Porcupine Ridge ◊◊;

geirmundr felt it in the way her steps faltered—no longer sharp with purpose, but dulled by the weight in her limbs, the staggered rhythm of someone pushing far past her limit. her breath was too loud now. even the soft scrape of her paws across stone sang of exhaustion.
he said nothing. just veered off the ridge trail, moving with the slow certainty of one who had walked mountains his whole life. a stream hissed quietly through the rocks below, narrow and clean, tucked beneath a ledge heavy with snowmelt. he lowered his head to drink, letting the cold water brace the heat in his bones.
then he turned to her—just enough.
hvíl.
words carrying with it not demand, but care wrapped in stone.
he did not offer to help her down.
only gave space.
and water.
and a place where she could fall apart if she needed to, with no eyes judging the pieces.