Whitebark Stream crawling back to you

the raven’s wings beat against the air, a sharp, feathered intrusion. it swoops low, its beak grazing the edge of her ear, a nip that is more insolence than malice.
then comes the shadow behind it. she does not turn immediately. she knows him before he speaks. before ruby-fire eyes cut through her back. before his heatless burn smolders against her periphery.
when she does turn, it is slow, deliberate, the measured motion of something not afraid—beyond fear and feeling. her gaze meets his without flinch or falter. 
"is that you, kolfinnr?" she would not give him the honor of his given name. not from her tongue. her voice is a dagger drawn slow from its sheath. ready, but not reckless. it is restrained only by the thin veneer of civility she grants like a coin tossed to a beggar. it carries none of his fire, none of his barely leashed fury—only tired cold.
the water clings to her as she emerges, cascading down the curves of her body in silvered rivulets. glistening glass beads on her chest and hips.
she tilts her head, studying him as one might an old wound, long since scarred over, "i knew you, once." she says, her lilt carrying the weight of a distant past neither of them seemed to want to escape. it always came back to this, somehow. always by him.
"and i know you lie poorly." her voice quiets, but it is not weak.