If there was but one thing that had pleased him thus far that Týrr could say about rejoining the Glacier was that he had managed to earn his long sought after Chronicler trade fairly quickly, as to which he could accredit to no one but himself so in the long run it truly had nothing to do with anyone else, aside from those that had helped him to achieve it by listening to the short story that he had to tell. He might be missing some parts of the Glacier's history — only the pieces that he was not there for — but he had been there at the grand beginning of it all. Though some might see his loyalty as questionable, he knew where his true loyalties lie. Of course the Glacier was his home, of that there was no dispute. He would not call anywhere else home, he wouldn't dare. It was where he belonged — whomever he was. This cross between Tezcacoatl and Týrr; this mixture of Amazon and Viking. Two cultures that were probably never met to mix cohabited him and worked together ...rather peacefully. The result? He did not know yet. He only knew that he was not the same teenager he'd been months ago. He was different, felt different. A man made anew. His identity crises was less of a crises now and more of an annoyance for it remained a struggle especially as he discovered himself. Who he was. The man he was rapidly becoming. Whatever remained of the prim and proper Prince cringed at the adaptation of feralness he'd taken to, exotic and savage, but his mind would not be swayed. It was Tuwawi's rule he would follow, or no one's. The Glacier belonged to her — to the Sveijarns. Not Malachi — though admittedly the other male's joy at seeing him had been enough to derail Týrr for a short number of days. He had not expected that sort of welcome and having been taken off his guard it had, admittedly, taken some time for him to shake it off and find his resolve once more.
During this time Týrr, despite his previous intentions, secluded himself, patching up his bachelor den, contemplating all that Malachi and Manauia had told him, replaying their conversations and taking what he deemed as important from them; focusing upon hunting for the pack, using the days wiled away tracking to refocus. He had meant to seek out Tuwawi as soon as possible, but for aforementioned reasons resigned from seeking out the pack's true monarch. Even so, he had not intended to seek her out this day, but he had caught her scent as he was out and about collecting trinkets — bones and furs, namely — for his den and had subconsciously altered his course so that he was quickly closing the distance between her and he. Crystalline gaze caught her, her fire kissed form like a brilliant and breathtaking comet among the landscape around them — a fortress of barrenness, the stark of winter blanketed with snow; the Rekkr's breath caught for a sheer moment before he chased the childish tendencies of a boyhood crush away. He was no longer a boy and Tuwawi, well, she was a Queen. Besides, as far as he was aware she still considered Njal her mate despite that the man had left and, as far as Týrr was aware: no longer around.
He was not yet so ruthless as to point such a potentially painful thing out, so instead for the moment he yearned for nothing more than to be her faithful. A faithful subordinate, because that was what he was. Tuwawi,
The Rekkr breathed, breaking the silence. He did not fail to notice the strange thing around her neck, but his gaze did not linger there. It was certainly odd but it did not frighten him and he would not allow it to cloud his judgment of her. Simply: he did not care. His steps had ceased the moment he'd laid eyes upon her, and still he stood, assuming that it would be for the best.
a crime so old as the sky and bone