Moonsong Glacier freyja's tears

Fjall took a steadying breath as the hooded woman resigned herself to a sit, relief trickling through him. He padded across the faded border to stand beside the woman, as if to soak up her pain, his heartbreak for her radiating. And it was not that her story was particularly sad, but that she seemed so defeated. He could certainly empathize.

They found their people, he offered quietly, attempting to seem as if the news did not just plunge him further into the shared melancholy between them. Just as, I assume, you found your Dutch. She had called him her “man,” but maybe it was a sore subject to bring up, as the leader hadn’t shown himself yet and she looked rightly forlorn. You are very loyal. Our Maker will reward you for this, I’m sure. And Dutch will be happiest to see you, when he returns. Not if.

This devotion was certainly what kept her here in the absence of people. He wondered if he should do the same: erect himself as an altar upon this glacier in Ariadne’s honor. Would that make him a wolf worth staying for? He then thought suddenly of what the man Arktos had said:

“Home is people. Home is not a place.”

He looked to the woman. What did she believe?