Work Text:
Isabeau spends hours in front of the fire, spreading her fingertips open. It’s the morning, and she is a woman – still, a woman.
“It’s not going to change,” Navarre reminds her. He’s brought her bowl of oats and she falls to it. Even plain, they improve upon the taste of a mouse.
She knows he bears his own scars from the curse. That he’s restless at night, as if seeking prey of his own. The rattle of the wolf’s voice, calling on him to protect, just as the hawk calls upon her to fly.
She will go nowhere without him.