Dawnlark Plains ᛁᛚᛚᛏᛁᛋᚾᚨ

her breath came sharp, chest tight beneath the weight of his shove. the dirt was cold against her back, but his heat—his nearness—burned through her like wildfire.
she stared up at him, stunned in a way battle had never wrung from her.
the world had narrowed to the press of his body against her heaving chest, the scent of blood between them, and the way her name had rolled on his tongue—familiar, reverent, disbelieving. 
"það er ég." she whispered, silvermoon gaze unblinking, for fear if she did, he'd disappear. silence stretched, and her paw laid flat against his collar, "þú fórst frá Hrǫkkhǫfða."