Moonstone Quarry after the snow

his chest was tighter, leaner, wrapped in the scent of places beyond the vale— lichened stone, moss-heavy groves, smoke of natural northern fires. but he bore gifts, and they were many: pelted bundles of dried fish, pine-wrapped parcels of mushrooms, lengths of caribou hide bundled with care.
to each he would give what he could.
to ezra, who met him first: a short nod of apology, and then the fish. for you, he said lowly.
to anoana: a string of glossy riverroot swine, hastily knotted. he did not answer her question— not with words— but the ache in his gold-blue eyes might have been reply enough. peace was not found. it was made. he was trying.
to kinusi, whose judgment flamed from afar: a white hare pelt, soft as contrition. he placed it gently by a stone where she might see it, but not him.
and for fleur—
he turned to her last.
the world sharpened.
the sun carved down the hollow of his spine and his legs locked in place, head held low. she had not run to him. she did not need to. he saw her— truly saw her, as he always had. something frayed inside him at the sight of her, something humbled, something afraid.
he set down the final pelt— caribou, white, his own. a symbol of his absence. a mark of return.
forneskja does not live in me alone, solharr said, voice like old bark, cracked but standing. i went to bring back more than meat. more than skin. i bring what i can. and if that is not enough… his gaze met fleur’s, unwavering now, i will earn your steps again. one by one.
then, to them all, he bowed. jaw near the earth, chest brushing the stone. a wolf made of mountain. a chieftain, returned.