Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

her throat is ruined. her flesh is torn, hot blood pumping freely down her chest and soaking the pale fur to a dark, slick crimson. it has not stopped since she tore herself free from sun water’s jaws, and she knows—she knows—if she doesn’t find aid soon, she will not see another sunrise.

darukaal’s borders are unfamiliar. she does not belong here. she is a stranger, a trespasser, but desperation drives her to their doorstep. her breath is shallow, ragged, a wet gurgle in her throat every time she tries to swallow. the snow beneath her is painted in her ruin. still, she stumbles forward, half-lamed, barely holding herself upright.

her vision blurs. the world tips dangerously when she falters again—back leg buckling—and she slams shoulder-first into a tree, barely catching herself before she collapses. fuck. fuck. teeth grit against the sharp, white-hot pain blooming in her throat, in her ribs, in her battered muscles.

she has no strength to call out. no voice left to scream for help. she can do is keep moving. keep bleeding. keep fighting. until someone finds her—or until the snow swallows her whole.

he smelled the blood before he saw her.
thick. hot. fresh. it rolled over the snow in ribbons, staining the wind with copper, a scent that did not belong here.
his paws carried him forward before thought, muscles coiling tight beneath his dark coat, a predator drawn to the scent of death. but this was not a kill.
this was something else.
someone else.
his green eyes burned through the trees, scanning the ground, following the drag of her struggle. she had come far. too far. how was she even still moving?
when he finally saw her, it was a ghost of the past come bleeding into the present.
familiar.
but wrong.
she was ruined. her throat a mangled mess, the blood still pumping. flowing. refusing to clot. her face pale, fur slicked dark, her steps faltering, her body failing her even as she fought.
a warrior, through and through.
but even warriors fell.
his lips curled back, not in anger, not in cruelty—but in realization.
a howl for @Blackfell.
the name ripped from his throat, sharp and urgent, carrying into the trees, demanding his cousin’s presence.
his pace quickened, closing the distance between them, and still, she did not fall.
stubborn. dying, and still fucking stubborn.
he came to her side, breath hot against the cold, stepping in close before she could collapse.

silence. he sat in silence. drinking in the gloss of the moon, basking in the light of his god. long since he had prayed. long since he had offered totem to the shadow-wrought.
it would not be tonight. there is a splitting call. a howl, strangled. it summons him, fettered by a urgency. a grim song. he is moving, then. ice water splattering under thick paws, nails scraping against crumbling rock.
it was late into the night. all of darukaal slept, except for the plagued few. blackfell drove through the snow in great bounds, conquering what of it remained beneath the cowl of evergreen that lay between he and his cousin.
his mind an empty space. frigid. frozen. it burns baleful when he sees. raven fur, snow and ice splattered in crimson. the scent of his wife, undoubtedly ruined in the layers of him. it is a great sound that comes from the man, a cry that sends the birds fleeing from the nests they perched upon. the fluttering of wings, the beat of their strength in the air.
he dies today! it is blackfell's command. it must be heeded. it must be! he would find the bastard, he would flay the hide from him! separate the flesh from skin. he would feast on his fucking carcass.
sun eater would be the token to his god. his heart beats with the drums of a thousand wars as he barrels close, finding his side at gjalla's. a medic, brother. you must have one! a roar.
his mind cleaves in two. a thirst for vengeance. a desire for revenge. sun eater would be weakened. he must go, he must go and he must sever the head from the source of the problem. mindlessly, he supports the other side of gjalla, a duty and devotion that he stay.
faust, a desperation cloying in his voice of chaos, i must go.

