Deepwood Weald [m] lxix. love, hunt me down

@Kjalarr

 

The season before, Lótë hadn't known what to expect nor had she been prepared when her fever struck. 

This spring was different, she would not be lost in the roil of unfamiliar sensation. When her skin grew tight and uncomfortable, crawling with the fire that licked at her skin from within, she recognized it for what it was. As unlikely as it was, the doe had hoped to avoid it entirely. Even so, she had tucked a hide of supplies away in secret -- dried meat mainly. She'd be hard pressed to fell a deer on her own and the hunter did not yet trust that the illness had passed through the Wilderness. 

The cloudberry flitted from the Spine before her scent could affect any of the men in her village. Despite Kukutux's hopes, she would not lie with her sister's love. Nor did she wish to tempt Inutsuk or the feral Makan. 

She feared that the glade of conifers that had become a second home would be too close, that the others might still sniff her out at such a proximity. Thus, the artist loped to the woodland of aspens to the northwest with her bundle clasped tightly in her jaws -- wracked with nerves as her verdant gaze swept the hazy forest for lurking monsters, flinching at every sudden movement and snap of a branch. 

Aiwë hunkered down amongst the saplings, her back pressed against the spindly trunk of a tree lest she be taken by surprise by a male with nefarious intentions. 

though kjalarr's intentions when he entered the weald that morning had been to keep an eye on the territories that were close to the bay, and the herds that occupied them: it is a siren's song that ensnares him and takes him on winged paws to a scent that strikes him as familiar; notable because he had crossed paths with her recently.

he had, had no intentions to sire children this year, his focus upon founding the fledgling bay — but primal instincts are deeper than intention; and kjalarr is but a man like any other.

his base nature cannot be ignored, no matter how hard he tried. and he put in an effort; diverting his path several times only to be lulled back until he slows his approach upon sighting her silhouette with his good eye.

a low chuff announces his presence even as he slows to a stiff halt; black leathery nostrils flaring as he drinks in the scents: finding himself relieved that there is no other masculine scents around despite that either way it was not his business.

"Kjalarr," the dove chirps, both in greeting and surprise when the northman approached. She should've guessed he might be found patrolling the Weald as it seemed a familiar haunt for him, though the herd-watcher had wrongly assumed the he-wolf would be guarding his claim along the shores. 

The wilderness in him seemed more pronounced, the pale taper of his muzzle rising to sniff the condemning scent of her that hid nothing. Lótë had had no intentions of becoming Amil again this season either, had even put efforts forth to avoid such an encounter. With the man before her, such intentions began to crumble and likewise she yearned to go to him as if lured in the same manner that had drawn Kjalarr to find her. 

"Tell me something," she pleaded softly, still hesitant, as her gaze dipped to sand colored paws. "If I were to have your children...and one of them was different from the rest, would you condemn them as malformed?" Peridots flickered back to his scarred but handsome face searchingly, looking for some falsehood or judgement. 

She would not see her cubs cast aside a second time. 

the northman is quiet as she speaks, of cubs — of his cubs and if he would condemn them if they were malformed. the question draws silent contemplation from him, a twitch of his ears and tail against his hocks. assuming he did not walk away from her, that he gave into the archaic instincts pulling at him with feverish insistence ...no. though his attempts at being a father had failed thus far, or he had left before he'd gotten to know his children. how many existed out there without his knowledge? he did not know.

he is not particularly ashamed of this, despite how it would sound.

despite that he should've been.

but it is different now, he thinks. he is different. older. wiser. calmer. the world came to him: not the other way around. he had lived his youth pillaging and plundering and conquering: his plans for the bay are not what they'd once been.

no, kjalarr replies, a bit confused as he re-ponders her question, realizing that he misunderstood the first time. all children are different.

Lótë nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. Again, soft hues of emeralds fell to the ground. It was a physical pain to stay rooted against the tree, shivering as she surpressed the need clawing at her. Still, this was not something she wanted to be done completely out of carnality -- not all of it. 

"Is this...Is this something you want?" The words were hushed, a wisp of her lilting accent. There were many unasked things when her gaze returned to Kjalarr's half sight of ocean depths. 

