Herbalists' Cache supposed to be on stage, but fuck it, i need a minute

it is hard to let go. hard to forget what transpired. why would it not be? it had only been... a handful of days. but it felt like eternity. was that truly how deep the hold that she held upon him grew? a ditch, a rut, in his heart that only grew wider with the length of any absence from her. when she touches, he feels the deep disturbance in his chest quiet.

his breath hitches; she steals it from him, but he sucks it back past agape lips, watching the way his warm breath disturbs the thick fur that envelops her. he wishes so deeply to reach out and to touch her; to embrace her, to hold her in the waters as they lap delicately at the both of them. she works at knots in his muscles, while removing the blood that clings to him, and he watches her with an intense smolder.

what happened?

he turns his head. i killed. an admittance of guilt, but he feels none. it was out of duty, out of necessity—and too, out of pleasure. he was protecting her, protecting the children she grew. he trusted no one, not even the man who she had lain with to create them, yet here they were. nothing to be done about it. he had said: he would not involve himself in another man's marriage—he had meant it. but it was not just her. it was pride. he protected the food he had hunted, the food meant to feed the children, the women.

do not pretend as if you care, gjalla. he grumbles. save us both the trouble.