Bearclaw Valley saw death on a sunny snow

when she speaks, her voice carries like a northern hymn. for a man forged in the cold crucible of survival, moments like this—gentle, intentional, undeserved—feel foreign, like a language he’s still learning to understand. many of them died, he says finally, avoiding her gaze, in fear she may look into his eyes and see a bloodletting monster. his gaze drifts to the bloodstained snow, his breath visible in the crisp air. it was not my want to kill them. they were hungry. desperate. he pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, as if the admission costs him something. but hunger makes even the smallest creatures dangerous. and to protect this land... to protect bearclaw... it had to be done.

there were women within bearclaw. women, and children. children of the rex and regina, and children of @Nephele. guilt would not be his greatest shame if something were to happen to any of them under his watch.

við skulum verja land okkar með blóði, jafnvel þegar hungur krefst þess. the words are low, somber. he inhales a long draw of breath, which billows quietly back out through nostril and jaw, visible upon the cold nip of the winter's forge. it means, 'we defend our land with blood, even when hunger demands it.' his gaze remains fixed on hers, searching for understanding, for the connection he feels every time she looks at him as though she can see past the scars, past the stoicism, to the man beneath.

her words pierce through the barriers he keeps so carefully constructed. he watches her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her face, her pale fur catching the faint light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. it’s a stark contrast to the bloodied, battered mess of himself that she so willingly tends to. tvar feels unworthy of such kindness. you shouldn’t waste your care on me, snowbird, he murmurs, though the words lack conviction. he knows, deep down, that she will do as she pleases. and he knows, too, that her care is not something he can turn away from, no matter how much a part of him believes he doesn’t deserve it. but her frown, the way her tail flicks as she presses snow into his wounds with such gentle care—it unravels him in ways he does not expect. there is strength in her softness, he realizes, a strength that feels so familiar it aches. it reminds him of the women in his family: his mother, more specifically. and for the first time in what feels like years, he finds himself longing—not for the past, but for a future. a future with more moments like this.

thank you, snowbird, he says at last. he does not wait for her to bid him to rise; he does so slowly, carefully, the ache in his body secondary to the pull he feels toward her. he steps closer to her and cups his neck around hers. the embrace is firm, his broad frame enveloping hers as if to shield her from the very world she so willingly seeks to protect him from. his nose presses into the soft fur at the back of her neck, and for a moment, he allows himself to simply exist in her presence. when you’re near, i do not hurt, he says finally, stifling a laugh from how ridiculous he feels to share such a sentiment. she has become to mean much to him in such a short time. she has not only tended to his injuries but has also begun to soothe something far deeper, something he didn’t even know needed healing. and in this moment, with her warmth against him and her scent filling his senses, tvar feels—however briefly—that he is no longer a man chasing shadows.

he is simply a man, standing in the light of someone who sees him, and that is enough.