Firefly Glen it can change you

AW

the morning mist still clung to the glen like a secret.

solharr stood at its edge, broad shoulders cut sharp against the hush of spring. the grass, newly green, bowed gently beneath the weight of dew. above, ravens wheeled, silent. watching.

he did not move at first. only looked.

the trees here grew thick, some bent with age, others split by storms that had passed long before he had taken his first breath. he inhaled slow, deep, letting the scent of earth and pine roll through him like memory.

there were no strangers on the wind. no blood. no change.

but he did not trust peace to linger.

so he kept watching. waiting. silent as stone.

Yoink!

Having clung to the coast for the last 10 full moons, the lithe woman felt pulled in-land once more. Andr and Iaghe had disappeared, their whereabouts still unknown, and Fleurette wanted to continue on. Needed to, really.

And, so, here she was—soggy from the morning’s dew. Walking amongst the mist—alone, again.

The days had come to blur slightly, the colors somehow muted. A heaviness so deep in her bones caused her steps to slow. Maybe that’s where all the color had gone? 

She stopped to rest; maybe, she could try to enjoy the rising of the sun? 

But, it all just felt…pointless on her own.

the scent came first—salt and rain and something delicate beneath it, like the memory of flowers long drowned. solharr’s steps slowed through the mist as the faint silhouette of the woman took shape ahead, her form curled and still beneath the hush of the early light.

he did not move with force, only quiet purpose. his bulk carried easily through the damp undergrowth, and when he came near enough, he stopped.

not close enough to frighten, not far enough to ignore.

you are alone? his voice was low, shaped by the gravel of his homeland. not unkind, but weighted. a northern chieftain's voice. eyes the color of frozen seafoam studied her—not with judgment, but with recognition.

he had seen this before. the stillness of grief that moved like fog through a soul.

She snapped her sunset-hued eyes toward the voice, a small gasp escaping in its wake. For a moment, she simply took him in—not just to process his words, wrapped in an unfamiliar yet pleasant accent, but to take in who appeared before her. This mountain of a male warranted a longer, more assessing gaze, one she couldn’t resist granting.

She nodded softly—she couldn’t help but to feel slightly on guard as she responded. “I am.” Her gaze went past his shoulder to assess behind him.

“It appears you are, too?” 

he did not move. did not glance behind him to where her eyes wandered.

these lands are not mine, he said, voice low, gravel-laced. so yes.

his head tipped slightly, broad frame quiet beneath the weight of silence. then—

but i do not hide.

a pause, long enough to feel like a warning, though there was no threat in his tone. only the certainty of a man who had weathered many winters.

who are you looking for?

Alone and not from this place. Like her.

Fleurette mirrored his movements, tilting her head as she studied him through heavy-lashed eyes. Scars traced his body like the remnants of an untold story, each mark a whisper of battles fought and lost. He looked war-torn, battered—more than just in flesh. Was it war that had left him this way… or something far deeper?

“As you shouldn’t.”

Her voice was soft, a quiet murmur that filled only the space between them. Warmth crept into her cheeks, but she held his gaze, unwilling to bend under eyes of a summer sea. He seemed like a figure from an old tale—something golden, something tragic. It was foolish to believe in such things, but hope had always been a fragile thing she clung to, even when it frayed at the edges.

Shaking the thought away, she straightened, only for his next words to settle uncomfortably in her chest. Did she truly look that lost?

“I suppose no one—not anymore.” Her voice dipped, and for a moment, she hesitated. “Though… that isn’t quite true, either.”

She a few steps closer, slow and deliberate, her tail moving in thoughtful arcs.

“Myself,” she admitted softly. “I’m searching for myself… for the reason I am here. I can’t…remember my life from before a year ago.”

Her gaze lingered on his, waiting, watching. And then—something shifted. A shadow passed behind his eyes, something distant, something sorrowful.

Her lips parted as if to say something else, but she hesitated. The teasing edge in her voice faded, replaced by quiet concern.

“And you?” she asked, gentler now. “Are you searching for something? Or… have you already lost it?”

his breath left him slow.

not a sigh. not regret. just—release.

the kind a man gives when a question digs somewhere tender. her words didn't sting. they simply landed, heavy, right where the wounds were oldest.

he looked at her now, truly looked. not as a stranger, not as something delicate or foreign. but as someone like him.
adrift.
untethered.
haunted by time, and memory—or the absence of it.

i had it, he said at last.
the words were simple. but his voice was not. it carried all the weight of winters gone, of names whispered to the dirt.
and now… i carry what’s left.

his gaze did not waver, though his eyes were softer now. still sea-blue, but quiet. not calm—never that. but steadied. held.

if you’ve forgotten your life, he said, then maybe this place means to give you a new one.

She didn’t press, as it wasn’t her place, but instead offered him a gentle smile—a silent gesture of understanding born from circumstances that may differ, but shared a similar sorrow. She, too, had something to lose, only to have it taken away. Her thoughts briefly shifted from Andr and Iaghe to her own lost memories.

Dainty paws paused just beyond his reach, her gaze never leaving his. Bowing her head, she spoke softly. “I am sorry for what you have lost. I do hope the weight of it is not too great, but if it is, you don’t have to carry it alone. We all deserve a little kindness, don’t we?”

How she longed for someone to offer her the same—someone to guide and ground her before she floated away once more. Some days, that’s how it felt—like she drifted here on an angry storm-cloud, losing all her memories in its rage, only to have them dumped into the sea.

Who had she been before this? What made Fleurette who she was, and would she ever return to the person she once was? Did she even want to? Or did she long for a new story?

To become something broken and made anew?

“Yes.” Whether she meant to answer herself or the man, it did not matter; the answer came swiftly, as if the presence of this man gave her strength. She may have seemed like a living storm-cloud herself, but within her, the storm began to fade, replaced by the warmth of something rising in her heart.

A kindling forming at a hearth. The sun bidding farewell to the moon as it begins its rise across the skies. Her eyes brightened with hope.

“You are right.” Her smile grew from the building inferno in her breast. “I don’t know if I will ever remember my past, or find the ones I have lost, but I do know that I want to build a new future. And I also know that you—“ she closed the distance between them, “will be okay. I can feel it…right here.” Her gaze dropped down to the space between them, a paw hovering just over where his heart beat.

“I am Fleur.” Eyes slowly lifting upwards to meet his once more. “What do I call you?”

he did not step back.

not when her paw hovered close to his chest. not when her eyes met his with something warm, something hopeful. not even when her storm met the edge of his silence.

her words curled in the space between them like breath in cold air. he listened—truly listened. it was a rare thing he gave, and rarer still to offer it without demand. but she had earned it.

there was no mockery in her kindness. no pity in her voice.

only truth.

a truth that stirred something ancient inside him. something before the weight. before the loss.

he looked down at her hand—so small above his heart. the beat beneath it was slow. steady. like drumfire in a mountain hall. the heart of a man who had lost much…

but still lived.

fleur, he repeated, voice like the low creak of timber in snow. the name fit her. not like a title. like a wish.

his gaze held hers.

i am sólhárr, he said at last. hárkonungr of forneskja.

he let the title settle—not as boast, but as burden. a man of the old ways. a guardian of flame and frost.

his chest rose once beneath her paw, and then—

you may call me what you like.

a pause, eyes narrowing just slightly, the faintest flicker of something close to a smile.

will you walk with me?

His voice wrapped around her name like a cool breeze on a warm summer’s day, sending a soft shiver down her spine. Her skin prickled in response, and she silently thanked her fur for concealing the flush that threatened to betray her. If he could see the way he affected her, she might simply die of embarrassment.

“Solharr.” His name felt foreign on her tongue, her voice struggling to mirror the way he had spoken it. A warmth crept up her cheeks as she tested the unfamiliar syllables. She did not know how foreign his name was to these lands, nor what meaning it carried, but something in the way he carried himself—the weight of his presence alone—spoke volumes. Too many for her to fully grasp, yet deep in her bones, she felt it. He was safe.

“I am… glad to have met you.”

Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to his offer, eager to grasp onto the lifeline he extended. Being alone held no space in her heart; all it did was drown her in self-doubt and pity. It was time to carve out her own story—one worthy of the same depth and meaning that Solharr seemed to carry. Whether he would be just a fleeting chapter or something far more lasting remained to be seen.

She did not miss the way her heart quickened at his words, nor how it was a small miracle that she remained standing after witnessing what she thought might have been an upturn to his lips. And his eyes, they never wavered from hers. He was like a moon to her restless sea, tugging at something deep within her, urging her to answer.

Slowly, the paw she had raised over him lowered, and her smile brightened even more.

“I would love to, Solharr. Maybe you could tell me a little more of yourself and where you come from?”

he watched her—not with hunger, not with intent. but with the solemnity of a man who had been watched his entire life and never learned how to look back gently.

yet he tried. for her, he tried.

forneskja, he said slowly, as if the name itself held weight even he still bore across his shoulders. the name means old bone. the marrow of the mountain. a people carved from winter and stone.

his gaze drifted toward the trees, the ones that had once guarded his kin like silent sentries. now, they whispered secrets—secrets he no longer trusted. the wind here had changed.

we were once lake-bound. now we walk to the quarry. to begin again.

his voice never rose above the hush of the forest. but every word struck with certainty.

my wolves follow strength. tradition. the old ways. not the gods, not always—but the blood that remembers. we tie to the nuiruk, the sacred. we bury our dead with stone. we do not forget.

He spoke of his home, of others, of a search for new beginnings. How much like herself, she thought, lost on the wind; they, too, wanted more. Needed more. A place where their ancient roots could burrow deep for years to come.

Somewhere to belong.

How she wished she could offer him something other than her present self. Regardless, she remained silent, listening intently to what he chose to offer of himself.

“I do not know of old ways, or gods; you are lucky to have this. To have them. For wherever they are, you belong. I fear I don’t know much at all and have no one.” Her voice had softened, saddened. She did not want his pity, she only wanted to be seen. Too long has she felt like a ghost, wandering and haunting, clinging desperately to a life she didn’t even know herself.

But, she could build herself a new one, she knew that now.

How?

her voice, soft with ache, brushed against him like snowfall. light, but not without consequence.

he did not offer comfort.

he offered truth.

the old ways are not born into the blood, he said, his voice low, drawn from somewhere beneath the ribs. they are learned. chosen.

his gaze found hers—clear, steady, and unflinching.

you don’t need to know the gods. they don’t always answer. sometimes they’re nothing but wind and bones. but the path— he shifted, broad shoulders turning slightly as he gestured to the dark line of mountains beyond. —the path remembers those who walk it with purpose.

a beat.

you are not no one, fleur.

he said her name like stone laid at the foundation of something new.

you are breath. body. decision.

then, quietly—roughened with something softer than pity. respect.

build your life here. you don’t need to know how. you just need to begin.

his eyes lingered a moment longer before he stepped forward, past her shoulder, his warmth like a sun that did not burn.

and if you lose your way, i will walk it beside you.

Like a lost ship at sea, Fleur felt drawn to his harbor, lead by the guiding light in his words. She felt it, deep in her bones as his words rumbled through her; something ancient, steadfast, everlasting. It made its home in the air within her lungs, the blood that rushed in her veins, branding her.

Sealing her cracks with a blue-gold liquid, marking her anew.

Her eyes had closed briefly, overwhelmed by the rush of whatever it had been that overtook her. It pulsed slower now within her, easing the pounding of her heart. She did not fear, only wanted.

Many things. Wonderful things. 

She took a deep breath, her eyes finding his as she let it loose. He was unwavering—those eyes bore into her with an intensity she wanted to understand. To know.

To soften when they landed on her. But, ever just slightly, for only her eyes to see. To notice. The cloud of a girl could never replace what the man had lost, whatever grief he carried with him would always be there, but she wondered if he, too, could use a guiding light in the darkness.

It was silly, she knew, to feel this way toward a stranger. He would surely find her naive, young-minded. And—she wouldn’t blame him. Not an ounce. And so, she bottled it, hiding it deep in the confines of her foolish heart.

Yet, the bottle rattled and raged, begging for its release as he brushed past her. The warmth in his contact was fleeting—had the air always been this cold? 

His words wove in and around her, a balm to a soul that burned.

She rushed to follow him, her words just as quick yet strong and sure. “Then let it be here—now. Let this be where it begins. I will walk with you as well…Solharr.” If he would have her, she would go with him to the Quarry, alongside his pack, and build a life there for herself.