Duck Lake The last of kings

for @Gjalla

The air was still, save for the faint ripple of wind that teased the surface of the lake, sending shivers of motion through its otherwise glassy reflection.

Tvar stood at the water’s edge, his dark fur thick with frost, his breath visible in the cold air. His sharp blue eyes bore down into the reflection staring back at him—a wolf he recognized only in fragments.

The longer he glared, the less the face seemed to belong to him. His ears flicked back, and his lips curled faintly as if to snarl at his own shadow, but no sound escaped him.

Then, the scent came. Tvar froze, his eyes widening slightly as the air shifted around him. The smell consumed him, sending a jolt through his body that left his muscles taut and his fur prickling. It was familiar in a way that made his heart lurch, but maddeningly out of reach.

The crunch of snow beneath deliberate steps broke the silence, a slow and steady rhythm. Gjalla emerged from the shadows of the treeline, obsidian-blue fur catching the pale light like the edge of a blade. She paused, her gaze narrowing as she took in the figure by the lake—a figure she knew instantly, though his name caught in her throat like an ember too hot to voice.

Her steps slowed as she drew closer, the scent of him sharp and potent in the frigid air. It struck her with a visceral force, a torrent of emotions she had long since trained herself to bury. But here, now, with his frame silhouetted against the lake, those emotions surfaced like ghosts.

Her stomach tightened, a mix of recognition and uncertainty twisting together like strands of frayed rope.

She stopped a few paces behind him, her tail still, her posture upright but not aggressive. Her eyes, however, were searing, as though they could pierce the fog that hung between them.  “Vahaelarr?”

Tvar—Vahaelarr—froze.

The name struck him like a thunderclap, reverberating through his very chest, electrifying the heart within his ribcage. Round ears twitched, the sound of the voice pulling at him, something raw and jagged. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, the lake's icy surface reflecting a distorted image of a wolf caught between the present and a past he’d long forgotten.

Slowly, he turned, eyes snapping to the figure behind him. She was a ghost. A thousand fragmented memories stirred, disjointed and chaotic, but one thing rang clear: he knew her.

“Gjalla...” The name slipped from his mouth unbidden, but undeniably hers.

As though bid by the cold winter winds that lapped at his backside, stirring him forth, he took a hesitant step towards her.

“What- how—...” His words faltered as the memories clawed their way to the surface, pieces falling into place like shards of broken glass.

His family. The betrayal. The exile.

Renewal. Faust. Auravyr.

Then...

Gjalla.

Gjalla’s breath caught as he spoke her name. It struck her like a physical blow, a flicker of something too sharp to name rushing through her chest. For a fleeting moment, she almost reached out, her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

The sound of him—his voice, so familiar, so foreign—brought the world to a standstill. The syllables rolled from his tongue as if they belonged there, as if no time had passed since she last heard them. But the hesitation in his voice, the fractured way he stumbled over his words—it made her pause. 

Her heart pounded louder than the wind, and her eyes never left his as he took that uncertain step forward. Her brow twitched, eyes gleaming with what she knew only as discontent.

She let the silence stretch between them, thick with the weight of shared history and the chasm of time that had pulled them apart. It wasn’t anger that swelled in her chest, nor sadness, but something far more complex—an aching kind of relief mixed with a frustration she hadn’t known how to voice.

The Vahaelarr she had known had been fire and fury, pride and conviction. This wolf before her—his hesitation, his expression—he was something else entirely, and she didn’t know whether to trust it.

And so, she faltered for the first time. The sharpness of her face wavered before it returned with a growl. "What are you doing here?"

Tvar's expression softened, the tension in his frame ebbing slightly as he regarded her. Her presence was overwhelming, stirring emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in what felt like lifetimes. Seeing her now, after everything, felt surreal, and for a moment, words failed him.

He faltered. Once, he'd been strong. Now, he was weak. A weak man.

“Gjalla,” her name was soft upon his otherwise gravelly voice, for he couldn't utter her name harshly. Her growl fell on unflinching shoulders. Instead, his stare warmed as he took a tentative step toward her, his movements careful, as though afraid she might vanish if he came too close. Most of all, he didn't want to cause her any offense.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he voiced, ears flicking nervously. He avoided her question, danced around it, eyes flickering between hers and the teeth barely visible beneath her quivering lips. Accusation stabbed him as she stared through him. "Not after..."

She ran away.

He paused, swallowing the bile that scorched the back of his throat like acid. He shook his head, a laugh of disbelief bubbling from a thick jaw. “I wish I knew.” finally, he replied. “I shouldn't be here," He trailed off, taking another few steps towards her, his tail swishing calmly between thick hocks. "But if I’d known you’d be here... I would’ve searched sooner."

