i shall eat your heart.

leaning still against the beam, arms crossed before her chest though not at all defensive, brynn has not yet averted her eyes. still she has some decency, fixating her golden gaze on eivor's. the warrior's voice rings pleasantly, her low and scratchy timbre a familiar ring at this point, though she sounds quieter now. perhaps even timid, much as that seems unlikely. it brings a pleasant tingle, her confession and how she says it. for indeed the witcher has long since been more than a bit curious, and with every day spent in growing comfort and camraderie, it has only grown. to know it mutual, why, it satisfies her more than a hot bath ever could. and she makes little effort to suppress the smirk that flickers on her features however briefly.

🙶 yes, my liege, 🙷 eivor pokes, sloshing clumsily from the still - warm waters of the soaking bath. limbs become a cliff face from which rivulets splatter to the wooden floor beneath tired feet, darkening where it splashes and glistening in firelight ... clung to eivor's skin like stars. naked, she stands direct in the path between brynn and the tub, peering hard into the widened pupils of gold - struck eyes. almost against her own will, the focus of her own flits to the mouth that had smiled at her not but a moment ago. chest tightens as though the wolf - kissed's ribcage has bowed inward from humility and bashfulness, and eivor marvels that one woman could make her feel so———— nervous.

like an iron - toothed trap catches a bear, so too does the wariness of rejection and the possibility of shattering their good relationship prevent her from acting on candid whims. eivor side - steps, tattooed knuckles wrapping until they're white over the top of brynn's damp tunic where it lay. ah ! she swivels on her own instinct just as she pivots on her heel. the inner voice of reason shrieks :

do not do it, eivor ! what if you regre————————

and he holds still and allows it more, though with every passing moment he feels more like a coiled spring. when her touch grazes the top of his lip, tyelkormo's grin has slowly faded, lingering now only in his eyes. still his lips remain parted, inviting. take your prize, they seem to say, if you dare. had she ventured further, his tongue might have darted out to meet the pad of her fingertip.

❛ i had not known you a word-smith, little raven-friend. ❜ though much sounds crude in the tongues of men, eivor flatters him still. to be water, or light itself, indeed he likes that. a slight tilt of his head to the side seems almost to intensify his gaze. ❛ it seems you continue to surprise. ❜

it is a fair statement to say that celegorm has brought with him a sense of magic that eivor feared she might've lost : a sense of wonder. a sense of revelation. a sense of quest—— she is almost a hundred years old, and has felt her heart and her spirit flickering out like a candle that has devoured all its wick. she might've leapt at the opportunity to slay a creature with the princeling in some faint hope that it would kill her ( or he would ), but ...

her hand, now faintly damp with his saliva, shifts again ... delicately caressing the tip of one, pointed ear. the near - colorless blue of her gaze flickers between his eyes, surprise evident in them that he has asked, too :

❛  alright, ❜ the witcher shrugs, not particularly shy about sharing a bed, though certainly no longer used to sharing with someone she hadn't paid for company. a furrow of her brow forbids herself the continuation of that thought, while she busies herself with the lacing of her armour. though light with only minimal mail, the water that sits in it leaves it heavy and her fingers, tingling from the cold, take longer than usual to remove her breastplate. when she does, glancing up to place it aside while she remains in armour from the waist down, brynn catches sight of eivor shedding her last layers.

she knows quite well the build it takes to fight as eivor does, and still there is an admiration in her pause, without even attempting to conceal her interest. they are as alike as they are not, and it is hardly a surprise to see the lines of ink extend further along the other's body. tearing her eyes away after what was certainly one, if not three moments too long, brynn thinks to herself that eivor is young to have a body as marked as she does. although the witcher looks hardly any different, with deep and long scars that hide under her clothing, disrupted by lines of dark ink pressed into her skin, her collection has been accumulated across almost two centuries. eivor does not even count one.

she likes that she stayed, too. now that the godling has sunken and settled in the water, she dutifully begins washing off dirt that she can see. picking underneath her nails. careful to pay attention to any detail that, to the naked eye, appears grimy or otherwise unclean. though she will not linger too long lest the water lose any appeal  ( having also been a soldier most of her life, the raven is mindful of what constitutes as ' her turn ' and when that turn should be up ),  she will soak and enjoy this ‘til the very last second.

