Mount Apikuni ◊◊◊;

geirmundr did not stop.
her fists struck, her claws found skin—he bled—but he grunted only once, deep and rough, more breath than pain. the blood trickled down his shoulder, warm against the cold bite of the mountain air, but it did not slow him. she did not slow him.
her cries—sharp, fierce, terrified—rose against the wind like thrown stones. but he bore them without response, the weight of her across his back no heavier than the countless burdens he'd carried before. his paws moved with relentless precision, anchoring to the mountain’s broken face, step by careful step. shale slipped beneath him. the slope turned cruel, jagged. still, he climbed.
only when they reached the peak—when the breath of the world stretched vast and thin around them—did he halt.
geirmundr lowered himself to his haunches, gently but without flourish, and let her slide free onto the flattened stone. then, and only then, did he look at her—shoulders rising and falling with effort, blood still fresh across one.
his eyes were unreadable.
not angry.
not wounded.