Tvar’s gaze flickered over her, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of her face. She was still Gjalla—strong, unyielding, beautiful in a way that had always left him breathless. Yet, there was something different about her now, something guarded. He couldn’t blame her for that.

“You look well,” he added softly, his voice almost hesitant, as if unsure whether the words would reach her or push her further away. A frown came to his face.

Then, his dialect shifted. A rumbling of accented speech only for her. Gōntan ao find skoros ao istan jurnegēre syt? Iksos bisa ziry?

Gjalla’s ears flicked at the sound of the old tongue, the familiar syllables rolling off his tongue with a reverence that made her chest tighten. Her hackles, already raised in anticipation of a fight, bristled further—not from fear, but from the conflict raging within her.

Her gaze didn’t waver, even as her heart betrayed her with its uneven rhythm. The warmth in his eyes, the tentative way he stepped closer—she hated that it disarmed her. It was a cruelty she hadn’t prepared for, to feel this raw, this exposed, after so long.

“I didn't want you to,” Her voice was softer than she intended, though not without an edge of defensiveness. A pang of pity rolled through the cavern of her chest, remorse. There was something in the way he looked at her, something almost... lost. "I still don't." The distance had been better.

Her gaze softened briefly at the comment, but only for a moment before her walls slammed back up. She didn’t let herself smile, didn’t let herself acknowledge the way his words tugged at something deep within her. Her tail lashed once behind her, betraying her restlessness, her indecision. "Nyke kelitan jurnegēre syt bona bōsa ago."

"Things have changed. I’m not the same," she said flatly, "and neither are you, it seems." Her voice had an edge now, a cool, unyielding edge that kept her standing tall. "Do you even remember what happened?" she spat, "Why I left?"

Tvar’s head tilted slightly at her words, his gaze narrowing as the sharpness of her tone cut through the frigid air.

There was something in her voice that stung—disappointment, perhaps, or a challenge he wasn’t sure he could meet. He didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a crack in his composed exterior.

“I don’t,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low, almost reluctant. “Not all of it. It’s like trying to grasp smoke—every time I think I have it, it slips away.” He exhaled, his breath misting in the cold air as he searched her face, looking for something familiar, something grounding.

“But I remember you, Gjalla. I remember—”

“You left,” he murmured, “I don’t, I don't remember. You speak as if I don't deserve to know. But... I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.”

His tail twitched behind him, betraying the restless energy he felt.

“You’re right—I’ve changed. I barely know who I am anymore. But I know what you meant to me...” His voice faltered slightly. The picture of a man fragmented and scattered.

Dohaeragon issa shifang.

Gjalla’s chest tightened at his confession, the rawness in his tone wrapping around her heart like a vice. She should have been unmoved—she’d told herself as much when she walked away. But hearing him admit he couldn’t remember, that the pieces of their past had slipped from his grasp, was a blow she hadn’t anticipated.

Her ears flattened against her skull, and her glare softened for just a moment. She looked at him—truly looked at him—and saw the cracks beneath the surface, the vulnerability he wore like an ill-fitting cloak. She watched him, studied him, as if every shift of his gaze, every crack in his voice, was another piece of a puzzle she no longer wanted to solve.

“What do you remember?” Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but there was a tightness at the edges, a faint waver she cursed herself for. She let out a slow, measured breath, as if steadying herself while he spoke, relayed the last fragments of his memory all for her to crush them to dust beneath her foot.

Her voice softened then, just barely, and she took a step closer, though the space between them still felt insurmountable. “What we had... it wasn’t what you think. I didn’t leave because of you. I left because of me.”

“I wasn’t ready. For you. I didn’t want to be tied to something I couldn’t fully give myself to. And I couldn’t pretend that I loved you the way you loved me.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed on, unwilling to let herself falter now. “I was your friend. That’s all I ever wanted to be.” Ever would be. The words were harsh, but there was no cruelty in them. If anything, they carried a quiet sort of pity, a sadness she didn’t know how to fully articulate.

Tvar stood there, his broad frame still as her words washed over him.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t falter—he simply absorbed the weight of her confession in silence. His icy blue eyes remained fixed on her for a moment longer, studying her face as if searching for something he might never find.

There was no anger in his gaze, no bitterness.

Just quiet acceptance.

He inhaled deeply, the cold air biting at his lungs, and gave the faintest nod. “I understand.” he said, his voice steady but devoid of the warmth he might have once carried for her.

It wasn’t curt, nor cruel—just final.

"Goodbye, Gjalla." The smile he offered didn't quite reach his eyes. "It was... good to see you."

Without another word, Tvar turned away, paws pressing into the snow and carrying him away without a glance back.