Larksong Grotto my pride

intended for @Skorpa, travelling with @Blackfell. Set in the morning (im about to go to sleep).

before the sun had risen, they moved.
through the dark, through the quiet, through the hush of a world not yet woken. the snow whispered beneath their steps, crisp and undisturbed, save for the steady press of two wolves cutting a path through the glacier. faust and blackfell.
they did not speak.
there was nothing to say.
the larksong grotto loomed ahead, its frozen cliffs casting jagged shadows beneath the pale glow of a dying moon. faust’s breath curled in the air, heavy with frost, and his green eyes cut toward blackfell, a silent exchange between them. they were here.
but they were not enough.
his stomach turned. he did not want to do this, but he was a man who did what needed to be done.
a man who would stain his hands with whatever filth it took to secure their victory.
his head tilted back, his throat flexing as the howl ripped from him—long, low, edged with something that could almost be mistaken for reluctance. but he did not hesitate.
his voice echoed through the valley, swallowed by the cold, cast into the dawnless sky.
he had never thought he would ask this man for help.
but the sun would rise soon.
and blood would follow.

he moved silently, silently with the simmering of rage that lifted the fur at his nape, along his back, hackles. it was a deep, woeful thing that commanded the man now. it had been easy before, to loathe sun eater. that was before the man had refused to fight him, and instead attempted to kill his wife.
and blackfell would now have his vengeance, in any capacity which it came. he did not share the same quarrels that faust had with seeking alliance from skorpa. and even still, he knew what it cost his cousin—and it was a debt he would owe.
a glance shared once. then he succumbs to his anger, letting his brows narrow atop crimson glazed eyes. swallowing the peak in its entirety where they pause at the bottom, and blackfell looks.
waits. and it takes much to wait. to not turn now and stride into the heart of saatsine, to claim the life of vermin in his den.

---

skorpa was annoyed.

early dawn was when he returned from the last patrol to nestle down beside ayovi, to feel her sleepy arms reach warm around his body while he pulled the bearskin over them both.

to be disturbed again, and in the cold dark, and by darukaal — "jeg er træt af at se dit ansigt på mit bjerg."

his words were for faust, but they could indicate the other. the bearman had enjoyed hunting well enough; this was another matter. skorpa pushed his way between a pair of saplings and glared at the pair. "hvad er det, du vil have?"

---

skorpa. faust greeted, his voice rough, tight with something unspoken. he exhaled, slow, measured, but his lungs felt too full, too tight. nerves. exhaustion. the weight of everything pressing down on him like the cold of the glacier. he did not want to be here.
but he was.
and he would do what needed to be done.
his silence stretched too long. fuck it.
i need your help.
his green eyes lifted, searching the bearman’s face, looking for something, anything—a crack, an opening, something to pry at, something to grip onto. skorpa had never been a man of mercy. but he was a man of reason. and faust needed reason now.
saatsine. they seek war.
the words left him like a confession, like a damnation. they sought war, and so did he.
their leader—sun eater, he almost killed a woman. blackfell’s wife.
his ears flicked back, the memory burning through his mind like a brand, the way her blood had soaked the snow, the way she had rasped for vengeance even as she bled out beneath their hands.
and... he hesitated. this was the part that sickened him. the part that kept him awake. the part that clawed at him worse than the thought of war itself.
and i am afraid.
he let the words sit there, let them settle in the frozen morning air. he was afraid. not of battle, not of blood. but of what came after. of what it would cost them. of what it would cost him.
they will come for all of us.
he stepped forward, just a fraction, his tail flicking once against his hocks.
please.
a plea. the taste of it was bitter on his tongue, but he would swallow it down, would choke on it if he had to.
please. i want them all safe. i want her safe.
ayovi.
wasn’t this something they could agree on?

there is silence following faust's final plea, where blackfell watches quietly. a simmering anger, that resounds from him in pulsating waves. each one a throb more powerful than the last, washing over the dripping tension that resonated between the two norsemen. the onyx man stared upon skorpa, then, fixing him with his eyes so that he then would hear his voice.
hann er hrokafullur kjáni sem hugsar vel um sjálfan sig og slær samt í skottið þegar tennurnar eru lyftar upp í háls hans sjálfs. each word seething hotter than the last. ég stóð sjálfur fyrir áskorun og hann stóðst það ekki. það var þegar hann leitaðist við að drepa konu mína.
it was a crime.
a crime against all norsemen. a crime against tradition as they knew it.
a crime that must not go unanswered.
það er kominn tími til að leggja þetta smáræði til hliðar. hann hefur hótað konunni minni, he stands between both now, speaking to both. það er aðeins tímaspursmál hvenær hann kemur til þín næst. it is the truth as blackfell sees it. then, pointedly to faust. og þitt.
he did not know ayovi, but if faust was sweet on her, then he could put aside her bluster upon the glacier. as for svalla—she had vowed to fight when she did not have to. their hatchet had been buried.

skulum nú berjast. the battle ran deep in all of their veins. sem bræður.

---

faust's begging chilled skorpa and perhaps unfairly disgusted him. he would rather die than grovel, or if he must put knee to stone, then for a more worthwhile cause than pleading at the doorstep of someone meant to be enemy in any other life.

