Blackfeather Woods nothing but the burnt edge of an unfinished history

o no honey wat is u doin

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He grovels. It is a gesture that she takes to immediately. It had been a long time since she had been given any respect, and the first time in what seemed like years since she was venerated like she was now. It was a welcomed emotion after the weeks of self-pity, self-hatred, the clouded judgement and the feeling of emptiness ever since her second litter, the cursed ones, were born. But her asperity still remains, both from the days-long withdrawal and from his sudden return after a sudden departure.

She says nothing as he speaks. He pleads with her, begging to return to her. And something clicks in her head.

He came back for her. Her. When had anything been done for her sake? She had been sent away for the good of the pack. She was forced to get pregnant the first time for the good of the pack. She was prevented from killing her second litter, the deformed, bound to be insane ones, for the good of the pack. Even the ones that she had first bore were traitorous, inconsiderate fools. She had done nothing but sacrifice her whole life for the happiness of someone else, for the continued existence of a pack that withered despite their best efforts.

She wants him back. For a flurry of reasons that are increasingly, entirely selfish. The cogs in her head begin to turn, different thought processes and possibilities working at the same time. Eventually she speaks, her voice raspy from unuse, cold with anger and detachment — chipped ice. Don't move, She commands, though she knows that he wouldn't leave.

The witch turns, facing the blood-and-bone ornaments that decorate the pack's borders, her eyes searching through the half-consumed skeletons. This was rather impromptu, though it would make the punishment even more delicious in her mind. She snaps a fractured bone — some femur — one end long and sharp.

She makes her way back to him, eyeing his body for a blank canvas to mark him. She settles on his right thigh. She speaks over the bone, her eye still settled on where she would brand him. I'm going mark you with the shadowmark for worthless, They had not used shadowmarks in forever — what use was the practice when all they did was stay huddled in their little dark fortress? If you cry out during this consider yourself gone — and I will make this hurt, She doubted her own strength, but had no lapse of faith on her ability to hurt him. 

The witch approaches him, lining up the sharp end of the bone with the top of his thigh. She presses the point near the top of his muscle, deep as she can without permanently harming his ability to walk or run. She makes a circle, though that act is by far the bloodiest process, having to stop and change the angle time and time again. Once it is complete, jagged as it was, she creates a square inside of it, finishing the mark. The bone clatters to the ground, her mouth stained red by the process, though she is used to red staining her pelt. She laps at the wound and in between licks whispers — Ñuha mijegon odre vala, — affection taking over the rage that she released through marking him.