the air still reeked of blood. she did, too. it clings to her, thick and metallic, woven into the tangled mess of her fur. the storm of battle has passed, but the remnants cling—blood dried and dark against raven fur, the coppery stench thick in her nostrils.
gjalla exhales sharply, watching her breath cloud before her. it does nothing to rid her of the filth that clings to her. stark’s blood, his scent. it is on her, in her, beneath her claws and in the hollow of her throat where she had torn him apart. even now, with his severed head, she can feel the phantom weight of him. her body aches, muscles tender, the fire in her veins extinguished temporarily.
disgust churns in her gut. saatine is closer, now, and before she steps foot within its bounds, before she stands before her people with stark’s death as her victory—she must be rid of him.
she steps into the shallows, the shock of cold biting into her limbs. it seeps through her fur, but she welcomes it. it runs dark as she sinks in, the filth of the day’s work peeling away in slow, red tendrils. she scrubs at her chest, at her face, claws dragging fur and flesh as if she could dig his presence from her very bones.
. . .
she wonders how they will be received. with reverence? relief? fear? it does not matter. it would not undo his death.
gjalla exhales sharply, watching her breath cloud before her. it does nothing to rid her of the filth that clings to her. stark’s blood, his scent. it is on her, in her, beneath her claws and in the hollow of her throat where she had torn him apart. even now, with his severed head, she can feel the phantom weight of him. her body aches, muscles tender, the fire in her veins extinguished temporarily.
disgust churns in her gut. saatine is closer, now, and before she steps foot within its bounds, before she stands before her people with stark’s death as her victory—she must be rid of him.
she steps into the shallows, the shock of cold biting into her limbs. it seeps through her fur, but she welcomes it. it runs dark as she sinks in, the filth of the day’s work peeling away in slow, red tendrils. she scrubs at her chest, at her face, claws dragging fur and flesh as if she could dig his presence from her very bones.
. . .
she wonders how they will be received. with reverence? relief? fear? it does not matter. it would not undo his death.
for @Blackfell
January 28, 2025, 11:27 PM
(This post was last modified: January 28, 2025, 11:27 PM by Blackfell.)
he is a shadow lurking in the woods surrounding. crimson eyes peeling through the hanging, dead foliage, piercing through the darkness and settling upon her. in the distance, she loiters upon the bank of the lake.
she had stolen away in the night, and it was not long before he'd noticed her absence.
he comes from the chill of the night, stepping past the treeline and into the open space surrounding the centerpiece lake. the moon casts her in a holy glow, framing her face, tending to her every calloused curve; his own mind is a haze of many things. now, she is the center of his tunnel vision.
she had been silent since the deed was done. blackfell had been torn; torn between leaving her to her torment, or trying to salve her wounds. the latter was chosen. paws crunching upon the icy shore the only thing to announce his presence, and he knew that she knew he was there—but periwinkle eyes never turned to look at him. she only scrubbed. washing away the baleful scent she carried.
the water ripples about his ankles, then legs, as he pushes into the cold lake water. his large frame coming to press into her side, where he hovers his mouth against the back of her head. there had been a stagnant sense of duty between the two of them since they had left saatsine. she was honed in on her pursuit of vengeance, and he had went with her, sword at her side. he was nothing if not her shield.
he finds his tongue rasping along her fur. melding through the rivulets of raven that have been stained with the ichor of a traitor. washing his scent from her, silent unless spoken to.
she had stolen away in the night, and it was not long before he'd noticed her absence.
he comes from the chill of the night, stepping past the treeline and into the open space surrounding the centerpiece lake. the moon casts her in a holy glow, framing her face, tending to her every calloused curve; his own mind is a haze of many things. now, she is the center of his tunnel vision.
she had been silent since the deed was done. blackfell had been torn; torn between leaving her to her torment, or trying to salve her wounds. the latter was chosen. paws crunching upon the icy shore the only thing to announce his presence, and he knew that she knew he was there—but periwinkle eyes never turned to look at him. she only scrubbed. washing away the baleful scent she carried.
the water ripples about his ankles, then legs, as he pushes into the cold lake water. his large frame coming to press into her side, where he hovers his mouth against the back of her head. there had been a stagnant sense of duty between the two of them since they had left saatsine. she was honed in on her pursuit of vengeance, and he had went with her, sword at her side. he was nothing if not her shield.
he finds his tongue rasping along her fur. melding through the rivulets of raven that have been stained with the ichor of a traitor. washing his scent from her, silent unless spoken to.