star eater had never been here before.
the glacier loomed, foreign and vast, but the blood that led her here was familiar.
gjalla’s blood.
thick. hot. suffocating.
she had followed its trail like a specter, her paws light but her heart heavy. the cold bit at her fur, but she did not feel it. she only felt the dread sinking deep into her bones.
and then, she found them.
blackfell. a man she did not know—wildling son. and then—
her.
gjalla.
her body ruined, her throat a mangled mess, her life slipping through the cracks of the snow beneath her.
the air was thick with tension, rage. blackfell’s cry had sent the birds fleeing, but star eater could only hear the wretched thrum of her own heart.
my love.
the words left her in a breathless sob, her chest heaving as she closed the distance between them, brushing her muzzle desperately against her sister’s side.
she was still warm. still breathing. but for how long?
she dropped the herbs she had carried between her teeth—yarrow, willow bark, goldenrod, burdock root, thyme. she had not known the extent of the damage, so she had brought everything.
her ears flicked to the sound of the white woman. a stranger. scarred.
she did not care.
find me horsetail and pine resin—quick! she barked, voice sharp with urgency. snow if you must!
then, she turned to blackfell.
his fury was palpable, seething, tearing him apart at the seams.
she will not die. the words were not a plea. they were a promise.
but her voice broke at the last.
this is my fault. my fault!
milk leaked from her body, dribbling, wasted.
she should be home. with her children. with her husband.
but instead, she was here.
and her sister was dying.

the call from faust rang through the air like a shotgun blast. heavy, demanding, frantic. he sang for blackfell, but svalla would not stand idle. could not. not only was it a chance to right her wrongs, but it was a call for help. a plea. and so she ran from her den, sprinting across the ice of the glacier. carving her way through the snow with an urgence that made her heart thrum heavily. lithe legs brought her far and fast; her lungs burning, aching.

but she was there, sharp eyes gone wild and wide. faust, blackfell, a strange woman she did not know. and then blackfell's woman, who had been kind enough to guide her to this glacier in the first place. blood sat heavily in the air, acrid and metallic. so much she could taste it. gjalla laying in the snow, in a pool of her own blood. everyone in a frenzy. blackfell's anger was a palpable force, while the stranger woman who smelled heavily of milk and pups barked orders.

she wouldn't have listened before. she would have jumped right beside blackfell, despite their fight, to spill the guts of whomever harmed gjalla. to spark a war in which she had already ignited. but that was then, and this is now; now, she listens. her expression pinched with resolution, as she takes her orders. "wait for me, blackfell!" she barked and pleaded, before she was tearing off again. darting back into the tundra and the dead trees.

mind in a frenzy as she recounted the various herbs. horsetail, pine resin—she would find both. and she would return then, to wage a warpath alongside her old friend. no one would cross the north and live to tell the tale.

they came in a swarm from the mountains, bounding downwards to meet her where she stood.

she could feel it—feel herself dying. breath rattling thinly in her chest, her throat crushed beneath the force of sun eater’s jaws. the puncture wounds in her neck ran deep, feeding the earth with her blood, and still she stumbled forward. don’t fall. don’t fall. don’t fall. if you fall, you will not get back up.

she did not know when she first smelled him. blackfell. only that the sound of his roar shattered through the forest, and then suddenly he was there, hot and furious, pressing himself to her side and holding her upright. gjalla did not have the strength to meet his gaze. only to stand, barely, though her limbs trembled beneath her own weight. her body was screaming stop moving, stop fighting, but her heart did not know how to yield.

more voices. morwenna’s cry pierced the air like a grieving mother, and a sharp pang of guilt bloomed hot and wet in her chest. don’t. don’t cry for me. she could not bear it. her sister’s muzzle brushed against her side, but gjalla did not respond, could not respond—her throat was too mangled. she could taste the iron-heavy blood flooding her mouth, drowning her voice. 

blackfell’s going to kill him.

the thought barely formed before she was wrenching her body toward him, her jaw working, forcing some desperate noise from her ravaged throat. a choked, garbled snarl. no. no, no, no—stay. he could not leave her like this. she needed him here—needed him alive. if he chased sun eater now, he may not come back. worse, she may not be here to greet him.

but blackfell was all fire and vengeance, a blaze stoked to a wildfire, his body coiled like a spring ready to break. his touch burned where it steadied her, and she could feel the violent tremble of his muscles, barely restrained. his command for faust to summon a healer only further stoked her panic. he was not staying. he was not staying?

