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

her movements falter—just for a second, just long enough for her hands to still against his fur before she forces herself to continue. a pause that says too much. 

do not pretend as if you care.

the words strike something deep, something raw, something she wishes she could carve out of herself and cast away into the river’s current. 

she scoffs instead. a sharp exhale, bitter, almost amused. pretend? as if it were that simple. as if she could pluck him from her heart, from the marrow of her bones, and be rid of him. as if he did not live there, embedded so deep that no amount of distance, no amount of hurt, could make her forget. 

"i care," she says, and it is neither a confession nor a plea—just the truth—one she could never quite hide with him. it is simple. unshaken. "you know I do."

her touch remains gentle, but there is an edge to it now—deliberate. stubborn man. if he does not believe her words, then she will make him feel it instead.

"you can hate me all you like, blackfell." her voice dips lower, slipping into their mother-tongue. "but don’t you ever tell me I don’t care. you know i would not be here if i didn’t,"