Stavanger Bay everyone, step aside; this is the last warning

A low, rhythmic hum of pleasure took residence in Szymon’s throat as he listened to his Doe speak; a bitter wave of possessiveness mingled with jealousy arose as she spoke of Lagertha’s teachings, but it was clear to him that the lessons brought her joy and purpose — he could begrudge her nothing. So long as Lagertha understood the preciousness of her counterpart, Szymon could say nothing to dissuade the scrappy little witch doctor. His interest was piqued when she mentioned the alpha of Donnelaith — he did not know the female and supposed that he should, if only to be able to identify her should the need arise — but her moment of doubt captured his attention entirely as he gazed down upon her with furrowed brow and a bass rumble of concern.

Her concerns were valid, but Szymon was of little help; he was fanatically devoted to his brother, but he knew as much — or as little — as Doe did. Too, if Skellige wanted information known, he would make it so. Perhaps there was a reason he had not disclosed information to his pack; perhaps he was waiting for something Doe and Szymon could not see. The behemoth was a tactician as well as a warrior — he had to be, in order to have survived so long. Helplessly, the black-banded Cairn shook his head. “I don’t know, Doe,” he admitted. “In times of war, many p-plans are kept s-secret, even f-from family.” Hesitation stilled his tongue, but he pressed onward, his teeth and tongue beginning anew their rhythmic ministrations to soothe and settle his odd-eared Chosen One’s jumping nerves. “Sometimes especially from family. My s-sister Ksenia,” he ventured further, his deep, bass timbre fanning against her throat, “m-may yet raise an army; Skellige and I spotted her in th-these wilds but l-lost track of her. S-Sometimes war — and alliances — m-mean waiting in s-silence.”

He mulled over the idea for a moment. Doe’s faith in Skellige was as fanatical as Szymon’s own; only a deep shaking of her core beliefs and understanding could have aroused such unsteadiness. In any other wolf, Szymon would not have gone through the trouble of offering comfort and counsel — a brusque, “Skellige is to be trusted. He is Leviathan,” would have more than sufficed. Yet Doe was special to him in a way he still could not coherently define. “Were they cruel to you,” he questioned flatly, an unspoken, “Whose legs do I need to break?” running a bitter undercurrent to his words. Naturally, he would still any urges to maim the wolves of Donnelaith — Skellige had not commanded it and Szymon would not color outside of the lines in that regard — but he would certainly regard the unknown ones with far more reservation than he had been. “You are safe here,” he murmured, smoothing his tongue across her brow. “Skellige and I will keep you safe.”

A low, pleased chuckle spilled from Szymon’s jaws as Doe covered his face in kisses; the warm, bubbling feeling within his breast was still so new — and yet there was a comforting familiarity in it, as though this strange wolf, affectionate and eloquent, tender and doting, was who he was meant to be. He was reassured by the knowledge that the wolves of Donnelaith had not been cruel to his Chosen One, and the steel of his spine relaxed once more as he bent his head to her and allowed her to groom his tattered ears. “Yes,” he affirmed in a guttural, proud growl. He and Skellige would protect her — and the emphasis that he, more than the other warhounds and perhaps more than Skellige himself, was foremost in her mind soothed his restless, wanting soul. “Always, my Doe,” he mumbled, perhaps a little delirious with the riptide of joy and protectiveness he felt.

“Tell me about your family,” she said, and he probably should have expected it, but he hesitated all the same. There was so much to tell, and he did not want her to pity him. In his first fledgling attempts at fulfilling her request, he gave the bare bones facts: he was the youngest and smallest of his eight siblings. He offered names and physical descriptions. Then, hesitantly, he told her of their roles within the family, and he talked of Ksenia — the pale bitch who had stolen Skellige’s chance at the throne and surely would again, in these wilds, if she could. Toward the end of his telling, past those facts he found important and midway between an anecdote about Skellige, he looked down to see that his Chosen One’s eyes had closed. Her head, still pillowed in his lap, was canted inward toward his breast — and he felt a great tenderness overwhelm him with a shuddering sigh. Arranging his foreleg to pillow her head in a manner that would not give her a terrible cricked neck when she awoke, he watched her sleep until she shifted her position naturally and he could curl his body around her with a contented rumble of pleasure.