"stay—" the word came mangled, unrecognizable through the wet slur of blood in her mouth, but she tried again. "stay."

her teeth grit as she tried to shift her weight against him—keep him here. her limbs barely responded, strength draining from her like water through cracked stone. she could feel her own blood clumping thick in her fur, streaking her face, her throat, her chest. the world spun around her.

you must be rash, brother.
his voice was quiet, even against the chaos.
blackfell burned.
the fury in him was a living thing, snarling to be let loose, to be unleashed upon the world in blood and ruin.
but gjalla was dying.
and the starwoven crying.
and svalla was running.
this was not a moment for war.
faust moved, swift and sure, stepping into blackfell’s path, blocking him before he could go.
their foreheads met with force, a clash of heat and breath and will. not a challenge—an anchor. grounding them. locking their eyes.
i know what she is to you.
the words left him like a vow, a promise carved in stone. he understood. he always had.
but she needs you.
his eyes flicked down, to gjalla, to the way she pressed into blackfell’s side. how her ruined throat struggled to form the words, the desperate plea.
stay.
stay.
his heart clenched at the sound of it.
faust pressed his brow harder against his cousin’s, breathing his certainty into him.
and we need men.
dawn.
it was not a denial. it was a promise.
blackfell would have his war.
but not tonight.

he hears the thunder. it is a great shouting that vibrates within his ears, within his mind. a suffocating bell toll that rings. it rings! it rings! it crushes in. the rage. the violence.
the desire. blood must be repaid in blood. it would be.
gjalla's begging—oh, his wintersong. the heart, black as home in his heart, constricts. it pumps blood full of adrenaline to all inch of his body, which screams that he must conquer.
svalla's rallying cry. she runs.
star eater, there. here. the sheer fucking audacity of it. it takes all for blackfell to not yell, to not shout. she says it is her fault.
it is. he is glad she knows it. now she must fix it by saving his mate's life. this is what he says to her, lowly, when she dares look him in the eyes: yes. a hiss. you must undo.
blackfell steps aside, but it is faust there to stop him. the crashing of his head upon his, shields clinking together in the great union of battle. he grits his teeth, eyes flashing with momentary fury. he would take faust down if he had to! nothing would stop him! but then pause, as his mind clears. he hears his words. he breathes with him.
gjalla weakens, bleeding her ichor into the snow. more tainting the ground as the seconds pass. a whine, clear as the night and the soft fallen snow, echoes past the cage of his mouth. his bridgework tightening with terror. she cannot die, faust. words spoken into the snow between them. i will— words unfinished, words that do not need to be said. he moves from faust, slinking darkly towards the commotion. where star eater stares up at him, tears wrenching in those starwoven eyes.

he looks upon her now with great loathing. i will kill your husband come dawn.

star eater worked.
it was the only thing she could do.
her paws moved swiftly, pressing yarrow into wounds that would not close, grinding willow bark to a pulp, willing her sister’s body to fight, to live. her breath was steady, her mind sharp—but her hands trembled.
this was her fault.
she did not need blackfell to say it. she knew.
but still, when his venom licked at her ears, she flinched.
yes, she hissed through gritted teeth, refusing to look at him, refusing to let herself break.
the words struck deep. a command. a punishment. a truth.
undo. undo. undo. she could feel his hatred, the fire in him that threatened to burn everything in its path. and she deserved it. she would shoulder it. but she would not let him take what little she had left.
she did not weep. not now.
instead, she pressed her forehead to gjalla’s, murmuring something only the spirits would hear. a prayer. a demand. a promise.
the men spoke behind her, voices low, clashing like steel against the weight of night.
the wildling, steady, grounding.
blackfell, raw, seething.
she did not lift her head until blackfell’s final words carved themselves into the frozen air.
the world stilled.
a sharp inhale. her shoulders squared. her chest rose with the guilt only a queen could carry.
and then, her breath left her in a single, unshakable decree.
this is war.
the night swallowed her words.
and there was no turning back.

