeting, almost nothing, but it is enough to unravel him. and her words sink into his ribs like iron. he knows that he should have never come. should have never let her draw him back into this. but she speaks, and he listens. she asks, and he wavers.

he should leave—but he has not ever been a man of shoulds. the faintest tremor of his breath betrays him before his own mind can catch up to the new reality unfurled before him. there lay concerns on the horizon. there lay shit that would, sooner or later, hit the fan. but now, here, his head lowers, leaning into her touch, and relishes in the small security of it. there is thrill in this danger. and he is uncaring for who might see it.

for a moment, just a moment, they are young again. blackmarch halls and midnight dances. stolen glances and whispered names. before duty, before war, before everything that tore them apart. his jaw clenches.

i could not. he breathes out. i tried. he lifts his head just enough to meet her eyes, crimson and blue, winter and blood. my queen. the title that has never lost its hold on him.