Qeya River star

@Star Eater

he had butchered an old cow that'd collapsed on the edges of the herd. fetched fleshy heart from her chest and laid her hide out to dry as a gift for @Gjalla, and now he began the long trek up the river. towards the dens where star eater had been reclused for several days now.

he had not seen her, and things rested heavily on his mind. on onyx shoulders that coil sharp with sinew with each stride he takes. pushing past evergreen, crunching over snow and ice.

and just outside her den, he can see the fogging of her breath. smell her scent upon the wind that flows towards him, a rough graze across flaring nostrils. caught in-between his jaws is the heart and it is dropped to the ground by her feet when he reaches her.

nudged into a roll by his nose shortly after, insistent that she eat.

her eyes drop immediately to the offering. not just any part of the beast, but the heart. her preferred choice.
she narrows her gaze, unreadable, though suspicion lingers at the corners of her features. did he know? had he observed her, taken note of such things?
blackfell, she greets finally, her voice a steady hum, measured. she watches him with that same sharp intensity, as if peeling back layers of muscle and bone to see what he is made of beneath.
the heart rolls at her feet, slick and dark, the scent rich and strong in the cold air. for a moment, she does not move, merely studies him with something wary, something thoughtful.
then, wordlessly, she lowers herself, tearing into the flesh with efficient bites. if there is meaning in the gift, she does not question it aloud. but the acceptance is an answer in itself.

i must speak with you. voice comes in a grunt. it is cold, efficient, and lacking any amount of warmth it might had if a cloud did not hover above him. dark, cruel.

his mind was a storm now. a shade of red, far different from the purple that haunted the minds of gjalla. he turns cold eyes onto star eater, paces several feet away, and then stops.

staring off into the woodlands that bury away her den. looking down upon the rise that shadows the length of the taiga river, in the distance he sees the herd moving peacefully. but he knows no peace.

he speaks again with the click of teeth to announce breath. you did not defend me. he did not clarify. not yet.

she does not stop eating, nor does she rush him. blackfell is a patient man, but she is a patient woman. she only watches him when he moves, when his eyes stray from her to the forest, to the river, to the herd that grazes unbothered in the distance.
when he speaks again, she finally stills. tongue dragging across the edge of her teeth, clearing the taste of blood before she lifts her head fully.
speak, then.
she is not cruel, but she is not soft. if he has something to say, let him say it. let him give her the shape of his grievance so that she may understand it.
but when the words come—you did not defend me—there is no understanding.
her brow furrows, ears tipping slightly forward. she sees the tension in him, the storm of something unspoken brewing behind his eyes, but she does not yet know the source.
when? she asks, voice even, but firm. there is no accusation in her tone, only a demand for clarity. if she has failed him, she must know how.

he had been prepared to fight. to raise his voice, argue, bellow with passion. but that did not come. he did not see in this woman the vicious queen that others often spoke of, whispered of when devoutees did not look.

but it does not stop the blood from pumping. from boiling hot, as he slightly turns, guard hairs raising upwards in vicious pull. from your court. he cannot stop the poison from flooding his tone, but teeth do not bare; he only fixes a red, scarred eye upon her snow-fleece back.

ears pull backwards atop his crown. when the vultures feasting at your throne came down upon me. upon the spire. there is visible hurt upon his face, as nose snarls up, reliving the memories. they saw me displaced. forced me from my home with the threat of war.

he turns fully now. you did nothing. why? you were my queen.

star eater does not meet his eye. instead, she turns her gaze to the river, watching the water pull at the ice along its edges, dark currents twisting beneath the surface. her breath is steady, but her body holds tension in its lines—coiled, like something waiting to spring.
you think my voice aired above the men in my court?
it is not a question in need of an answer. her voice is flat, but there is something else beneath it, something bitter, something cold.
you think my word held weight against the blades drawn against you?
her shoulders shift, her ears pressing back.
i was not silent, she says at last, softer now, though no less sharp. but i was not enough.
her tail flicks once behind her, and still, she does not look at him. the truth of it tastes like iron in her mouth, but she will not dress it in prettier words than what it was.