🙶 a good observation, 🙷          she snorts, an easy smile finding its familiar laugh - lines on her young face.           🙶 i have always loved the adventure of travel, be that on foot or horseback, but gods did i miss a nice, warm bath. 🙷          it should be mentioned that she is not complaining. if anything, eivor has grown accustomed to the lack of luxury that would be provided at home. creature comforts willingly traded for the company she keeps and the trouble they get into. the compliment warms her more than the water does. grin grows wider, more brash, as though her ego has doubled.          🙶 i am only following your lead. i like this monster hunting business of yours. and the bounty collecting. and the sleeping rough. i cannot say that i will ever be as skilled a slayer as you, but  ...  thank you for trusting me to fight at your back like that. you and i are an effective team. 🙷          sloshes forward, arms coming to bow over the edge of the tub, leaning towards brynn in earnest with her wet chin resting atop one wrist. relaxed, eivor’s raspy tone has quieted away from her usual rowdiness—  something coy stands in its place :

he has never stripped a person in his life.   in spite of rumour,   in spite of his ostensible coquetry,   which serves to his advantage whenever he feels the urge to flitter about amongst the crowds of ingary and court whoever he lays his eyes on,   he has not once approached a point in any relationship where he is presented an opportunity like this.   as he's so inexperienced,   he doesn't know whether to feel incredibly lucky or incredibly nervous about it,   and so wallows around the latter,   the tiniest shards of nerves prickling through his stomach and his chest.   perhaps the warmth at the sides of his neck,   heating his ears and his cheeks,   is more telling to eivor than anything he'll allow himself to admit.   after all    he did offer his help.   and as much as he's not certain where to look,   he is certain in his resolve to come to her aid.

it takes the wizard too long to rid himself of the thoughts in his mind.   he blinks himself to the present,   then nods his head.   for once,   he has no words to agree with anything she says,   so he decides to say nothing at all,   save for a soft,    ❝    of course i'll help you,    ❞    just loud enough to be heard over the sound of running water.

and he does,   his motions tentative,   belaying the certain uncertainty that underlines his decision.   more than anything,   he wants to help her.   more than anything,   and quite unlike the reputation he has asked michael to spread and spread for himself,   he seeks to make certain every part of her is intact.   her comfort,   especially.   careful are his hands as they untie the knots from her shirt and lower the fabric from around her shoulders   ( he is mindful to stand at her back as he does,   watching the twisted scar that runs across the back of her neck and ignoring the sudden urge he has to ask where it's from,   or perhaps soothe it with a touch of his finger ).   the more he sees of her inked skin,   the more intrigued he becomes.   the symbols wind their ways down her arms and her back and everywhere he can see,   akin to ancient runes the likes of which he's only ever studied,   or mimicked for his own magic.   she's beautiful,   a work of art in her own way,   in spite of the wounds that mar her skin.   he's never seen a walking canvas like her,   and for a moment he stands there,   breathless.   unashamedly so.  

then he remembers himself.   even more careful is he once he reaches her trousers.   she is not completely helpless,   yet he treats her as if she could break were he to mishandle her with one wrong move.   now,   he averts his gaze,   glancing off to the side when she stands completely bare.    ❝    the water should be hot enough for you,    ❞    he murmurs,   a tinge to his cheek that he blames on the hot steam currently filling the room.    ❝    i do apologise    the tub isn't quite as clean as …    ❞    well,   why is he apologising ? she's bathed in this room more times than he's bothered to actually keep count.   he's nervous.   simple as that.  

but as the wizard's careful hands pry wrecked cloth from her shoulders and back—— where she has bled most thoroughly, her wound has clotted to it and it begins to ooze angrily as its makeshift bandage is peeled back. pain returns her to herself, viciously yanking her out of a pensive and curious mind. it is not howl's hands she hates, but she must hate something in order to ignore the merciless throb which overtakes her once more. when the skin of her top - half is bared wholly to air, she pauses. the only indication of discomfort scrawled in existence is the way eivor breathes, deep and concentrated. not even in the youthful lines of her face does pain etch itself ... meditative, certainly. agony can be tranquility, if caught in just the right light. palms brace against the edge of the tub, momentarily caught somewhere deep within her psyche. howl's touch at the waistline of her trousers return her to him.

