Fated (Bloodhound x Eve (OC))

Worthy

"Whether you feel deserving or not, I will still be here on the days that you deem yourself unworthy. Fate may decide many things for us, but I have made this choice of my own free will: I have chosen you."

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Bloodhound immediately pulled Eve off of the bathroom counter, into their arms, and sunk down to the floor. They cradled her in their lap and held her to their chest as her small form shook with the force of the sobs that wracked her body. There were many things the hunter wanted to do right then: scroll through the photos, try to contact who it was, and somehow leap into action to come to Eve's aid.

Every instinct within them bristled and roared inside — if it was as easy as wielding a weapon and fighting for her, they would have. They would have faced any foe in battle, hunted any creature, and laid the trophies at her feet, tusks or horns or antlers, whatever would please her. Unfortunately, it was not that simple. She did not need a warrior or a hunter. Right now, this is what she needed. They were often at a loss in these situations, unsure how to best comfort her, but they would be here. She needed reassurance, to know that she was not alone. That, they could provide.

"Yndið mitt," they murmured. "Ég hef þig. Það verður í lagi."

The wet spot on their jacket spread further from her tears that continued to come. Bloodhound had not yet showered after their match, nor taken off any of their gear. Their clothes were dirty from sweat and blood, spotty with sand and mud from the battlefield, but it did not matter now. She was all that mattered. What else could they say to her? They had failed to protect her as they had promised. Bloodhound took a deep breath and stroked her hair, a sense of helplessness overtaking them.

They cleared their throat. The only thing that came to mind was a song their mother had sung to them long ago to comfort them as a child. It had been decades since they had sung in front of anyone other than their raven companion, and even he had only heard small lines and snippets. For a moment, they worried that they would not remember all the lyrics, but the words came easily from a place deep within, covered by dust, but flowed easily once they began.

"Krummi svaf í kletta gjá,

kaldri vetrar nóttu á,

verður margt að meini;

verður margt að meini."

The words scratched their throat, the melody oddly foreign to their own ears — so long it had been since they had sung or heard this song. Still, they continued, unsure of what else to do. Their mother had sung this song when they had been a young child, and Uncle Artur had hummed it sometimes while collecting firewood or tending to the sheep. Bloodhound closed their eyes, hoping to impart a bit of the same nostalgia and comfort they found in the song.

"Fyrr en dagur fagur rann

freðið nefið dregur hann

undan stórum steini.

undan stórum steini."

Bloodhound's voice grew a little louder, a little surer as Eve's crying began to subside. They paused to wet their lips with a quick pass of their tongue. The next verses came more easily, entwined with the natural rhythm of a song etched within one's own bones. Their voice carried the tune and with it, the memory of their home, their people.

"Allt er frosið úti gor,

ekkert fæst við ströndu mor,

svengd er metti mína;