Did he want any part in their possible children's lives? Was it only the attraction of her perfume that compelled him or was the seafarer prepared to be a father? 

her question brings with it some surprise: instincts are screaming yes at him; but kjalarr is older. he has control over impulses that would've been reckless in the past. i had not intended to sire this year, he admits, finding that he is not ashamed of the truth. he is old(er); his priorities are elsewhere this season: but there is opportunity to be had. but it would be nice to have cubs. make me feel young again, a bit of humor is there, lacing in his words.

stavanger bay should be established and stable by the time they are old enough to walk to visit...if you stay with your moonglow home. kjalarr says. you are always welcome to stay in the bay, as well. he lays the offer out on the table, as well. the potential political opportunities of this do not go unnoted by the northman, either.

Lótë chuckled at this point in his argument, relaxing slightly as the tension seemed to break. "It wasn't something I had planned to take part in this year either," the two-year admitted in a rueful murmur, grinning in good nature as her gaze fell with chagrin. But even Lótë couldn't argue that it would be nice to have young children at her hearth again. She knew Kukutux had wished she would be a mother with her again this year, but Lótë simply couldn't lie with Aiolos -- he was too much a brother to her. The solution stood in front of her, a man who was not her brother and was something like an ally. 

"I would stay with my family," Lótë murmured, gently rejecting this offer. Her home was in the mountains. His was the sea. "But the Bay is not so far. I will bring them," Lótë dipped her head. Their children would find homes in both. "You are welcome to come to the Forest and meet them when they are still young. I will be founding a village there with my older children."

With that seemingly settled, Lótë rose with a deep breath -- trying to shake any last nerves as she drew near to the sea dweller.

kjalarr offers a soft, sage nod of understanding as lótë states that she would stay with her family; it made sense and he is glad, nevertheless, that she mentions bringing their children to visit. he has not done so good in the realm of father over the years: most of them he does not even know ...but this was a chance to redeem himself for all those lost years, he thinks.

nevertheless, the offer remains open. it was good to have a contingency plan, kjalarr knew: and the offer remained for as long as stavanger bay stood ( or would stand as it wasn't much of anything than an idea yet ). will you send someone to the bay when they are close to born ...or when they are born? so that he might know. he almost asks to visit then but does not; unsure of her feelings of him being around during their birth or even when they are so newborn.

this is a dance he is no stranger to; carnal and primal and he does not harbor any sort of nerves as he approaches.

---

fade to black

---

afterwards, is only when he is struck with a soft wave of awkwardness, not wanting to be rude and departing right away but unsure if she wished him to stick around.

The doe smiled tremulously in silent appreciation. She dipped her fallow crown in affirmation to answer his question before adding, "You might come and stay in the village for a time when they are born. Our people allow family to enter the whelping dens. Your presence would be a welcome one in my home." She left it at that for now, not taking the time to go in depth about the customs Moonglow held -- how her family had helped to raise her first litter or how they believed in protecting the newborn spirits of recently birthed children by congregating around their arrival into this world. 

The pair embraced and Lótë learned again what it was to dance steps long forgotten. 

- fade -

Afterwards, the dove retreated from his personal space -- feeling a similar awkwardness. For a moment, the three-year was at a loss of what to say or what happened next. It felt strange, the idea of sharing intimacy with the ostmen, in spite of what they had just done. Kjalarr did not exactly seem like the type for curling up against and that was not what they shared. Still, there was a spark of amicable kinship between them -- perhaps the start of a friendship. Lótë did not wish to send him away. 

"You might stay if you like? I have some meat if you're hungry. But you need not linger if it is not something you want." She smiled easily, hoping to put him at ease with such a decision. Perhaps he had important business to return to. If such was the case, the scarred warrior would find no hard feelings harbored in her heart. 

kjalarr accepts her offer for meat, graciously — offering her a soft smile, hesitant to turn and walk away abruptly. though the northman could certainty be called 'barbaric' for numerous other things, for some reason, he does not want her to think of him as such.

he stays for a while, answering whatever questions she may ask him and offering his own inquiries before eventually they both came to the mutual decision to depart and head their separate ways.