"jeg er ikke din bror," skorpa began first, voice heavy with a growing anger. "og du skal ikke kalde noget for småligt, som du ikke kender. faust har gjort ayovi ked af det for mange gange."

they came here, they postured upon this wild land that did not belong to them, and they spoke in half-truths. "du udfordrede ham." skorpa shrugged.  "hvis han var en jarl, ville han også have fundet en måde at skade dig på.

it was the cost of a challenge.

skorpa was sorely tempted, yes. the warrior in him wished to be again on the field of battle in violent clash.

but the soon-to-be father in him did not.

if he was meant for Valhalla, then Valhalla would seek him. he could not avoid such an end if it came.

"du frygter denne svage mand, som ikke ville kæmpe, og du mistede næsten din kvinde til ham," skorpa growled. "så kommer du her og kræver min hjælp, fordi jeg er dansker."

resolute. this bending, going to war while ayovi grew with promise; no. they asked far too much because they were not fathers or husbands with success at protecting their wives. "du har forårsaget dette. løs det selv."

a last, looking to each man in turn. "det, som guderne har sat i gang, kan ikke ændres."

---

honey goes next!

blackfell can only laugh, loudly and boldly, in the face of skorpa. he sees now why his cousin loathes the man so.
fear? blackfell did not fear. he had come only to appease faust's need for reinforcements. this slander sits vile upon him, and it is in the flash of red eyes it can be seen.
ég sé núna, coldly, harshly, he incites, hina sönnu dýpt þess að vera dullard.
this—this frays on him. on his nerves, on his mind, on his whole being. hugsa heilt. ef við eigum að tapa, he did not think he would have to spell this out, but apparently so: þú verður næstur. en ekki þú. nei, konan þín. ungana þína. og þá, aðeins þá, myndu þeir drepa þig.
he exhales a shaky breath. his leering upon skorpa does not cease, nor does it seek to. he would stare the common sense into the man if he must.

faust swallowed his pride.
it burned, bitter and heavy, curling like smoke in his chest as skorpa’s words lacerated him—each syllable a blade meant to cut deep. he did not flinch. he let the rejection sink into his bones, let the weight of it press down upon him.
this was a mistake.
skorpa was no ally. he had never been. he saw faust as weak, as something lesser, and perhaps he was right. perhaps he was a fool for coming here, for hoping that some common ground—some shared sense of duty—would sway the bearman to their cause.
he glanced to blackfell, felt the simmering rage in his cousin’s form, the way his voice curled sharp, cold, venomous in his native tongue. they were wasting their breath. skorpa had made his choice.
and yet—this was bigger than pride.
it was bigger than whatever hatred burned between them.
so faust tried again.
his breath left him slow, measured. his body was tense, tight, as if holding himself back from something reckless, something unhinged. but his voice was even, resolute, when he spoke.
if you help us now, he said, and there was finality in his tone, something carved in stone. i will never set foot upon your land. no requests, no barters.
his throat felt raw, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, but he forced the next words out, let them be as much a sacrifice as they were a promise.
and i will never speak to ayovi again.
a beat.
not now. not ever.
a death blow. one he delivered to himself, to whatever strange, unspoken thing still existed between him and the woman who had once met him as an equal.
he had no right to her, had never had a right to her. but this? this was war. and war demanded blood.
if giving her up meant skorpa would help—then faust would let her go.

edit for visibility tag!

---

blackfell showed the truth of himself, and how the words had struck their mark. it had been a mistake for faust to bring him, though the baskaan had the proper sense to look askance.

but why did he beg again? did he not see this was ended?

"rensdyrjægerne er ikke kommet en eneste gang. darukaal er kommet tre gange, og nu for at komme med fornærmelser."

the umber-eyes moved upon blackfell. "du bør være forsigtig. det ser ud til, at darukaal ikke har nogen allierede, og mit sværd kan endnu finde sin plads i dette."

this had been a shameful meeting. "nu er der ikke mere fred mellem os. forsvind fra mit land."

he advanced a weighted step.

"ja. du vil aldrig sætte dine ben der gen. og @Ayovi vil beslutte, om hun vil tale med dig. gå."

---

skorpa's words do not cement. he is far too riled with other more pressing matters to let this urchin seek his way beneath his skin. but he does grit his teeth, dropping his crimson gaze across the man in a slow, creeping glance.
it is one of pity. and he resists the urge to spit at his feet.
his step is met with one of blackfell's own. there is no respect for him any longer. his threat to fight against them one that does not find purchase, instead, he scoffs.
he believes this man's wife to have a far better head than he, and so he says:
segðu konu þinni að við séum komin. að við viljum tala við hana. við munum bíða á sléttunum.
and if skorpa did not respect even this most simple of request, blackfell would see fit to audience with the woman himself. by going through the man.
when faust moves to leave, so does the warbringer.

faust exhaled, the weight of disappointment sinking into his bones. he had hoped for something here, anything, but skorpa’s rejection was final.
no allies. no reinforcements. only war.
his gaze flickered to blackfell, silent understanding passing between them. there was no use staying. not now. he had one more road left to walk before the sun rose, before darukaal stood alone against the saatsine.
without another word, he turned, stepping away from the ridge, away from skorpa’s sneering presence. the plains stretched before him, vast and empty, but perhaps—perhaps iskava would be more rewarding.

---

it irked skorpa to hear these two brash men speak of ayovi as if she were something weak to be carried away; with such a sentiment came shame for that first flight in the weald, the clash of teeth with ice held between.

faust still thought of her the same way.

dutifully he would carry the glaciermessage to his wife, and stand behind what she spoke was best for their stjernberg.

---