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

i love you, too.

blackfell feels his eyes close, connecting, as he seeks connection with her. she presses to him and he presses back, ignoring the anger that yet still conquers his heart. there was much, and it was overwhelming. much frustration, much resentment, much yearning for blood. blood to be spilled.

he told himself: he would be contained. he would be docile. he would be loyal. but this loyalty burned, it burned like hot metal poured atop his head, down his back, amongst his neck, hardening and choking. it was a loyalty he had not ever known, and if to be loyal to morwenna was to suffer the fool of a man she had taken to husband, could he be?

could he be?

his eyes open and he instead refocuses upon her. she was the source of many things, but one beat out all: love. he loved her. he had desired her, but then his desire had turned to the vapid beating of his heart, the way she said his name and it engraved upon his skin. this is not the end but the beginning; there will be obstacles to come, but they should face them together, no? he swallows, bitterly. i do not wish to marry you, like this, gjalla. he says.

i wish to marry you in the way of our people. this is not us. this, what was around them. his muscles which she had worked so hard to alleviate pressure from only tighten once more, this time constricted by a smoldering desire for, what was it? revenge? vengeance? no. liberation. tell me, gjalla. he urges.

tell me that you will fight by my side when the time comes.

and it would come—he just didn't realize then how soon it would be.

be my wife now. we must not wait. let us be unified. he demands of her, and he knows that she does not like when he demands of her, but he does it anyway. grappling her face with a paw raised from the waters that lap around their bodies, drawing them only closer together. we will have our wedding one day. but now, he looks upon periwinkle eyes with crimson, be my wife.