the wrathful - god - inflicted wound is far more grievous than even she thought. without the aid of magic, eivor certainly would've died. without the aid of magic, she heals only at the rate which a normal human does. tedious and slow. for a life - threatening injury, it looks amazing after having only had a singular day to mend, but it is unacceptable. she cannot afford weakness. it has rendered one of her arms mostly inert ... so with her good arm she shimmies and fidgets to free her hips of fabric, aided on the unreachable side by his careful yanking downward. haunches and legs shift to step free, and with the support of her ever - tender companion, she is lowered into warm waters. rejuvenating, to an extent. almost instantly the godling's remaining energy saps from her and she rests her head back limply on the edge of the tub.

already, the water is colored as pink as he was as dried blood flecks off and rehydrates. swirls around her figure in rosy, macabre shapes.

🙶 i think i will sit here and soak for a while. a long while, maybe, 🙷    she murmurs. howl is looking away, but eivor is looking at him. at the sliver - slices that remain on his flesh from his long flight from where feathers had forcibly grown. at the dark, wild strands of his hair that seem untamable despite the hours he can spend before a mirror. at the sea - glass green of his eyes, which fight valiantly to remain glued elsewhere when she wishes they would focus on her. chivalry is alive and well within him, it seems. misplaced. or rather, polite. eivor is so old ... a body is a body. hers could belong to him, if he wanted it.

ah, stop this thinking, she chastises herself silently. now is not the time.

PALE BROWS ARCH, and tyelkormo looks down at eivor with a smile cracking the thin of his lips open like a split in the ice. her boldness is rewarded with a surprised glimmer to his eyes. whatever brought this about, he wonders, yet does not ask. all the more thrilling is it not to know, to let her hands give the answer. 'twould after all be a lie to say he had not himself considered it, with a lingering glance sharp enough to cut.

❛ you may, ❜ tyelkormo grants, leaning slightly forward until their noses are almost level. when they sit such as this, their difference in height is not quite as apparent, yet still he makes it easier. she had not specified where she wished to touch but it hardly matters to him. curiousity, above all else, guides his decision that was barely one at all. bright eyes sparkling with anticipation and something akin to a challenge, the elf hovers and waits.

permission granted, eivor takes not a single heartbeat to extend her arm and caress the alien ridge of tyelko's nose, leaping towards the opportunity before he has a chance to change his mind. calloused thumbpad the first to make contact, tracing cartilage beneath pale flesh, whilst pointer and middle fingers graze over his strong brow. touch, a silver gate guarding the trek further to ... whatever odd relationship two opposite - realm'd travelers have woven together. a gate that has now been unlocked. not a second thought spared to what may come after.

that same thumb dusts over the bow of his lip, nail lightly tracing its curved path. godling empowers the language of her skin to translate mindfully— the expanse of his flesh mapped by what she is able to touch, while eyes lock against eyes.

   she brings a hand up to stroke eivor's face. her lover's cheek is wind-chapped and rough, scarred, just as éowyn's palm. there is not much softness between them, except in the tenderness with which éowyn touches, and the feeling in her eyes. fierce as it is, there is an underside. a vulnerable belly. one that is difficult for her wholly to name. perhaps such as they have already discussed—commiseration, recognition. the raw softness of unguarded emotion.

   "i am not a thinking person, eivor—what i understand, i understand with my gut, and my heart. i am certain of you, and doubt is not in my nature. if you leave me, it will be by your own right. not mine."

   eivor's face seem to turn into her hand and éowyn smiles faintly, affectionately, as she does at her horses. full of admiration. it was they who taught her affection like this, after all. the comfort of it, when there was no one else. éowyn moves her hand to cradle the back of eivor's head, bringing eivor's face down onto her shoulder. to hide there. to scrub her brow against the roughspun of éowyn's tunic, if she likes. éowyn speaks nonsense quietly to her in her very old tongue, soft and possessive. steadying. again, just as she would to soothe a horse gone flighty with fear or anger. all eyes closed, all breath shared.

