Larksong Grotto done running

the man is torn off of him in a flurry of snarls and screams, and erys hardly realizes what has happened until his assailant lays dead, throat torn to shreds. and there, bathed in blood and descending dusk, stands his raven prince.

he wishes the sight did not affect him. but oh, how it does. and oh, how that wretched part of him longs to lick the blood from emýr's lips, to soothe his rage with sweet caresses and gentle whispers. but he does not waver, even as the tension between them threatens to snap. he draws a breath, heavy, and meets the eyes of the dead man first. pools of gray-green now stare up, dull and lifeless. he looks to his man next, and there is little warmth.

"you should not have come." he growls through clenched teeth, taking a step closer. he can smell the blood more strongly now, and it mixes with emýr's scent like sweet perfume. were it a different day, he would seek to drown himself in it.

"i did not need your help. i did not ask for it." i did not beg, his eyes say, but still you came.