Qeya River do i wanna know?

my queen.
it is the word that restores her.
not wife, not mother, not star eater, nor any of the other titles that have been thrust upon her like chains. queen. the one she had forged herself, the one that had been taken from her, the one she had worn as both armor and crown.
it should not mean so much, and yet it does.
because it is him. because it is blackfell. because there was a time when she was the only one who could steady him, the only one who could call him back from the edge—and because, even now, he still bends to her. still kneels to her, even if not in body, then in spirit.
her breath stills in her chest, her eyes flickering over his face, searching, seeking. he has always been so difficult to read, but not to her—not when she knows the way his voice breaks when he is wounded, the way his breath wavers when he is torn.
his head lowers, and she does not stop him. does not move away.
for a moment, they are who they were before.
the quiet laughter of a stolen youth. before duty. before war. before the weight of their choices crushed them beneath its heel.
her lips part, but no words come. her throat tightens, the memory of her past self clawing at her ribs, whispering that this—this—is what she should have held onto, what she should have fought for.
but her belly is full with sun eater’s claim. and that—that—is the truth of her now.
her breaths slow, as her forehead brushes his once more, the barest touch, the last remnant of something she can never have again.
you could not, she echoes, softer now, her voice something fragile, something meant only for him.
and then, quieter still—softer than a prayer, heavier than an oath;
but you tried.

fade?