January 28, 2025, 11:45 PM
the water is merciless in its cold, but she does not flinch. she does not shudder. she only scrubs, desperate to tear the memory of him from her body, from her bones. the scent lingers—bile and blood, sweat.
she knows he is there before he makes a sound.
A presence like his is not one that can be ignored. He is the shadow in her periphery, the steady pressure of crimson eyes in the dark. even as he steps forward, paws crunching the brittle frost, she does not look at him. she does not need to. then, warmth.
A presence at her side, the press of fur against hers. he joins her, settles at her side, the faintest ghost of his breath stirring the wet strands at the nape of her neck. he does not speak. he does he need to.
she had been so silent since it ended. the act had not brought her peace, though it did bring satisfaction. satisfaction had not freed her from the coil of rage in her chest. but he is here. steady. unwavering. he always was.
his tongue rasps through her fur, slow and deliberate, peeling away the remnants of the night. she exhales, slow, measured, allowing herself to lean into the weight of him. the war is over. the deed is done. but he remains, washing her clean of what she no longer wishes to carry.
her eyes flit across the lake, downwind where she'd left stark's head. they focus on the lack of his, the scarlet tears she'd made him cry when she stole his last eye.
then, softly—almost too softly for the storm that lingers beneath her ribs—gjalla speaks.
"does it linger?"
she knows he is there before he makes a sound.
A presence like his is not one that can be ignored. He is the shadow in her periphery, the steady pressure of crimson eyes in the dark. even as he steps forward, paws crunching the brittle frost, she does not look at him. she does not need to. then, warmth.
A presence at her side, the press of fur against hers. he joins her, settles at her side, the faintest ghost of his breath stirring the wet strands at the nape of her neck. he does not speak. he does he need to.
she had been so silent since it ended. the act had not brought her peace, though it did bring satisfaction. satisfaction had not freed her from the coil of rage in her chest. but he is here. steady. unwavering. he always was.
his tongue rasps through her fur, slow and deliberate, peeling away the remnants of the night. she exhales, slow, measured, allowing herself to lean into the weight of him. the war is over. the deed is done. but he remains, washing her clean of what she no longer wishes to carry.
her eyes flit across the lake, downwind where she'd left stark's head. they focus on the lack of his, the scarlet tears she'd made him cry when she stole his last eye.
then, softly—almost too softly for the storm that lingers beneath her ribs—gjalla speaks.
"does it linger?"
January 28, 2025, 11:57 PM
(This post was last modified: January 28, 2025, 11:57 PM by Blackfell.)
he knows not what she addresses. what her question—does it linger?—refers to. it could be many things. the scent of him, that blackfell works tirelessly to rid her of. washing her with his tongue, nosing the cold, frigid waters of the lake upon her fur. crimson eyes dull with lack of emotion, zoned in on the efforts of his affections.
swapping the scent of a traitor with one of a lover.
soothing wash of his tongue moves from neck to throat, where the crimson is most prevalent. having poured from her jaws, down her chin, to her throat, where her fur was caked and matted. his breathing is steady as he works, paying no mind to anything but her. seeking that she feel the extent of his loyalty, his affection, his very soul, in each kiss of his mouth.
he will not stop until she is clean of what transpired.
he pauses, only long enough, to say with mouth upon the edge of her mouth:
his kiss is lingering.
no.is how he answers. and it is answer enough for whatever she might be wondering. sufficient for anything it could possibly be. because he knows her mind is a turbulent thing now; he wants her to feel nothing but peace. the distance between them is non-existent as he presses to her, circling her in his warmth, in his existence.
swapping the scent of a traitor with one of a lover.
soothing wash of his tongue moves from neck to throat, where the crimson is most prevalent. having poured from her jaws, down her chin, to her throat, where her fur was caked and matted. his breathing is steady as he works, paying no mind to anything but her. seeking that she feel the extent of his loyalty, his affection, his very soul, in each kiss of his mouth.
he will not stop until she is clean of what transpired.
he pauses, only long enough, to say with mouth upon the edge of her mouth:
við drekkjum ekki í blóði.
his kiss is lingering.
ekki leyfa draugum hans að setja keðjur á þig.
January 29, 2025, 12:33 AM
he does not ask, does not demand—he never did—he simply gives, his love an act so simple and pure it makes her ache. his tenderness makes her ache, his steadiness. each stroke removes the last remnants of one eye’s stench, but it does something else, something deeper.
she closes her eyes for a moment, her body shifting slightly to lean into him, her heart heavy with the weight of what they’ve done, of what she has become in the wake of it. peace. she craves it, but it is not a gift she has ever been granted, not truly. this moment with him feels close to it, she thinks. it lulls her, at the least.
his words hang in the air, their meaning threading through her, like a shiver down her spine. he is right. she had avenged. she had killed. but the blood of that traitor should not be allowed to bind her, to chain her to what she’s done. it should not stay inside her, nor poison her sense of self.
she was not sure, when he first approached, what she wanted from him. but his presence, his unwavering loyalty, was balm to a wound she hadn’t even realized was there. "þú horfðir á mig hálshöggva mann," she murmurs,
her throat tightens. she feels him, and somehow, even in frigid waters, she feels something like warmth. his mouth lingers at the corner of hers. for a long moment, she does not move. then she shifts, lets out a sound mixed between a sigh and a whine, presses her nose into his.
"er þér alveg sama?"
she closes her eyes for a moment, her body shifting slightly to lean into him, her heart heavy with the weight of what they’ve done, of what she has become in the wake of it. peace. she craves it, but it is not a gift she has ever been granted, not truly. this moment with him feels close to it, she thinks. it lulls her, at the least.
his words hang in the air, their meaning threading through her, like a shiver down her spine. he is right. she had avenged. she had killed. but the blood of that traitor should not be allowed to bind her, to chain her to what she’s done. it should not stay inside her, nor poison her sense of self.
she was not sure, when he first approached, what she wanted from him. but his presence, his unwavering loyalty, was balm to a wound she hadn’t even realized was there. "þú horfðir á mig hálshöggva mann," she murmurs,
her throat tightens. she feels him, and somehow, even in frigid waters, she feels something like warmth. his mouth lingers at the corner of hers. for a long moment, she does not move. then she shifts, lets out a sound mixed between a sigh and a whine, presses her nose into his.
"er þér alveg sama?"
January 29, 2025, 01:32 AM
she accepts his touch, but it is not without it's own glimmer of pain. this is no time for lust, for seduction, for intimacy. it is a time for respite, for grief that even they have no answer to. when her nose turns to press to his, he meets the touch; and lowers his black crown to press to her raven.
his words are grizzled now, compressed with the weight of his pain. pain to see her like this; and pain that he cannot take away hers. he can only do his best to be there to catch her, if she is to fall. he speaks, warm, breath on breath:
of course, it could never bother him. there was not a thing that she could do, that would ever be disgraceful in the eyes of the northman. he steals the words from her mouth with a kiss, fervent, not made from desire but from desperation. desperate that she see the extent of his passion for her. a paw splits the lake that tranquils around them to raise to her face, to cup cheek lovingly.
he seeks to look in her eyes. to have her look into his, and see his truth as it bleeds. his grip upon her cheek, her face, tightens. it intensifies. it is grounding, meant to tether her to this world so that she may never leave him. his face moves from hers, to tuck his neck around hers. to breathe in the ice of her scent, from the source of her scruff; to anchor her against him.
he breathes:
his words are grizzled now, compressed with the weight of his pain. pain to see her like this; and pain that he cannot take away hers. he can only do his best to be there to catch her, if she is to fall. he speaks, warm, breath on breath:
dauði engra manns kemur auðveldur.
of course, it could never bother him. there was not a thing that she could do, that would ever be disgraceful in the eyes of the northman. he steals the words from her mouth with a kiss, fervent, not made from desire but from desperation. desperate that she see the extent of his passion for her. a paw splits the lake that tranquils around them to raise to her face, to cup cheek lovingly.
ég myndi ganga með þér í þessu lífi og inn í það næsta. ekkert gat snúið mér frá þinni hlið.
he seeks to look in her eyes. to have her look into his, and see his truth as it bleeds. his grip upon her cheek, her face, tightens. it intensifies. it is grounding, meant to tether her to this world so that she may never leave him. his face moves from hers, to tuck his neck around hers. to breathe in the ice of her scent, from the source of her scruff; to anchor her against him.
he breathes:
þú gafst brjálæðingi hans frið. iðrunin var hans ein að bera — ekki þín.
January 29, 2025, 06:59 PM
her breath trembles against his, but she does not pull away. she should. she should recoil from his closeness, from the weight of his words, from the tenderness she does not feel she deserves. and yet—she does not.
he lowers his crown to hers, black to raven, shadow to shadow, and she lets it happen. lets him hold her, lets the warmth of him press against the cold that still lingers beneath her skin.
he is right once more. death doesn't come easy, not for the living, nor the dying. not for her, who has carved a path in its name, nor for him, who watches her do so and does not flinch.
and does not flinch. that was the part that surprised her. it was startle most people, surely, make many run for the hills. but not him, never him.
the kiss he steals is not soft, not coaxing, not sweet. it is something raw, stripped bare, desperate and clawing and fierce. a plea as much as a vow, and she takes it, takes it all, because he gives it freely, unconditionally. she is selfish for it, she does not deserve it.
she is drowning, but not in blood. drowning in him, in the press of his paw against her cheek, the grip that tightens, the force of his devotion doubling down only to reassure her, soothe her. suffocating her with love, with loyalty, with something she cannot name and does not know how to bear.
he tucks her against him, and she lets him. he speaks, and she listens.
"ég myndi ganga með þér í þessu lífi og inn í það næsta. ekkert gat snúið mér frá þinni hlið."
"gott." she breathes, "vertu hjá mér."
he lowers his crown to hers, black to raven, shadow to shadow, and she lets it happen. lets him hold her, lets the warmth of him press against the cold that still lingers beneath her skin.
he is right once more. death doesn't come easy, not for the living, nor the dying. not for her, who has carved a path in its name, nor for him, who watches her do so and does not flinch.
and does not flinch. that was the part that surprised her. it was startle most people, surely, make many run for the hills. but not him, never him.
the kiss he steals is not soft, not coaxing, not sweet. it is something raw, stripped bare, desperate and clawing and fierce. a plea as much as a vow, and she takes it, takes it all, because he gives it freely, unconditionally. she is selfish for it, she does not deserve it.
she is drowning, but not in blood. drowning in him, in the press of his paw against her cheek, the grip that tightens, the force of his devotion doubling down only to reassure her, soothe her. suffocating her with love, with loyalty, with something she cannot name and does not know how to bear.
he tucks her against him, and she lets him. he speaks, and she listens.
"ég myndi ganga með þér í þessu lífi og inn í það næsta. ekkert gat snúið mér frá þinni hlið."
"gott." she breathes, "vertu hjá mér."
January 29, 2025, 08:16 PM
(This post was last modified: January 29, 2025, 08:16 PM by Blackfell.)
there are no words left to match the weight that crushes inwards on the two of them. his mind is blank, save for what he feels for her. he does not speak, does not sully what falls between them trance-like, instead he holds her tighter, as if he alone could banish her pain. he knows it is not as simple as that.
breath warm enough to unthaw frost, a lifeline in the cold. he burrows his nose briefly into the raven fur of her nape, drinking in her scent; it is greedy, the way he seeks to cherish her. as he holds her, he knows he cannot ever part from her.
he knows that not even the gods can remove him from her side.
paw idly brushes her jaw, tilting her head upwards, to bring periwinkle eyes gazing upon his that burn with the extent of his affections, his loyalty. he hears her words not as a plea but as an order he will gladly obey until death itself calls him away.
he speaks into the cold air befallen them.
each subtle movement causes the lake around to ripple outwards, disturbed by the mixing of their voices and presence. for once, they do not need more words. grief, love, guilt—all of it twists together in the space between their breaths.
he presses his firm-lipped mouth to her temple, another kiss. it is her he cannot pull himself away from. he offers her a glimpse of what he could give her, if only she lets him. for lifetimes to come. when he speaks again, it is bitten with emotion. with passion that lights like an inferno, blazing wildly from him. present in his voice, his eyes, his face, and the way he holds her.
foreheads come together again. he knows he has spoken enough, but cannot stop the flood that breaches the cage of his teeth; the urge to swathe her in the workings of his mind and heart. the heart that beats solely for her, the mind that exists only with her.
breath warm enough to unthaw frost, a lifeline in the cold. he burrows his nose briefly into the raven fur of her nape, drinking in her scent; it is greedy, the way he seeks to cherish her. as he holds her, he knows he cannot ever part from her.
he knows that not even the gods can remove him from her side.
paw idly brushes her jaw, tilting her head upwards, to bring periwinkle eyes gazing upon his that burn with the extent of his affections, his loyalty. he hears her words not as a plea but as an order he will gladly obey until death itself calls him away.
he speaks into the cold air befallen them.
ég mun alltaf.
each subtle movement causes the lake around to ripple outwards, disturbed by the mixing of their voices and presence. for once, they do not need more words. grief, love, guilt—all of it twists together in the space between their breaths.
he presses his firm-lipped mouth to her temple, another kiss. it is her he cannot pull himself away from. he offers her a glimpse of what he could give her, if only she lets him. for lifetimes to come. when he speaks again, it is bitten with emotion. with passion that lights like an inferno, blazing wildly from him. present in his voice, his eyes, his face, and the way he holds her.
nú, og þegar við snúum aftur til saatsine. ég mun vera með þér. ég fer aðeins ef þú býð. guðirnir né maðurinn sjálfur geta slitið mig frá þér. Þetta er heit mitt til þín.
foreheads come together again. he knows he has spoken enough, but cannot stop the flood that breaches the cage of his teeth; the urge to swathe her in the workings of his mind and heart. the heart that beats solely for her, the mind that exists only with her.
sólætur segir að lanzadoii maðurinn taki konuna í burtu í sjö daga. við getum veitt, haldið veislu, talað. ekki talað. legið saman. séð stjörnurnar og ofan. þegar við komum aftur, ákveður þú hvort þú veljir mig.
she does not pull, she does not resist. His gaze burns into hers—steady, searing with devotion. unshaken, unmovable. she tried not to believe in things like permanence, tried not to not let herself be seduced by the promise of forever.
and yet his agreement shakes her, settles deep in her heart and sounds like more than a promise. there is comfort in his candor, an unrefutable strength in the statement. yes, he would always be with her.
a promise wrought in iron. the tension of what lingers between them, thick as blood or fog. grief, love, guilt—she has carried them alone for so long. his very being is an offer, a plea to let him help. let him shoulder her burden, as if it was fated.
she exhales sharply when his lips press to her temple, a quiet, stifled thing, caught between hesitation and surrender. he offers himself wholly, without restraint, without condition. he always has. it terrifies her. what had made him so irrevocably sure that he would not regret it?
his words break against her, raw with passion. it bleeds from him in waves—his voice, his touch, the way he holds her as if she is something sacred, something irreplaceable.
