Sunset Valley little bird, broken wing

current day, set about an hour after her interaction with morwenna. @Blackfell

the air is heavy, oppressive 'neath the den's protective walls. ishmira has rested many days, felt once coiled muscle waste away back into soft fat. still the wound at her neck aches powerfully, with a heartbeat of its own. it is during these hours alone ishmira fears sun eater's mark will never leave her.

and perhaps that was his goal all along. to wound her irreparably if he could not get his way. to maim her and not to kill outright. the girl grimaces, looks to her side. somewhere along their journey a white raven began to trail them– not to scavenge, but simply to look. it rests inside the den now, a short distance away. wary and unwilling to leave.

for the time being, she is too exhausted to pay it much mind.

then come heavy, muted pawsteps, a colossal shadow blocking the sun. a brutal stands at the den's entrance, eyes blazing.

softly, she calls to him. he, who would never harm her. he who would fell all of saatsine for her, for those dear to him.

"father."" voice gentle, reverent.

---

— his heart hammers in his chest, but he shows no sign of it—only inhaling steady breaths that might provide him some calm and alleviate the ever present anger.
the scent of her injury still clings to the air, sharp and bitter, but it’s the weight of her gaze that holds him in place.
with a low growl of acknowledgment, he steps inside, moving toward her with a slowness. his eyes soften upon her pale fur and he reached with onyx foreleg to cup her face. he is gentle when he touches her, as if she might fall apart.
my daughter, blackfell swallows. he feels shame that he did not protect her from this.

gjalla, in time, has become a mother to her. morwenna, too, she has come to view as mother. but none, none provide for her the sense of warmth and safety that blackfell does. her protector.

her father.

he who would just as soon lead an army as cradle her like a child in his arms. and he does now, one paw cupping her cheek as if she is some delicate thing. he does not tremble, does not falter, but even still she feels the tension in his touch. angry, grieving, pained. she leans into the touch nonetheless, glassy eyes meeting clear ones.

"i fought." seeking his pride, his approval. she protected the children when all she wanted to do was flee. "i was brave. like you." and that is all she has ever wanted.

---

— his daughter.
his white raven.
there is a surge of emotions he feels. pride. pride, always. pride to know she had in her blood a vigor that outshined even those true of his blood. but also anger. a deep, loathing anger.
you should not have. he says to her. the touch he swaddles her in does not grow any less softer, as he slowly lowers himself. bringing a strong body to wrap delicately around her.
she is so small against him. those children, ishmira… words bleed as he grits them past his teeth.
a shallow exhale past flaring nostrils of wrathful intent and he presses that nose to the back of her head. speaking into the soft of her pale fur, and scenting the poultice that lathers the grievous wound of her neck.
they are not ours. you cannot— he feels it is a terrible thing to ask of his daughter. to say to her. do not protect them again. he demands. those mongrels are not worth your life. they are not worth my daughter’s life. they are not worth even an ounce of crownore blood.
she is, above all, most precious to him.

torn between her loyalty to morwenna and the reverent love she feels for her father. gaze urgent as she looks to him, but his eyes are not cruel. they brim with pride, with concern.

"they are only children." and she grimaces at having spoken a word against him.

"they did not choose their father, but they are pieces of morwenna still. and i love her as i do you." and she is looking, seeking urgently for him to understand. she does not defy him willingly. it is not the just the children, but their mother. ishmira's loyalty to her holds strong.

"i cannot promise not to fight for them if the time comes again. they have done nothing yet to earn my scorn."

---

— his eyes are closed, but he hears every word. it pierces.
she does not understand—but one day she will. he does not punish her for this. he does not raise his voice. only draws her closer, tucking her smaller body tighter against his broad chest, sheltering her there.
he does not fault her for love. he is not so cruel. but blackfell knows what it costs.
those children carry his blood. he says, and there is venom in it—old and still seething. one day, that blood may rise in them. and you will be faced with the choice again.
he leans back, just enough to meet her eyes.
they are innocent, yes. but i cannot watch you die for them. if i must forbid you from fighting, i will. he murmurs against her pale fur, that stings so brightly against his darker. he hears the rebuttal on her tongue and silences it. i never said i will not fight for them. as much as he loathed the idea of it.
there is a great sigh of contempt as he moves to rise to a seated position, leering above his daughter. looking at her fondly, though the knit of his brow above those crimson eyes says more than he could possibly ever convey with words alone. he faces now the impossible route that every father must take: protecting his child. you are young yet. blackfell forces himself to laugh, because if he does not laugh, he might just combust from those negative emotions that well up in him now and eat at his very marrow. these battles... the father trails off. leaning to press a kiss to his daughter's forehead.
they are not yet yours to fight.