   "edores—" she murmurs to eivor, their cheeks together. translated to eivor's tongue, it means: who protects me. "edorae." who i protect.

   it is many long minutes, once she feels some of the tension has leeched from eivor's body, before éowyn tugs playfully on the hair at the base of the drengr's neck, gripped gently but firmly in éowyn's hand. she tips eivor's head back so that they can look at one another, nearly of a height.

   "you want to unburden yourself. it is plain. tell me, eivor. trust your gut, as i do. you love me, and i am worthy of it. i will not disappoint you. i will not fail you."

   eivor's fear is deep in her eyes, almost wild, and her words are strange. éowyn understands. the animal of that terror. she understands, mayhaps not exactly.. not the specific dialect, but at least the language. what éowyn sees before her is a test—a test of what eivor needs from her, in a place where others before have failed her. or perhaps eivor has only failed herself, as éowyn failed herself for so many years. living a lie. she understands now that maybe eivor needs this test to be laid, to be passed, before she can accept what éowyn herself already knows.

as it were ... yes. maybe she does try to frighten éowyn away. to watch another flee before the truth has an opportunity to rend them apart is more senseful, to eivor, than baring her chest and splitting her ribs to only thereafter experience cruel rejection by way of intentful misunderstanding : or worse. or perhaps the misunderstanding will not be purposeful. perhaps the shieldarm will shun her because there is no way to comprehend.

perhaps she won't. words are alluring, and eivor chases after them like a moth drawn to the flame of éowyn's stubborn resolve. betrayal does not exist between acquaintances, nor enemies. it lives in the tender and unsuspecting relationships of kinsmen ... lovers. eivor's heart wrenches, anticipating in terror that she will be its next victim if she dares to reveal the truth of her inexplicable circumstances. and what words can she put to éowyn's ear when she does not understand even herself..? when a shoulder is offered to her to burrow in, hide behind, her face presses roughly against the scratchy and woven material of the under - king's tunic. the arms that encircle the strong rider's back squeeze tightly, in the way a drowning sailor might a floating plank. a lifeline tethered to the column of her lover's spine—— the moment her head has been drawn back by the only hand allowed to govern her, eivor's gaze dares to remain dauntless with faux courage, for her heart knows well that it is empty of any bravery.

their eyes are each colorless, but worlds apart. like skies of overcast grey, stooping down to kiss a landscape of ridged ice and frozen snow. the young raven does not realize

🙶  i cannot, exactly, put words to it. the vastness of the truth is like an ocean, éowyn. no horizon to be seen ... but i need you to know. i feel as though i have lived half a lie with you, because i obscured my true nature. 🙷 damning words, certainly. it is not meant to drive a wedge, though eivor knows well that it might. éowyn deserves that, at least : the chance to make the most informed decision for herself, and eivor has kept that from her selfishly. it weighs like stones, the guilt. like a mountain over her heart—— but it flutters like a bird freed from a cage as the rider's calloused palm imprints into the fabric over her chest.

in the under - king's unwavering stare, eivor searches between them desperately for some solid assurance that she will not be abandoned. she knows that éowyn believes it, for now, but that can all change in an instant. as quickly as life can be lost, or fire be snuffed out, so can her spirit be shattered by rejection.

no fear, now.

🙶  a darkness reaches for me—— has always reached for me since i gripped self - awareness in childhood. it is ... a voice of reason in my ear, and a figure in my dreams. irresistible, sometimes, while in other moments i can defy its will. 🙷 eivor almost does not dare to say its name ( or, what her people know it as ). 🙶  my men say i am god - touched, but i am god - cursed. i———— i trusted it. for so long, i trusted him. until recently. 🙷 ice - white eyes squint, creasing the raven's handsome face into a grimace. she sounds mad. raving.

the trio is in the final stretch of preparing their breakfast by the time eivor finally stirs in her spot.   calcifer notes it first from his place beneath the sizzling pan,   peering at her from beneath the metal,   two blue-orange eyes observing her closely.   then michael,   who trots over to grab a few extra   ( cleaner )   silverware from the wall.   they both seem inquisitive,   dying to know how she had managed to overcome her ailments so quickly.   they already know,   but the fifteen-year-old is most interested of all.   a pupil through and through.   howl,   who has busied himself with clearing off the table and setting places for three and had his side to the stairs and the small alcove beneath it,   so that his dark hair hangs and obscures the room from his peripheral vision,   is the last to notice.   only when she speaks does he finally realise she’s awake.

