Duskfire Glacier ever since i was a kid,

the glacier was silent, save for the whisper of the wind against the stone, the distant call of an owl. the night stretched long and restless, a heavy weight pressing down upon the taiga.
faust did not sleep. he waited.
when the familiar scent of @Svalla drifted through the cold, his head lifted, green eyes sharp in the dim light. he had sent her on a task, one that could change the course of the war to come, and now she was here—finally.
the kaan rose to meet her, stepping forward from where he had been lingering at the edge of the frozen meadow. his breath curled in the frigid air as he watched her approach, scanning her for wounds, for exhaustion, for any sign of how her journey had gone.
what has happened? his voice was quiet, measured. any alliances?
the wind howled between them, but he did not move, did not blink. he needed answers.

she had descended from winsook's borders, soaring across the snow and ice. a distant war drum in her ears, a readiness for war in her bones. this is what she was made for. born for. all those countless years of training until she collapsed, all of the spars either lost or triumphantly won...

it would all lead to this war. either the victory, or the grueling defeat. 

with burning lungs, she cut through the night. headed toward faust. the man had not slept, and she did not blame him; how could one possibly sleep with a war on the horizon? 

there would be time for rest. now was the time for strategy, for training. 

her fur windswept and jaws parted in a hushed pant, she faced him with a gleam of triumph in her sharp eyes. "their mercenary will fight for us." she stated with a sweep of her tail. "he demanded a bear hide for payment." 

if darukaal survived this war, a bear would hardly be any worry. 

she came to his side and sat, her shoulder barely grazing his. a ghost of a comforting touch, while her eyes turned forward. staring down into the valley where they would soon storm. 

"you look terrible." she commented with a side-ward glance and a fleeting smirk. "this war...it will not be the end, will it?" a question that would linger, sitting heavily in the silence that followed.

he huffs, a sharp exhale through his nose, but there’s something almost amused in the sound. we can do that, he confirms, though he doesn’t specify the age of the hide. it hardly matters—if the mercenary wants a bear, darukaal will provide.
his eyes flick toward her, catching the glint of mischief in her gaze, and he lifts a brow. why, got something on my face?
he knows what she means. exhaustion clings to him like frost to fur, and sleep has been a distant thing since the first whispers of war took root. but there is no use in admitting it—war does not allow for weakness, not now, not ever.
her question lingers between them, heavier than the cold. he watches the valley below, where the battle will come, where blood will stain the ice. i hope it will be, he says, voice low. violence is not my preferred answer.
but it is blackfell’s. and, if he is being honest, it is svalla’s, too. they are made for war, carved from it, molded by it. he does not fault them for it—he needs warriors like them by his side. but he does not share their thirst for blood.
his shoulders shift, tense, before he breathes out slowly. but we will not be the ones to strike first. a promise, though one he knows may not last. war is never so simple.

there was a small uptick to the corners of her lips—a gentle smile that wouldn't grow much wider. "you are tired," she hummed. voice quiet but resolute amongst the gentle howl of the winds. they all were. and yet, no one would rest until the dust has settled. 

she nodded then. contemplating. violence was not his answer...but that could not be said for the rest of darukaal. so many norsemen with axes at the ready, so many wolves that while they grew had known nothing but violence. 

it may not be what faust wants, but it is needed. had it not been for saatsine's leader launching the attack on gjalla, none of this would've been set into place. "you would not have to meet them with violence, if they hadn't brought it to your doorstep." she offered. 

war is her way. it is blackfell's way. and both she and faust know better than any other that the crownore would not rest until he had his vengeance. 

with a sigh, the wildling turned to face him. searching past the exhaustion. "i am surprised he hasn't left to attack already," she mused, though her humor was a thin veil. and the truth is, is that if blackfell stormed early...

svalla would be at his side. it was her duty, her right.

"when was the last time you saw war, faust? the last time we lived through it, fought through it? we've gotten stronger. and now? you have the finest northerners at your command. ready to win this war." svalla spoke with conviction. 

"sometimes, peace must be broken. darukaal will be stronger because of it. we will win."

and then, perhaps they could rest.

faust listens, his silence heavier than the wind cutting through the glacier. she is right, as she always is when it comes to war. it is not what he wants, but what other path remains?
his breath leaves him slow, controlled. we have no other choice.
there is no uncertainty in his voice now, only resolve. they had been pushed to this, dragged into it by blood spilled on the ice. if he had his way, he would have never let it come to this, but peace had never been theirs to keep.
he glances at her, exhaustion lingering in the sharp cut of his features. blackfell will not wait long. it is not a question. it is fact. they both know it.
he is grateful, then, for her presence, for the steadiness in her conviction. she has seen war and thrived in it. she does not fear what comes next. maybe he should take a page from her book.
[indnet]darukaal will be stronger, he echoes, and though there is a weight behind the words, there is also belief. because they will win. because they must.

"when he does march, we will be beside him. darukaal with be beside him." they must honor the crownore's wish for penance—had it not been his right? his wife lay in shambles, bloodied and left for death. 

perhaps it is selfish. but war is all she knows. it felt second nature, to storm into the frontlines with an unwavering ferocity. and perhaps it is the wildling within her. 

faust is weary. it's written in the hollows of his face, the slump of his shoulders. she understood his place and the pressure placed atop his shoulders, as she'd once felt it, too. when he had left hrafn and she had to step up to the plate. 

her heart aches for him, in way she cannot voice, cannot name. "do you remember," she started with a smile meant just for him, "when we used to flee deep into the woods and watch the stars?" her voice was quieter with reminiscence. welcoming of the fond memories they'd shared. 

"life was simpler back then, when we did not have to worry about wars and politics." svalla stood then, and gently bumped their shoulders together. an invitation in her eyes, a softness that rarely danced within them. 

"come. we will watch them again." because she didn't know when they would be able to again.

faust huffs, low and amused. the weight of war still drapes over him like a heavy pelt, but for a moment, she pulls him from it. nostalgia wraps its fingers around his throat, tightening.
and you never shut up, he murmurs, but there is no bite to it—only warmth.
he follows.
the stars stretch vast and infinite above them, the same as they had been all those years ago, when they were nothing but reckless, untethered things. no burdens, no titles. no blood staining their teeth.
life was simpler, she says, and faust glances to her, sees the invitation in her eyes.
he exhales, slow. lets the tension bleed from his shoulders, just for now.
then let's not think of war tonight.