Sunset Valley Tell it to my heart,

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— he does not argue. he does not try to soften what cannot be softened. because she is right. and her voice—thin and sharp, forged like obsidian from the marrow of ruin—it shakes something loose in him. something he had buried, long ago.
then—i will not leave you again, he answers. his muzzle hovers near hers, and he speaks only this: if you burn, so do i. if you fall, i fall. if another ever dares to take you from me again— his teeth bare, voice gravel— —they will have to go through me.
and at last, he looks her in the face. we are past mourning. now we make war.
a shallow breath. letting her loose from his grasp, despite how he wishes to cling her to him again. tell me all that happened.