[ ✸ ] A fynno glod, bid farw.

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Flynn had never been dismayed by heights. No. Verily, burgeoning eyes fondled the possibility of scaling summits once, twice, then boundlessly. He craved the emotion of hysteria—to feel without being felt. Yes, he quite enjoyed the view from his sky-light castle. It was the dread of watching it crumble down that shook him the most.

A negligent heart tapped wildly in his restless slumber, misty-lashed optics splayed open at the darkness that hung its head atop their door. He spoke of "their" as if alluding to his woman, to his soon-to-be bride. But she wasn't there. Or, alternatively, he hadn't been.

He ventured out, leaving the envelopment of his beloved cold and dank from foreign moister, backside slacked with sweat and urine. He hadn't been a cad about it, as atop his pale back rested the sodden pelt he'd soiled, tossing it outside—burying it—returning home.

Though, not entirely.

Troubled limbs lead him elsewhere, seeking comfort away from the blaspheme Bilby had smeared throughout his home. Her very presence sent him into fits of panic, frantic terrors that kept his mind both dull and yet so wide awake. Despite the mounting anxiety that tugged at his lungs he wouldn't have it any other way. Couldn't have it any other way.

The young King was ambushed in his own self-made paradise. Lacking the intrepidity to end his suffering by ending hers. While a banishment was another call, he knew now her plans to ruin his home life, the lives of his people, Meissa, of their unborn children. A vile woman, a woman he once loved. So bold of her to threaten him, yet she knew she could.

In his stress had he wandered out, seeking the comfort of sleep elsewhere as to not disturb his pregnant fiancée. Flynnigan curled up, hind legs clasped tightly near his muzzle. He shut his eyes in the shadow of a craning rock, sheltered by the blackness of the moonless sky.

—

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 For Meissa, who had grown used to the warmth of a body beside her after so long without, it did not take long to wake in its absence. She lifted her head, turned it, listened. Smelled for him, for the bitch who she knew was probably stalking their den. Rose atop groggy legs, shook out the sleep from her head as she stumbled towards the exit. Stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of her senses.

 His scent did not move inwards, towards the captive.

 Instead, it led outwards, onto the fields. She hesitated, unsure whether she should follow, but a nagging instinct told her that she must. So, onwards she marched, following his odor and spraying her own every so often. As her pregnancy continued, she was growing even more clingy than she had been before. He was her husband, or he would be soon enough, and so she felt the need to ensure his safety and protection at all times. To ensure that nobody else wiggled in and tore apart their family, as the captive was trying to do.

 She did not wish to think her name, nor utter it from her mouth. The thought to do such a thing left bile sapping her tongue, nausea growing and compounded by her condition. She hissed out hot air as she walked, pausing once to spit some saliva onto the ground that could not help but grow within her mouth.

 Then, finally, she saw him. Nestled alone with the rocks. She observed him quietly for a moment before approaching - and stopping.

 She stood a wolf-length from where the man lay, uncertain of approach. Did he wish to be alone? To clear his head, perhaps? She sat, offered a gentle boof, and turned her gaze skywards. It was up to him whether he would send her away or would call for her to come to him. What she had to let him know was that she was here - she was his comfort, if he desired any.

 She would be, so long as they both drew breath.

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Slumber came slowly. She was a thick temptation to fall upon his eager lips, then sway feminine hips away before a moment's notice. He was used to this sleepless sleep. It found him when he was ill or lonely and sometimes, yes, sometimes when he was so deeply infatuated that words no longer seeped through. A'plenty times in his life had he faked hearing the callings around him, shook his head like a good lad, smiled when necessary.

For most of his adolescence he remembered feeling trapped, and while the memories scattered like dust in the early morning light—flickering in and out of view—the bit of what he could recall was fleeting. Unlike most, Lynnie remembered his puppyhood. Though frail and mostly deaf, he remembered. There were the sounds of shuffling, a sensation of wind as he flew in the jaws from feet too big to be his own. Then the smell of milk, of a family, of a kingdom. The talking around him was terribly loud when he arrived, oh how he hated the yelling. The bangs that reminded him of thunderclaps. There was a lot about his upbringing that remained a mystery, but as he grew older and his mind became... More stabilised... He fell in love.

He fell head over tail for a gorgeous woman. Be she simple and plain, he thought of her as the brightest ball of light; a freckle that spun in the night sky. It hadn't taken long for him to ask her for her hand, and to his surprise, she happily accepted. It was all strange to him. Their conversations had been far and few, and while he understood his... Position in the pack, he was so pleasantly unaware of his royalty. He planned out everything, in his excitement. Gotten himself fixed up the best he could, got a pretty little rock he'd found while scouting. He remembered the nervousness in his gullet that damn near made him want to puke, but he stifled it. Sitting down, waiting for his beloved to show.

Anxious seconds felt so long, and in fact, they had been. 

She never came.