he lifts his head in an instant,   twisting to watch her while she stands,   dutifully moves a few logs for the fire demon’s pleasure,   and continues on her slow way.   her hair is a disheveled mess,   sticking every which way,   still wind-whipped from their flight back and caked with blood in some place.   whether it is her own,   or his,   or the life of the shadows,   he does not know. 

but she is all right.   she will be all right.   for all the worrying he’s done for her,   he’s pleased to see that the entanglement of both their abilities had worked for the better.   inside of her,   he’s certain,   there is no longer any trace of his magic.   he had felt the way her body and its natural capacities worked against him even in her weakened,   nearly dead state to understand her strengths dispels almost every worry in him.   almost.

he doesn’t realise how long he’s been gazing at her    practically staring,   lips parted slightly    until michael   ( whose calls for the wizard’s attention had gone ignored the first three times )   snatches the plate out of howl’s hands to place on the table.   in the span of a second,   howl blinks,   glancing at his hands,   then at michael,   then returns to the present.    ❝    i don’t think any of us mind,    ❞    he answers,   trotting to the hearth and slipping past eivor as he does.   he notes her fatigued expression  …  and also the odour she gives off.   it reminds him of decay,   and he begins to fret again that there might be something terribly wrong with her.   but he can't very well show that,   so he straightens his back.    ❝    …  too terribly.   you could stand for a bath just as soon as you’ve finished up here.   we should still have hot water thanks to calcifer.    ❞

❝    i don’t see what the problem is,    ❞    the fire demon pipes up,   chewing on the shell of an egg.   his gaze,   too,   follows eivor.    ❝    i can’t smell her at all.    ❞

🙶 helzti góðr, 🙷    the god murmurs, nearly out of energy again already. a certain, bone - deep exhaustion dwells in those icy eyes stubbornly, refusing to be burned off by one night's sleep. eivor's body is in dire need of more rest, more tending, but she has relied upon herself for centuries too long— and hesitates asking for more than he has already given her. him and calcifer. still, as she sits, as the wizard leans in close to the shell of her ear and sends a shiver down the base of her neck, eivor's head tilts closer towards the sound of his voice in the way blossoms do for the sun ... still, daring not to face the clear green of his eyes. tsk. eivor can't recall the last time she felt so——— virginal. even wounded, butterflies dance in her stomach, and chase after howl as he flits about serving the odd lot of them their late breakfast. or lunch. or supper. whatever meal this is.

when she eats, it is in silence, and using only one arm. it is slow. the raven is quite obviously pained, but does not betray those sensations by any line of her face ( which remains miraculously unwrinkled and neutral - resting ), and certainly doesn't worry the rest of the table. in childhood she learned to quiet her suffering : warriors do not weep. hundreds of years have unlearned some more ... toxic and far - too - masculine - for - anyone's - good behaviors, but the purity of her heart to not burden those she cares deeply for has withstood the tests of time. withstood a million masks of secrecy and obscurity. withstood even history forgetting her. she loves these beings she eats with, and would rather stew in misery alone than infect them with what should be hers alone to deal with.

howl will ( probably ) see through it.

when her plate is clean, even of crumbs, eivor asks if he will help her up the stairs. for all of the fable and rumor that surrounds this wizard, that he is miserable and cruel, the raven has seen no evidence of that in her time spent with him nor does she catch a glimpse of it now— as he quickly and selflessly rises to aid his wounded friend. not even as she squeezes his arm halfway up the numerous steps, leaning half of her weight on him. not even as he starts a bath's hot water for her, stooping over the faucet to spin it to the right temperature.

the godling observes him intently. stirrings disrupt the peace of her insides again ... she feels tangled up and disoriented : is it the near - death experience? is it how he flew them both what felt like halfway across the world, with this bleeding thing in his arms? camaraderie and love, to a lifelong soldier, at times feel— the same. but howl turns, and her breath is whisked away again on the glimmer of his bright eyes.