#i love them and i know that priscilla will bring farkas comfort in the wake of kodlak's passing

[decidentia]

◈   @divinehr said: ❛ [ GAZE ]  taller muse is sitting and the shorter one who is standing in front of them takes their face into their hands while they talk.  ❜ // ‘tol and smol’ prompts

No songs to sing.  No tales of blood and steel and triumph to tell.  Draped in unusual silence, Jorrvaskr curled into Whiterun’s hillside.  Buried in the longhouse’s gut, where the air was still, scented with sleeping bodies and sour night-breath, Farkas sat.  Heavy, head bowed, felled by the weight of mourning. 

“They killed him in sight of his own hearth.”

Grief leaked into the gravel-pit of his throat, staining his low voice.  Perhaps it was his words that summoned her – that shrouded and mother-soft shape – or maybe it was the pain that laced them like silver thread.  A father could be lost more than once.  First, the ill-fated sire of blood, from whom whose oats he had sprung.  Then he who had earned his place on the altar of paternity, whose guiding hand had rested steady on his shoulder throughout the spring-green days of boyhood.  Kodlak Whitemane, the beating heart of their noble guild, had been cut out of Jorrvaskr.  Their hall had never before been the site of such base butchery, had never before been cracked open like a ribcage.

Forge-scarred hands tightened by degrees, squeezing thoughtfully into monstrous fists.  Farkas had burned fiercely in his youth, then governed by instinct, fuelled by testosterone and the lycanthropy that ran thick in his blood.  How quick he had been to rise then, to retaliate, to speak with violence when words failed him.  As they still so often did.  As they did now.  Kodlak had been the one to temper his hair-trigger temperament, to see to it that his fire burned low.  Revenge would not raise the dead, and any hint of it would surely spoil in the harbinger’s bloating, purifying gut.  Farkas held steady, as he had learned. He filled the bellows of his lungs and swallowed the ashes of old furies.

Priscilla stood over him, her silhouette haloed by candlelight.  Every inch a priestess, an image of comfort. With aching tenderness, she touched his dark hair, pushing loose strands away from his grim, paint-smeared features.  Beneath such gentle ministrations, Farkas became aware of his own exhaustion, of the aches and pains that made their home in his broad body.  If not for the unspeakably soft palms that came to rest upon his cheeks, he might have buried his face against the folds of her holy gown. As if that would banish the sense of shame that clawed miserably along his spine.  It was a powerlessness that left him feeling almost toothless, as though his fangs had been rasped and pulled, his maw made velvet soft and crater-marked.

“They killed him where he should have been safest.”

#sorry this took so long! #of course when left to my own devices i season posts with sadness agsfdg #i love them and i know that priscilla will bring farkas comfort in the wake of kodlak's passing #thanks so much for sending this ♡ #◈ — ic; farkas #◈ — answered #divinehr #farkas and priscilla tbt