Herbalists' Cache but my aching soul

blackfell scoffs, head tilting slightly as he glances down at gjalla where she sprawls beside him. his expression is unreadable, and his voice is so very dry, dismissive. he huffs: she isn’t mine. and it is a fact! unable to be challenged, this he is cemented in, as he too sprawls out alongside his lover.

i found her on the river. she was tracking me. his lips curl slightly, amused, as if the memory still entertains him. persistent little thing. i thought she might drown before she gave up. he exhales sharply through his nose, looking away. crimson eyes scan the horizon, sharp, watchful. i don’t want her. but the way he says it... even he doesn't seem to truly believe it. he is sure gjalla can hear it, clear as the rivers that carve the land. she is a bullshit detector.

the way he speaks of the girl with irritation that is not truly irritation. how he says he does not want her, and yet he has made space for her. how he watches, how he corrects, how he teaches. he grumbles something unintelligible.