Duskfire Glacier and down goes the hatchet on the chopping block 'cus i love you like a mountain

Her head would bob like bouy in the lights of the sky's wave. Yes. Soft, short, concise as need be. Some part of her felt as though they should be even, leveled with each other, with their knowledge. Might she learn his comfort native tongue as he had made effort to learn hers. Forever touched by his efforts, mind you.

He would repeat it. Slow and soft, drawn out as if she was learning to speak all over. She would gently repeat each syllable, utter it in a soft mumbled breath. Each time a little closer to piecing it all together. Until she seemed to crack the code of it. Although it would not sound as smooth or fluent. Rough on her tongue unlike his. Norðrljós? She was hesitant, patient to see if she finally stumbled onto it right.

Light of north. For a beat, she wondered if his gods had created such an imagery for them. Perhaps even just for him.