our demons are all around us and they don't come from hell
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
Brunhild was never made for intimate moments. She was not born in the heat of passion or in the quiet of love; she was not made from two hearts coming together. No, she had been born from rage, from anger, from bloodlust. She had been made in a moment of King and Queen, both half-mad with fury, the clashing of swords. She had been conceived in the darkness and then raised by warriors. She had never been shown that a touch could be anything but the bruising hold of a bloodied fist upon the hilt.
So she does not know what to do at first when he closes the distance, when their flesh meets in the way she had thought upon all of those years in the moments of quiet. She shudders involuntarily, heat rising in her chest. There is a strangled noise in her throat that rises and then smooths, turning into something that rumbles in her chest as she closes her eyes. This—this was everything she had never thought she’d have.
She leans into his touch, the velvet of her muzzle lifting to touch him, to explore. She had never been locked in an embrace of any kind, let alone one like this, one with such deep roots, a plant that had been untouched for so long and allowed to reach maturity. It was the first time they had touched and yet there was nothing new about what grew between them; she had recognized it from the start.
“I know,” she says softly, her husky voice kept close just for the two of them. She should never have left; she should have sought him out, trusted him to help her find strength and healing. She should have relied upon him, should have known that he would be there when no one else was. “I should have stayed,” she says, her mouth at his throat, the salt of him on her tongue, intoxicating and all-enveloping.
He is the only thing she can see, can sense, and she is drunk with the closeness. Her movements become bolder, her touch more possessive as she explores him, claims him. Brunhild was a maiden but not a meek one; she may not wear the crown, but she was still every inch a warrior Queen of the Amazons, just as he was still the devilish King of the Chamber. “Rodrik,” she finally murmurs, breaking away just enough to look him in the eye, breath catching in her throat. “I have never been in love,” her eyes blaze, her words as blunt as always, the dark bay mare knowing nothing but how to be truthful, “but I think that this is it.”