Somewhere in his aching chest had he shielded himself from the thoughts, finding himself alarming embarrassed as the little crowd that gathered all slowly went their ways. It had taken him an hour, two, maybe three. But eventually, so did he. 

Painfully had he walked home. Slipping into the skin of a happy man to greet the woman he knew would inevitably be there. She would say she had forgotten, gotten carried away with hunting or cleaning, some other bullshit. Though he knew she was lying. He trotted in, adorned his wall with the little gem just as he'd done to the rest, but not before he caught her scent. Their scent. 

The man stood, face trained on the jewels that reflected their every movement; translucent agony staining his cheeks. He'd been too afraid to please her himself, a young boy with fears not yet conquered. Naturally, she sought out another. Because somewhere in his perplexed mind, he thought of it as normal. Turning, slowly, apologising for interrupting their fornication. She'd called him worthless, ugly. Lashing out at him with claws and fangs. She had laughed. 

They had left. 

He was left with his four walls and sleep. Though, the temptress, as persistent as she was now, never came. So he stayed away. Replaying, replaying, replaying. Until one day his VHS gave out. Until one day she came. She'd been a uh... A colourful woman, an... Awkward, talkative, nervous woman. She'd been nothing like his last, that was for sure... She still wasn't. She smothered him with kisses and love, bathed him in honesty and protection. He knew, that even now, as he curled up into a ball of his own pissy furs, she was standing over yonder. It still didn't mean he wasn't expecting the downfall.

The King wordlessly rose to his stomach, crawling over to then curl up beside her feet. He was shaking, an awful bit, he was, and from dry lips and damp eyes did he mutter from his place within his fur:

“Do... Do yew rememb'a when I asked yew... If yew we're gone'a 'it me?” 

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 Meissa knew very little, at this point, of his past. She knew bits and pieces, what he had hold her, but the full extent of the crimes - no. Not yet. Had she known, she may not have held back when he called for them to let her go. Even still, she was holding back from bloodshed.

 For his sake.

 Even though it took every atom within her of restraint to hold back. To keep her aggression towards the woman who had done things before her very eyes to those of her tongue and not her body. Time would come when she would learn of the true extent of the wrongs that had been committed.

 She watched as he rose, moved towards her pitifully. She shifted, making space for him, then began washing him. She had smelled the stink upon him earlier, carried heavily and mixed with his delightful scent. Thankfully, she had noted as she came, that none of that stink was sex. It... was a definite worry of hers, despite his statements of loyalty. Lord knew what she might do if one of those her heart had once vied for was to arrive. No, she wouldn't leave him for them - there was no chance of that - but she would want to know why. Those thoughts were swept away as she listened to his pitiful murmur.

 “Yes,” she said, and then she waited, continuing to groom the dirt and urine that held to his coat. She'd never seen him in such a state, even when he had been physically on the edge of his coma. It made her burn, anger seeping into her gut and through her limbs - anger for that which had caused this.

 My dear, what did she do to you?

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Her touch melted him, pushing willowy curls upon her blossom as he, himself, almost latched to her like a nursing child. He had no more strength to bury his faults, the energy of yesterday burned out into a sky now ablaze with the smoke of an angry lover. She'd beckoned for his words and for a long breath did he remain silent, muttered hymns absorbed by the wind and sounds of relentless grooming. Though his emotions lashed like the head of a raging bull, he could not hide his pain from his lover. For now, as he clung to her as he seemed to do every month, this time was different.

He wished no longer to flock to her shelter as a trembling husk of a man, but instead set it alight with the promises he'd once made.

This was his life. Their life.

He wanted it back.

“She... She 'it me.” Sucking in, nearly vomiting. “Called me worthless, disgustin', tried ta...” His voice fell silent, scrunching further into his legs. “...I didn't w'ont to... So she... Did it 'erself.” His tears were hidden between his limbs, a sudden realisation flooding him as he scrambled upward to flap his jowls wildly at her ears. “I'm 'orry if, I, I we 'ould, I can try harder next time we! I... I 'aven't any practice at et yet! But if yew... Give me time!” His expression was painful, embarrassment dowsing his cheeks. “Um... Ha... Yeah...” Slouching, he put his head to his paws, shying away from her grooming.

—

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 She remained silent, leaving the reins in his hands - er, paws - to speak what he wished to. She did not probe, did not demand answers, simply listened. Waited, as the silence stretched on, until finally he filled it. Her breathing shuddered, anger curling her ears back at the thought of that woman doing this to her man. Still, she did not speak, only pressed her nose into his fur and breathed.

 Let him know she was there for him.

 He went on and she blinked. “It?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer before the words left her lips but needing to know anyways. She... needed to know it all, so she did not assume incorrectly. He peeled back, apologizing, and she pressed her nose into his cheek. “There's nothing to apologize for,” she said, kissing his tears before he pulled away again. She sighed, lowered her face, did not press into him but allowed him to feel her exhales on his fur, an invitation.

 “You did nothing wrong.” She fell silent again, letting him speak more if he so wished - or letting him fall silent if he just needed to think.

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