Nymeria

- the raven casts the longest shadow -

He closes his eyes. That should've been warning enough for clever Nym, always reading his every twitch and his every quiver—but she, looking at him all swollen and unrecognizable, thought instead: fuck him, and fuck his warnings. To him she gravitates (two meteors on a collision course); shoulders squaring, nostrils flaring, and ears lashing back tight to her curled mane. When she looked at him, she looked without seeing, selfish and impetuous and uncaring. There wasn't a trace of the sister who cried when he cried without knowing the reason why—and why would there be? She was tired of him, and she was tired of her own heart.

Fuck off, Nymeria.
Despite herself, she flinched. (Traitor.)

When was the last time he swore at her? When was the last time he spat at her? When was the last time—ha, never, because this was would be the first. Some moments she thought she'd remember, and would forget; others, she knew she'd remember. This time, it was the latter. Nymeria wouldn't be forgetting the scornful twist of his mouth, the roiling, coiling sea of his sinew, or the bitter brightness of his red, red eyes. (I will never forget.)

Despite herself, in the same way she flinched, she groped for security, for safety, for a way to disarm the rage that was spilling out from Volterra's every pore: and she came up empty, all her thoughts unravelling and her own anger blossoming in turn. Think. Think and breathe—don't do something you'll regret.

His every word found its mark (new splinters in a wornout soul) and she looked at her brother without emotion, reflecting his former emptiness. The words should sting. They didn't. Perhaps it was not quite so big a surprise as she thought it would be; because didn't she already know what he was saying to be true? (That was why she'd cried on his shoulder.) Didn't she already know that he'd drifted away, long ago? Didn't he realize that this—this thing—between them was failing? That his every word didn't bring her crawling to him but drove her further away? (Why should she care for him, or why should she love him anymore? She didn't know him. She didn't know anything but her own head.)

They were never destined to rule together.
Why had she resisted the truth for so long?

And she closes her eyes in turn, for but a brief moment, and then she curls her upper lip into a sneer that makes mockery of all his feelings, of all his wounded masculinity. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she'll regret this, that she was being stupid and arrogant and would only worsen their ever-growing divide—but the heat of the moment made those thoughts inconsequential.

He's growing, swelling, pumped full of bloated emotion and something hellish, twisted beyond recognition; what is wrong with him, she wonders, what happened? The way he stands, looming over her, was not meant to impress. It was a threat.

Volterra was threatening her.
Oh, fuck you.

Before his anger she diminishes, settling, letting her eyes skitter away from his. The mare breathes out, slow and to the fullest extent, admiring the shape of the horizon before at last returning her gaze to him. Her ears return from her neck to their proper position, angled just slightly back in casualness; the stiffness around her eyes and mouth soften, flexing subtly into an expression of apology.

And then he turns, and she breathes him in, a scent full of anger and sorrow. Anger is an easy thing to manoeuvre into passion—an easy thing to channel into love. (You're revolting.)

The wolf brings her head up, stepping in closer to him and his back, swinging her haunches towards his face. She doesn't say anything (why would she?) instead reaching out to put her teeth to his haunches, aiming to groom his croup.

Her movements, her face, speaks of peace. Of apology. Maybe—if he's looking for it—something else.
Her mind is toxic, and her thoughts venomous.