Sunset Valley Tell it to my heart,

me when these two reunite *girlish screaming*

---

— she speaks words that strike him; a blade between the ribs, driving up and into the calloused flesh of his blackened heart.
it is now for the first time in so long that he sees her—the very reaction he wished to elicit from her for moons now. she is suddenly not the woman before him, but the girl she once was. standing tall before her father’s pyre, light in her eyes and fire in her veins, chosen not as daughter, but as heir. and he, young and fierce and ambitious, kneeling before her with his head bowed, lips uttering a vow he would not realize the true weight of until it stabbed him in the back.
he vowed once. he swore fealty. to kill for her. to die for her. to never let her fall. and he had broken those vows once, and though it had been indirect, he would burn before they were broken again. now—he kneels again. crownore blood sinks to the earth before her. black crown bowing low, muzzle brushing her forelegs.

ég heit aftur. ekki sem stríðsmaður, heldur sem riddari.
eyes raising, crimson and smoldering, to meet her gaze. ég skal standa við hlið þér í dauða og dýrð. í blóði og í eldi.
and then he rises again. the inches between them do not exist as he draws mouth to her brow, to press a lingering kiss there. it is searing to the spot where her crown would lay again. þú ert drottningin mín. alltaf. aftur. núna.