Duck Lake what have they done to us?

she accepts his touch, but it is not without it's own glimmer of pain. this is no time for lust, for seduction, for intimacy. it is a time for respite, for grief that even they have no answer to. when her nose turns to press to his, he meets the touch; and lowers his black crown to press to her raven.

his words are grizzled now, compressed with the weight of his pain. pain to see her like this; and pain that he cannot take away hers. he can only do his best to be there to catch her, if she is to fall. he speaks, warm, breath on breath: dauði engra manns kemur auðveldur.

of course, it could never bother him. there was not a thing that she could do, that would ever be disgraceful in the eyes of the northman. he steals the words from her mouth with a kiss, fervent, not made from desire but from desperation. desperate that she see the extent of his passion for her. a paw splits the lake that tranquils around them to raise to her face, to cup cheek lovingly.

ég myndi ganga með þér í þessu lífi og inn í það næsta. ekkert gat snúið mér frá þinni hlið.

he seeks to look in her eyes. to have her look into his, and see his truth as it bleeds. his grip upon her cheek, her face, tightens. it intensifies. it is grounding, meant to tether her to this world so that she may never leave him. his face moves from hers, to tuck his neck around hers. to breathe in the ice of her scent, from the source of her scruff; to anchor her against him.

he breathes: þú gafst brjálæðingi hans frið. iðrunin var hans ein að bera — ekki þín.