EVERYONE

[sochi]

Sochi

darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied
maybe you need me or maybe you don't

Sochi has spent much of the winter to herself.

Ever since her initial encounter with the hellhound, she has known. It is the strange way of women, the way that they can predict such things, but she had felt the stirring of life early and known exactly what it was. The emotions that she feels surrounding it are complicated, to say the least, and although she is not a creature of hate, it would not be exaggerating to say that she loathes each kick and each rumble.

Hates it almost as much as she hates the stray scents she catches of the mutt who caused it.

So it is a mix of emotion that she feels when she finally hears Castile call. There are pieces of her that want to stay behind. Pieces of her that never want him to see her like this, but there are other pieces that are louder. Pieces that gnash their teeth in preparation for the battle he has fought. Pieces that are too proud to hide away for long, too proud to bow her head and be blamed for what has happened.

These are the pieces that drive her forward with her swollen belly and the spitfire expression on her face, her features raw with emotion and turbulent as she steps forward from the shadow. She doesn’t know what Castile will think—they had never agreed to be exclusive but he certainly must know her well enough to not think she would rendezvous with the enemy—but she keeps her chin high, her eyes clear.

She doesn’t say anything to his speech, but neither does she give away the fury and the hate and the pain that thrash in her chest. She just remains still, letting the rest of the world melt away so that she can focus on the stability that is Castile standing victoriously over Sylva and she lets herself take pride in that.

playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons
if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf