Bearclaw Valley saw death on a sunny snow

for @Tvar !! set after this thread

me and tvar, cole had said, and so now the polar-cub found herself tracking down another blood scent, one that, this time, she believed belonged to the storm cloud. tvar? she called, hoping to pin-point the man. though, when she turned her head to scan her sights, a swath of dark fur sat only a few ways away. still, he was returning to the valley, and nanuralaaq was here to intercept. to help.

she approached him, now, instructing him to lay with a flick of her tail. coyotes got you, too? the woman teased, shaking her head in faux disappointment. she would move to side near his wounds, already gathering the soft, top-layer of snow. there was a skirmish ; cole told me. how are you feeling? he had dry blood upon his pelt, too, and so she would begin to work the snow into his pelt. gentle paws moving within his fur.

tvar stops in his tracks at the sound of her voice, his tired frame pausing as rala’s pale form draws closer. his blue eyes flick toward her, taking in the concern etched into her features, though her teasing tone draws a faint huff of amusement from him. persistent little bastards. they got a few good snaps in. he confirms with a tilt of his chin, letting his eyes drop to scan her face.

you don't need to fuss over me, rala. he says to her gently, holding her in affectionate reserve. but though his pride made him hesitate, there’s no argument now. he sinks down slowly, the snow cold against his underside, the weariness in his body a collection of tense muscles and sore skin. he cannot help but indulge in her ministrations. shifting so that she might easier access his wounded side, splaying out long, thick legs where they won't impede her.

his muscles twitch beneath her touch.

i’m fine, snowbird, he says, glancing up at her with a warm smile, one he doesn't wear often—one only for her. without asking, he leans his face up to brush to hers. inhaling her scent, as if it is the last time he might be washed in it. letting his nose scathe gently through the soft, white plush of her cheek. cole probably made it sound worse than it was. a light jest, because he knows cole doesn't ever mince words. isn't the kind of man to exaggerate.

but… thank you. for this.

she works, toiling, almost, to massage the crusted coyote-blood from his thick pelt. the moisture that lingered within the snow was what made it so useful, and she rather the man beneath her rest before he went to take a trip to the lake for a bath. if i do not fuss over you, who will? arctic lass smiled, a short breath leaving her dark lips.

the snowwoman gave a sigh as he breathed in her scent, leaning into his touch.

it is all i can do for you, nanuralaaq replied to his thanks. lest i punish the other coyotes. but you already did that, did you not? curious. he did not seem the type to let anyone or anything get away, but he did not necessarily seem to partake in mindless violence, either. a flick of her tail marked a silent curiosity, though she would not question further, instead focusing on packing a layer of snow onto his wounds.

she would give the same explanation she had with cole, the words leaving her maw in melodic cadence, as if practice, refined: snow on the wounds will prevent inflammation, rala begun. keeps them cool ; acts as a barrier between skin and airbone disease. moisture in snow removes the dry blood. reapplied two more times from now, and then wash in the lake. in a few days, you should be better.

the snowbird was careful, now, as she pressed against his wounds.

a frown crossed her face. i hate seeing you hurt.

when she speaks, her voice carries like a northern hymn. for a man forged in the cold crucible of survival, moments like this—gentle, intentional, undeserved—feel foreign, like a language he’s still learning to understand. many of them died, he says finally, avoiding her gaze, in fear she may look into his eyes and see a bloodletting monster. his gaze drifts to the bloodstained snow, his breath visible in the crisp air. it was not my want to kill them. they were hungry. desperate. he pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, as if the admission costs him something. but hunger makes even the smallest creatures dangerous. and to protect this land... to protect bearclaw... it had to be done.

there were women within bearclaw. women, and children. children of the rex and regina, and children of @Nephele. guilt would not be his greatest shame if something were to happen to any of them under his watch.

við skulum verja land okkar með blóði, jafnvel þegar hungur krefst þess. the words are low, somber. he inhales a long draw of breath, which billows quietly back out through nostril and jaw, visible upon the cold nip of the winter's forge. it means, 'we defend our land with blood, even when hunger demands it.' his gaze remains fixed on hers, searching for understanding, for the connection he feels every time she looks at him as though she can see past the scars, past the stoicism, to the man beneath.

her words pierce through the barriers he keeps so carefully constructed. he watches her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her face, her pale fur catching the faint light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. it’s a stark contrast to the bloodied, battered mess of himself that she so willingly tends to. tvar feels unworthy of such kindness. you shouldn’t waste your care on me, snowbird, he murmurs, though the words lack conviction. he knows, deep down, that she will do as she pleases. and he knows, too, that her care is not something he can turn away from, no matter how much a part of him believes he doesn’t deserve it. but her frown, the way her tail flicks as she presses snow into his wounds with such gentle care—it unravels him in ways he does not expect. there is strength in her softness, he realizes, a strength that feels so familiar it aches. it reminds him of the women in his family: his mother, more specifically. and for the first time in what feels like years, he finds himself longing—not for the past, but for a future. a future with more moments like this.

thank you, snowbird, he says at last. he does not wait for her to bid him to rise; he does so slowly, carefully, the ache in his body secondary to the pull he feels toward her. he steps closer to her and cups his neck around hers. the embrace is firm, his broad frame enveloping hers as if to shield her from the very world she so willingly seeks to protect him from. his nose presses into the soft fur at the back of her neck, and for a moment, he allows himself to simply exist in her presence. when you’re near, i do not hurt, he says finally, stifling a laugh from how ridiculous he feels to share such a sentiment. she has become to mean much to him in such a short time. she has not only tended to his injuries but has also begun to soothe something far deeper, something he didn’t even know needed healing. and in this moment, with her warmth against him and her scent filling his senses, tvar feels—however briefly—that he is no longer a man chasing shadows.

he is simply a man, standing in the light of someone who sees him, and that is enough.

he has my heart ;;

we defend our land with blood, even when hunger demands it.
a sense of familiarity.

when you’re near, i do not hurt.
an echoing pain, for she can not give him what he wants. what he needs.

nanuralaaq allowed herself the luxury of melting into his touch, resting her cheek upon his shoulder, careful not to put too much pressure on him, should she worsen his wounds. should she make him hurt. rala was afraid to do such a thing - to make a choice. to tell how she felt, to hurt him. instead, she stood in silence, allowing the warmth of their skins to mingle, to touch, to share something that words may not truly encompass.

he reminds her of men she had known. her father, her betrothed, and a man of these lands who had deemed her 'star-girl'. protective, brave like her father, dark like her betrothed, strong, intimidating like the man. a touch that she wished not to push away, that she longed to savour, to enjoy, pushing into his pelt with a need to be close. she drinks in his fur with a greed, a selfishness that she could never explain to him. a want that he could not understand. ungasikkaluaruvit, tarnira piqatiginiaqpagit.

melodic voice is a murmur. even when you are far away, she drew in a breath, as if it were a prophecy she had seen, a pain in her heart that told her that when she made her choice, tvar may not stick around. a sigh then left her lips, as she planted a greedy kiss upon his neck ; the first and the last. a taste of something she could never quite have. my spirit will be with you, and yet, the tone was melancholy, as if this were some sort of goodbye, though she wished it not to be so. they had hardly been around eachother for very long, and yet it felt that they were entwined. always.

the care that she held towards the storm cloud made little sense to her.
instead, she looked up at him, watching him, searching his expression, his eyes.

snowwoman stepped away, then, lowering her head.
how do your injuries feel?

her kiss, fleeting but fervent, burns against his neck even as the cold wind licks it away. he does not move to stop her as she steps back, though every instinct in his body screams for him to pull her close, to hold her until the uncertainty in her voice is gone. but he cannot. not when he knows, deep down, that her heart is torn in two directions, and he may not be the one it chooses. his gaze lingers on her and the storm within him veiled behind eyes that search hers for answers. she looks down, and he wonders if she can feel the same ache that throbs in his chest. her words haunt him—even when you are far away, my spirit will be with you. they sound like a promise, but they feel like a farewell.

he exhales sharply, a quiet huff of breath that clouds the air between them. if you’ve made your choice, rala, he begins, tell me. say the word, and i’ll step aside. his head dips slightly, almost a bow, as though to emphasize the sincerity of his offer. dolce can have your heart, if that’s where it belongs. i won’t fight him for it. i won’t fight you for it. the words taste bitter on his tongue, but he forces them out because he knows she deserves honesty. because he knows that if he pushes, if he tries to claim her, it will only drive her further away. he straightens slightly, though his muscles burn with resolve as he awaits her answer.

but if you’re not sure—if there’s a chance, even the smallest chance, that i could be the one you choose—then tell me that too. let me stay. he lets his gaze drift back to hers, the weight of his confession heavy in the space between them. i’ll wait, if you need me to. i’ll give you the time to decide. he finally addresses her question, though his voice is quieter now, almost an afterthought. my injuries don’t matter, not compared to this. the sting of the coyotes’ bites and scratches is nothing against the sharp pain of standing before her with his heart exposed and knowing it might not be enough.

and he was so kind.

and she was so selfish in what she longed for.

dolce can have your heart, if that’s where it belongs, but it belonged to them both. to have them near, the two of them, to mend them and laugh with them and hunt with them. to fight side by side, to rest and to possibly love the both of them. just the thought of it made her heart yearn for something she could not have. a care that extended far.

a chance, he said. and there was. there were many chances. there was a chance that, on their hunt, she changed her mind and turned her attention fully to him. there was a chance that, on the first day of meeting dolce, she had never parted from him and the storm cloud had never drawn her curiosities. she was silent, now, her head hung low, the girl that was unabashed, open with her words, that did not care for what anyone thought of her, now ashamed. wishing for something impossible. something they did not want.

nanuralaaq did not love easily. she hardly loved dolce or tvar, but it was this choice that would have to be made if she wanted to learn how to love. to be taught, maybe. the snowwoman gave a breath. she was sure. i am selfish, in wanting what i do, she said, then, looking up at tvar with a pain in her eyes. how feelings could grow in such a short time - it was hardly romance. but was it something less? something... more? i want you both. i want to care for both you and dolce, to hunt together, to be as one... together, she looked away, then, afraid of what he might say. she closed her eyes.

but that is not what either of you want, she murmured. it was with a dry laugh that followed her next words, a pain that tore her heart in two: how am i to choose?

he understands selfishness. he’s carried it himself, in the long nights where thoughts of rala consumed him, in the quiet moments where her scent lingered on the snow and his heart clenched tighter than it should. he knows what it is to want, to yearn for something that may never be yours. and yet, to hear her voice it so openly—to admit to wanting him and dolce both—stirs something deeper within him. not anger, not even jealousy. just… ache.

you want us both, he says softly, the words rolling off his tongue with a solemn weight. his voice is steady, but there’s a quiet edge to it, a faint tremor of something unsaid. rala, he murmurs, her name slipping from his lips like a prayer.

he pauses, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. his voice drops lower, rougher. but i won’t share your heart with another. i can’t. it’s not in me. maybe that makes me selfish too. i don’t know. but i’ll tell you this: if you choose me, i’ll stand by your side, through whatever comes. i’ll give you all of me, if you’ll have it. but only if you’re sure.

he steps back then, just enough to give her space, though his gaze never leaves hers. he can see the weight of the decision tearing at her, can feel the tension crackling like frost between them. he knows this isn’t easy. it isn’t easy for him, either. but he cannot bear the thought of being half a man in her eyes. not when he knows what it is to want her wholly, and to be wanted wholly in return.

you don’t have to choose right now, he says, his voice quieter, though no less firm. but when you do, know that i’ll respect it. whatever it is. even if it’s not me. with that, he turns. black paws thudding against the snow, leading him elsewhere. where, he does not know. but away from rala.

exit tvar

what if i told you i'm crying .. sobbing, even .. weeping ...

the snowwoman knew that tvar was not selfish for wanting to be loved wholly. if she had them both, could she even promise that she would love them equally? in the same way? he moves away from her, then, and she meets his gaze quickly. the pain within his bright, blue eyes, within his heart ... it is palpable, just as hers is. tvar, she murmured, wishing for him not to go, and yet he had already turned. already, she had pushed him away.

and so with wide, dawn-hued eyes nanuralaaq watched him go, as if tethered to the ground beneath her. she stayed until he was a swath of fur, until he was merely a dot on the horizon. she stayed until he was long gone and until the sun begun to rest its weary head. when the crickets came out to sing, the snowwoman stood, too, and headed towards the meadow, where she would sleep under the stars ; thinking cruel thoughts.

she would stay there as the thoughts spun in her head. and she would stay there until dawn came, until she would fetch herself something to eat and head back to her den, avoiding any possible sight or scent of her ... the storm cloud, for the next coming days.