Firefly Glen verast

scouting, he'd told the others. watching the fringes where the herds moved and the frost still clung like claws to stone. he preferred the silence. the solitude.

his breath hung in pale clouds as he paused at a ridge, eyes sweeping the basin below. faint trails of elk. a wolf’s old track. nothing fresh. he began to turn—

and the earth roared.

she came barreling through the underbrush with the fury of something ancient—massive, golden, a wall of teeth and rage. he barely had time to brace before the sow grizzly struck him like a battering ram, her claws raking his side as he was sent crashing to the ground.

his body hit the snow with a crack of ice and breath torn from lungs. stars danced in his vision, but instinct screamed louder than pain. he rolled, narrowly dodging another sweep of her paw—massive, furious, protecting something.

cubs.

of course.

he bared his teeth, blood already warming his flank. he would not kill her unless he had no other choice. but gods, he would not die here, either.

with a low, guttural snarl, sólhárr dug his paws into the snow and rose, braced and steady again despite the blood that steamed against the cold.

but the sow did not understand words. only scent, and rage. and she charged again.

over the ridge, boots of snow flying behind him, he sees the golden beast charge and the man rising through blood. the grizzly thunders forward, and raedwulf moves to intercept—shoulder down, a war cry tearing from his throat.
áweġ!
one man alone cannot take on such a beast, especially not with the scent of her cubs so close by. and raedwulf was not a man to watch another lose heart! it is not his intention to stop her, but only to slow her. tan and charcoal collide into her, fur upon fur, muscle upon muscle.
claws rake his shoulder, tearing fresh heat into the cold.
but the great beast staggers! staggers and turns trajectory to defend herself from the second assailant. raedwulf is dancing several paces back, rolling thick shoulders, ignoring the sting upon his left one and the rushing rivulets of crimson.
breathing hard, body awash with adrenaline, raedwulf looks suddenly to the other man when the sow in turn attempts to charge him. to the man, he shouts: nū!

sólhárr’s ribs ached with each breath, the world spinning slightly as blood trickled from his side, warm against the freezing wind. snow churned beneath his paws, broken by claw and panic—he was still on his feet, barely.

then came the crash—
a blur of tan and coal barreling into the sow. she reeled, snarled, staggered sideways. the stranger shouted something guttural—áweġ!—and then again, nū!

sólhárr didn’t know the words, but he understood the meaning.

run.

his silver gaze locked with the man’s, wide with disbelief, gratitude, and warning all at once. go! he barked, already spinning on a heel slick with red. we’ll not take her down today.

and then he was running—
snow flying in great waves behind him, lungs screaming, pain flaring with every stride. the bear roared, fury chasing at their heels. but he didn’t look back. only forward, where the trees waited. shelter. cover.

this way! he called behind him, voice sharp through the wind, hoping the man would follow.

not every battle was won by teeth. some by speed. some by knowing when to survive.

raedwulf rips free from the sow’s flesh, blood hot on his tongue, and turns. snow flies beneath him as he bounds after the red man, shoulder burning, lungs drawing cold fire. the bear roars behind them, her rage shaking the pines.
only when the forest swallows them, the trees tight and close, does he slow—breath heaving, body trembling from exertion, not fear. both slow strides in tandem it seems, the heavy beat of paws ceasing into thuds. the woods thicken around them.
leaving only the two of them to catch their breath. it is where raedwulf hangs his large head for several beats, as flanks rise and fall in rapid succession and his breath billows hot into the spring, morning air. looking then to the red-burning man.
suddenly, reaching to clap a paw upon the man's neck, feeling united in their shared survival. þū meahtest sweltan, wīgmann! nevermind that raedwulf could have died, as well.

sólhárr stood, ribs heaving beneath the weight of exhaustion and blood drying stiff in his coat. snow clung to the underside of his limbs, but he did not shake it. his breath came in clouds, great fogs of warmth pouring from his nose as the trees stood witness.

the stranger's paw found his neck, firm and familiar—like two warriors after the storm. sólhárr flinched slightly from instinct, then did not move, only turned his silver gaze to meet the man’s.

the words meant little—sweltan, wīgmann—but the meaning was clear. warriors. death.

his ears flicked. breath escaped him again in a tired huff, a ghost of a laugh buried beneath it.

you could have too, he murmured, voice low and rough with pain.

then, after a pause—
we live. a nod.
you have my respect. another breath.
name?

iċ eom raedwulf, guthrices sunu, of hartweald. the words are spoken with weight, not pride, but truth.
he taps his chest with one broad paw, slow and firm. raedwulf.
then gestures to the red man, expectant, brow raised.
þīn naman?

though foreign, they rolled like scripture, like something carried through blood rather than tongue.

the gesture was not lost on him. he understood.

the red-furred chief touched his own chest, just as slow.

sólhárr, he said, gravel-rich and hoarse from running. chief of forneskja.

a breath. another flick of his ear.

you fight like a northern god, he added, not as flattery—but as fact. a truth spoken with the weight of survival between them.

you’ll stay with us. rest. mend.

a pause. then, quieter—
if you want.

the name lands heavy. sólhárr. not understood in full, but felt. raedwulf nods—slow, respectful. his gaze sharpens at the word forneskja, brow twitching with faint recognition. ah!
his tail twitches, just the beginning of a welcoming wag. turning towards the man with welcoming body language, his face warming with a jovial smile. unveiling one poking canine tooth, the other cracked short and fleshy. āh, þū eart cyning! eorl!
then more words—too fast, too fluid. but he hears north, and god, and something in the tone tells him it is not mockery. something clicks, and ears perk upwards. þū eart norðmann. raedwulf watches the man touch his chest in turn and he lifts brown eyes to his amber. iċ eom seaxe!
he cannot grasp the rest—only tone, only offer. he looks to the trees, then to sólhárr. he offers him hearth, raedwulf thinks. once more a glance to look around, observing their area, and nodding with a faint acceptance. it was a beautiful lands; the warrior saw no reason to decline! and he was also bleeding once more, the second time in just a few days—healing and rest would be in demand.
ġe, ic wuna. accompanied by a nod. then, gesturing with a leg, for the man to take the lead. show the way!

saxon! sólhárr exclaimed, the word leaving him with a rumble of delighted surprise. i have not heard of your blood in some time.

his tail lifted with pride, the lines of his weathered face creasing in something warm. not a smile, not quite—but close. the kind of expression men wore when they recognized kin where there had once only been strangers.

you speak of oaths and gods as i do. that makes us not so different.

he stepped forward, the towering chief of forneskja with his pelt kissed by flame and snow. his massive frame cast long shadows in the late sun, and yet his posture was open, welcoming. your tongue is old. older than most. your bones remember the sea.

a pause, then a knowing flick of his ear, golden eyes flicking over the man’s wounds once more.

come. you will rest, and your strength will return beneath our roof. a seer will tend your flesh, and meat will find your belly. northmen take care of their own—even when they come from far shores.

then he turned, beginning the walk back toward the distant flickers of firelight through the trees.

walk with me, raedwulf seaxe. forneskja honors warriors who bleed and do not fall.

he follows the red man without question now, each step sure-footed despite the throb in his limb. blood still trails down his shoulder, thick and drying, but he does not flinch from it. there is no shame in wounds. only proof.
sólhárr’s back is broad ahead of him, pelt gilded by the dipping sun, and raedwulf watches him with a warrior’s eye. how he walks. how the wind does not move him. a chieftain in truth, not just in name.
his ears flick at the words spoken again, though they come fast and unfollowable. he catches only fragments—roof, gods, honor. but he hears what matters. he hears welcome. and more than that, he feels it.
he grunts softly, a sound of approval. ġe, þū spricst mid rihte! there is pride now in raedwulf's voice. it is heartening, strong, to be welcomed by another northerner! and they had shared blood together already. it was a great, warmful omen for what may yet come.

fade!