her search was in haste. pure raw, hurried haste. skittering to and fro, searching for herbs she was hardly familiar with. and yet she would gather whatever she could find amidist snow and dead brush, and could only pray it would be what the strange-woman needed to heal gjalla. to clean her wounds, to breath life back into a heart that was failing. and failing fast.

with a mouthful of a bundle of assorted herbs, she crashed back into the unfortunate gathering. sides heaving, eyes set with both determination and worry. she had not known gjalla for long, and their first meeting brief. but she was blackfell's woman. and she would set aside the pride she has been learning to swallow, to help a friend in such desperate need.

this woman would not die tonight. not if any of them could help it. "here," she rasped. setting the bundle down at the stranger woman's paws, uncaring as to who she was so long as she helped. blackfell and faust spoke hushed words aside from the women, until the dragon rider stepped forth. he spoke to the woman's who's name she did not know; he warned that he could slay her husband come the rise of the sun.

svalla's lips curled with rage. "i will join your fight." she demanded. she pleaded. anything for blackfell, and in extension, anything for his wife.

blood coated her tongue like wine.

it was thick, rich, sacramental. the ichor of gods, who would not surrender a valkyrie to the grasp of death when someone came for her throat. her blood poured from her body in thick rivulets of crimson, but it did not stoke fear in her. not anymore.

only fury. the wrath of a valkyrie, rage fueled from the gods.

her gaze burned through the haze of blood-loss, locked upon blackfell as his cousin and friend restrained him. anchored him when he should be burning, tearing through the trees like a wildfire, chasing sun eater to the ends of the earth and dragging his carcass home for her feet.

her teeth clenched, hot agony lancing through her torn throat as she forced her head upward. her husband. her mate. she had chosen him once as the sharp edge to wield, and he would not fail her now.

through it all, words gurgled up from her throat, thick and raw. it is splintered through a snarl, but it is vicious. it is wrath. it is fate; "bring me his fucking head."

give him stormrift’s regards.

her breath rasped as her throat bled with the heave of her lungs, but her rage carried her. it was searing. white-hot, unrelenting, and far louder than the suffocating weakness of her body.

"you stay," she commanded. her voice was iron, unshakable despite the ruin of her throat. "until dawn. then you go."

"i want his hide for a fucking blanket." the words were monstrous, inhuman, but there was no space for mercy in her chest. not now. not when she had felt his teeth in her throat, seeking her soul.

her mind burned with the vision of it—sun eater’s skull cracked beneath blackfell’s teeth, his tongue torn out and delivered to her. she would make a throne from his bones, for her and her sister.

they would not stay the hand. they would not cower before this act like he’d fractured all they were. no. there would be war.

he would not be on the winning side.

faust exhaled, slow, steady. a breath meant to cool the fire raging around him, but it did not work.
war was in the air.
it burned hot in blackfell’s chest. in starwoven's trembling hands. in svalla’s plea. in gjalla’s bloody decree.
he saw it in the way his cousin shook beneath the weight of his rage, in the way gjalla forced her head up, defiant even in the throes of death. in the way starwoman worked, her body wracked with guilt, in the way svalla had run, run, run—to fight. to fix. to atone.
and then there was him.
the only one left to temper the storm before it swallowed them all.
his green eyes flicked to blackfell, locked onto him even as the bloodied woman at his feet rasped her command like a dying god demanding sacrifice.
her decree sealed it.
his jaw tightened.
there was no stopping this now.
faust turned.
to blackfell. to the man shaking beneath the force of all that he held inside.
he stepped close, his breath steady against the storm, and pressed their foreheads together once more.
not to stop him. not to anchor him.
but to release him.
dawn, he murmured.
to nova peak.
but not like rabid dogs.
not in a frenzy.
they would go as wolves. as warriors. as men prepared to end this.
his head lifted, green eyes catching starwoven's, catching svalla’s, catching the fury of gjalla’s bleeding body.
his voice was low, even, resolute.
to war, then.

