Porcupine Ridge ◊◊;

geirmundr stood midstream, legs braced, the water coursing around him in fast, silver ribbons. the cold bit into his limbs, but he welcomed it—it sharpened the senses, steadied the breath. he moved like a boulder with purpose, unyielding but alert, ears flicking as a flash darted beneath the surface.
then, motion—swift, precise. his head dipped, jaws cutting clean through the rippling mirror of the water. he surfaced with a trout writhing between his teeth, its scales flashing like coins in the dusk.
he turned toward the bank where she foraged, watched her briefly—two berries, two roots. everything in pairs. ritual, maybe. or habit.
he said nothing, only trudged out of the stream, water streaming off his dense coat. he dropped the fish near her paws without ceremony, its life already fleeing in spasms.
he did not speak.
but his eyes met hers.
see?
hunter. provider.
not burden.
then, with a grunt, he turned back to the stream for another.
there would be two.
for her. and for him.
that seemed right.