he steps closer, gaze narrowing. unfortunately for star eater, blackfell has no concept of sexism. there is no line drawn in his world which separates man and woman.

you were queen. your word should have been law.

the ache of betrayal burns in his chest. blackmarch had been his duty, his birthright. and she had been his queen.

he huffs sharply through his nose, pacing now, back and forth before her den.

i spilled my father’s blood for that claim. and for what? to be forced out by those who dared whisper treason under your nose?

his voice drops, rough and simmering with restrained anger.

you were not enough because you let them take it from me.

star eater watches him, unblinking, unreadable, but her silence is not empty. it is heavy. weighted with something ancient and bitter.
yes.
the word is quiet, but it does not waver.
it was happening beneath my own nose. the coup.
her jaw tightens. it is the first sign of emotion she allows to slip past the iron gate of her control. she does not rise, does not bristle, does not meet his pacing with movement of her own. but her breath comes slower, deeper, measured.
i was lucky they did not kill me there. when i wished to spare the march.
her eyes track him, pacing, coiling, barely restrained. she does not flinch from his words. she lets them settle, lets them breathe. you were not enough.
her tongue presses against the back of her teeth. are you so daft to your own sex to not understand? my rule was a jest before the seven, before all the kingdoms. she would not let it get to her. not when life sweltered inside of her. i do not need your constant reminder for a life i left behind. so please, a short breath as she turned away from him, lowering her head to the ground and wrapping her tail above her snout. her eyes burned. salt dripped from her cheeks.
do not crucify me for my past mistakes. as i do not do it to you.

he is ready to fire another round of arguments.

she knew him! his father had the kindness to let the princess dance through his halls, to bask in their culture, to sing with the songs of their people. and she had stood idly by while traitors went behind her back and dismantled his home.

but then he sees the tears that well in her eyes. he hears the words she speaks. and it is for the first time that he sees. he sees her pain. injustice burns his hide, but it pales in comparison to what was stolen from her. his lips press into a firm line, chest and flanks heaving with deep breaths as he sees the emotion spill from her eyes.

it is his better nature that forces him to grow nearer, to expel the angry sigh that billows fog into the sky. his nose to press to her cheek, burning hot with the anger forged in a raven's heart. when he speaks, it is a whisper that hisses with bitterness.

my kin would have marched south on my command to defend their queen. on my word. my vow. my father bent his head, swore loyalty to you and yours.

and so he steps forward, circling to block her view of the river, forcing her gaze to meet his own. he would have wiped her tears—had they been others, had the years not cut that path between them. but that time was gone, buried with old oaths and broken trust. he heaves a deep sigh and says: i have hated you, he tells her, stripped bare of pretense. for what you did. and for what you did not.

but i will set it down. i will let it go.

she had thought herself beyond redemption. beyond absolution.
and yet here stood blackfell, forged from rage and sorrow alike, and he did not strike her down. he did not snarl, nor did he curse her name into the wind like she had done a thousand times in her own mind.
he stepped forward instead, his breath hot against the coldness of her skin.
her lips trembled, her body heaving with the weight of old sins, old failures. she had failed him. she had failed herself. her children. her people. she should not be allowed to live with such disgrace hanging over her head, and yet she did.
i would not blame you if you did not, she whispered, voice hoarse and thin. for i hate myself most of all.
the admission was a blade across her own throat.
her gaze found his, forced by his presence, by the immovable will of a man who had once been a boy beneath her court, beneath the spires of their past. her breath shuddered.
you should have let them kill me. the words fell from her lips like an omen. perhaps it would have been easier for us all.

bro i have chills!