he was there, at her side. he had delivered morwenna her final rites and she knew well what must now happen. this was no longer a war he sought to fight for morwenna, but for his wife. for gjalla. who he cups now in his grasp, paw coming to her cheek, wiping a mixture of blood and tears she did not know she shed. my wintersong, he rasps to her.
you will have his head. a vow to her. it is spoken roughly, loudly, clearly. for all to know. but first you must live for me. he has never begged in his life. but now, he begs. begs like a dog at the altar of his master, feeling the rage of tears begin to well at his eyes. crimson shedding. this war cannot be fought in vain.
he stands, then. feeling the weight of faust bearing down behind him. he turns, coming to face him. they grapple. head to head, their breathing intermixing. his cousin, his blood. he grasps him, foreleg by foreleg, as the two stand together.
then they part. blackfell standing stalwart at his side, knowing that come dawn, this would begin. it would begin, but it would end swiftly—on the backs of men who fought and did not cleave like mongrels for scraps which they were not owed.
to war, then.
his eyes narrow in the distance upon the peak of winsook. then, to the group of trees where he knew saatsine walked.

they will know the wrath of house crownore.

star eater did not linger.
the white-scarred woman had done as she was told, had gathered what was needed, but morwenna had no time for gratitude.
her sister bled beneath her hands. her milk leaked from her swollen teats. her husband writhed, dying.
she wanted to burn it all.
instead, she pressed down on gjalla’s wounds, felt the way her body fought, the way it refused to yield, and she whispered, she will live if you do not fail her.
to the scarred one, her voice came sharp, unrelenting.
crush the willow bark to paste and press it into her throat—do not let it clot too quickly, or she will choke.
the goldenrod, crush it into the wounds. the pine resin will seal what remains.
do not let her grow cold.
she could stay no longer.
her ears flicked as she heard them speak of war.
wildling, steady as stone. blackfell, already lost to blood. white woman, eager for the slaughter.
and gjalla, dying, and still, she commanded the world to bend to her wrath.
morwenna’s lips curled.
i cannot stay.
her children waited.
she had already risked too much.
there is much to be done. but before, she placed a kiss upon gjalla's brow. a seal of promise, of kin alike. i love you, sweet girl.
she thought of sun eater, weak and broken in the snow. calling for his men. calling for anyone.
she would not go to him. not after this. not after he had seen her love for gjalla. and still, still his pride was overruled.
her children were well hidden.
they will not know you are coming.
her final words were a blade, a warning, and then she turned.
star eater, dzaeyaqsaa, had died upon the glacier, left behind in the bloodied snow, in the wailing of wolves, in the war cries of men. her bones were buried in the remnants of a life she no longer claimed.
and from the embers, from the ruin, from the fury that roared like a dragon’s breath—
morwenna drakaryn rose.

the dark woman's commands were barked with intensity. as if she would not allowed failure—and svalla would not welcome it, either. she would not fail. nodding feverishly as she listened to the directions. she knows what she must do, to help gjalla live to fight another day. 

and oh, the stormy woman's rage was palpable. she demands the filth's head. svalla's mind is delighted with the image of dragging the man's corpse through the north as a fucking message. 

but her time to fight would come. for now, she would try her hand at healing. 

the dark woman is gone, after pressing such a reverent kiss to the injured woman's temple. svalla's heart swells at such sisterly affection, before her focus is torn to begin her job. 

furiously she would crush and chew the herbs to bits and pieces, molding it into a malleable mixture. her touch, never gentle before, would be so now. this was not to be done with haste, even if the call for the fight awoke the wildling within her.

carefully, she'd pack the herbs into the wound, ears pinned backward and expression pinched. watching as the blood flow began to lessen, hoping it would not clot too fast. she was no healer—but she did not have a choice.

"this war will be won in your name. come dawn, we will bathe in their blood." svalla promised. gjalla would have the man's head, and the north would prevail. as it always had.