UGH THESE TWO

she speaks of death, of shame, of hatred buried so deep it has become a part of her. but he has no pity for it. only understanding.

no. easier, perhaps. but not better. not right.

the day he knelt before her comes to mind. his father at his side, swearing oaths of loyalty to her and evenspire’s crown. he had believed in her, once. believed she might bring strength to the north, that she would not falter.

you carry your failures like chains. they do not own you. his head tilts slightly, breath steady and warm as he exhales through his nose. you live. that is the only redemption you need.

but where had she been? when the lords circled him like carrion, when evenspire's envoys came with their demands—she had not stood beside him. and yet, despite it all, he had not wanted this. her broken. her voice reduced to a whisper.

there is no softness to his words, but neither is there cruelty. only truth.

let them have tried. i would have killed them all. every last one. they were not fit to judge you.

his eyes narrow faintly as he speaks, quiet anger simmering beneath the surface. a promise unspoken:

no one would dare harm her again. there had been a time he wanted vengeance. wanted to watch her crumble under the weight of her crown. but now, standing here, he feels none of it. only a quiet need to see her rise again.

morwenna listens.
truly listens. for the first time in years, she does not steel herself against the voice of a man. she does not brace for the sting of judgment, nor does she recoil from the words he wields like weapons. she lets them strike. lets them settle into the marrow of her bones.
and, strangely, she does not feel the need to refute him.
he is right. not better. not right.
her mouth presses into a thin line. she breathes in the cold, holds it in her lungs, lets it anchor her to the moment. blackfell does not see a woman unworthy of redemption—he sees a queen who must rise again.
her lips part, then close. then part again. her voice is quieter now, tempered not by defeat but by consideration.
you are a testament to the blackmarches, she says at last. her voice is steadier than before, but something cracks in her expression. a softness. not pity. not grief. something else entirely.
gjalla is a lucky woman.

guard hairs stand on end upon his backside, coated in onyx and softened by the felt of silver, like the iron deposits deep rooted in the rocky lands of his home. he thinks of home; the crags. he thinks of youth. when he had been a young man, and he had first seen the princess.

it would have never crossed his mind that they might one day be standing where they did now.

he watches her. he feels seen by her, in ways that spark discomfort in his chest. this closeness, this lull that had fallen between them—it was not right. it was something from years past, from the heights of youth, from when he was a hot-blooded young man and she was a beautiful girl.

before she had been consumed by the politics he so loathed. and so mention of gjalla briefly brings a grimace to him, eyes dropping from hers and searching for anything but. into the distance, into the ice, into the mountains beyond.

is she? he feigns laughter when he asks, and then turns red eyes to her again. he cannot stop himself from voicing what he thinks in this moment. perhaps you would have been the lucky one, had things been different. but before either of them can react to what he has said, blackfell draws himself away. inhaling a cold, crisp breath from air that is not filled with her fragrant scent.

star eater follows his gaze, though she knows exactly where it lands. the gentle swell of her stomach, pink whelping points peeking through her pale fur—proof of the life growing inside her. proof of the bond she had forged, not with him, but with another.
her breath catches for a moment, and then she exhales in something that sounds almost like laughter, soft and breathy, her face warming with the flush of pregnancy. you should not say such things. her voice is lighter than usual, touched by something softer, something unguarded. she presses a paw over her stomach without thought, feeling the warmth of her own body, feeling them.
perhaps it is the weight of the moment, or the sway of hormones that make her more sentimental than she should be, but for a flickering instant, she sees him not as blackfell, the man she has clashed with, the man she has betrayed, the man who should hate her—but as the boy she once knew. the boy who had once looked at her with something akin to reverence.
but then he steps back, pulling away as if the air between them has grown too thick, and she lets him. whatever had threatened to take root between them is severed before it can bloom.
perhaps, she allows at last, her voice quieter now, as she watches him retreat into the ice. and she does not say it, but she thinks:
but fate did not see fit to make it so.

fade in this or your next?

blackfell halts mid-step, her voice—soft, unguarded—coiling around him like a phantom of what could have been.

a voice that once carried weight in court, now stripped bare in a moment between what they were and what they had become.

you should not say such things.

his jaw tightens. no, he should not. because that would call into question all of what they had become. it would call into question her marriage where she played the role of subservient wife. it would call into question the life he sought to build with gjalla.

yet...

or should i?

red eyes return to her, narrowing, as if to challenge the sentiment threatening to swell between them. but he turns again just as quickly, marching down the way he had come.

fade <3