”guðirnir né maðurinn sjálfur geta slitið mig frá þér. Þetta er heit mitt til þín."
her throat tightens.
She wants to tell him that devotion is a cruel thing. that it shackles and binds, and that nothing is ever truly eternal. she wants to tell him that oaths are just as easily broken as they are made, that the world is an unkind thing, that they had been burned before.
so why, why did it feel like everything she could ever want? why could she not tell him this, when it had only ever been true?
she cannot bring herself to deny him.
not when his forehead presses to hers, not when his voice—gritted with emotion, with longing—spills with a temptation she should not entertain.
seven days. a week stolen away from the rest of saatsine, to live and breathe in something untouched by bloodshed. to experience a life with him before she could choose.
she swallows to soothe the storm beneath her ribs. her breath is a whisper, barely there, yet certain in its weight.
"Þá skulum við fara."
let them go. let it be peace and pure and good, so that she believes it can be as good as he promises. let it be the love that even the gods envied.
and yet his agreement shakes her, settles deep in her heart and sounds like more than a promise. there is comfort in his candor, an unrefutable strength in the statement. yes, he would always be with her.
a promise wrought in iron. the tension of what lingers between them, thick as blood or fog. grief, love, guilt—she has carried them alone for so long. his very being is an offer, a plea to let him help. let him shoulder her burden, as if it was fated.
she exhales sharply when his lips press to her temple, a quiet, stifled thing, caught between hesitation and surrender. he offers himself wholly, without restraint, without condition. he always has. it terrifies her. what had made him so irrevocably sure that he would not regret it?
his words break against her, raw with passion. it bleeds from him in waves—his voice, his touch, the way he holds her as if she is something sacred, something irreplaceable.
”guðirnir né maðurinn sjálfur geta slitið mig frá þér. Þetta er heit mitt til þín."
her throat tightens.
She wants to tell him that devotion is a cruel thing. that it shackles and binds, and that nothing is ever truly eternal. she wants to tell him that oaths are just as easily broken as they are made, that the world is an unkind thing, that they had been burned before.
so why, why did it feel like everything she could ever want? why could she not tell him this, when it had only ever been true?
she cannot bring herself to deny him.
not when his forehead presses to hers, not when his voice—gritted with emotion, with longing—spills with a temptation she should not entertain.
seven days. a week stolen away from the rest of saatsine, to live and breathe in something untouched by bloodshed. to experience a life with him before she could choose.
she swallows to soothe the storm beneath her ribs. her breath is a whisper, barely there, yet certain in its weight.
"Þá skulum við fara."
let them go. let it be peace and pure and good, so that she believes it can be as good as he promises. let it be the love that even the gods envied.
January 30, 2025, 02:33 AM
(This post was last modified: January 30, 2025, 02:33 AM by Blackfell.)
his breath hitches. a frozen plume in the mid of the cold, midnight air. he had craved this more than he cared to admit—and already, he had. but not to the extent which he felt it. it was intense. a desire that never quite went away. he had never longed for a woman so much as he did her.
at first, it had simply been bloodline. nature. she was a tempest, a storm and she drew him in. because, was it not the nature of all crownore men to desire a strong wife? a woman who could stand at his side, not subservient, but stronger than even he? a woman who could proclaim, who could lead.
but now, it was so much more. more than power, more than legacy. it was simply her. he wanted her; day and night, for years to come. when he laid down his axe, he wanted to do so knowing he had loved and been loved. truly, fiercely: her. it is an oath that binds him more than any gods ever could. his voice comes slow this time:
he steps back just enough to drink in the sight of her—her strength, her vulnerability. she is everything he has ever wanted, everything he never dared hope to have. and now she stands before him, willing to take that step with him.
not for these seven days. only the two of them.
at first, it had simply been bloodline. nature. she was a tempest, a storm and she drew him in. because, was it not the nature of all crownore men to desire a strong wife? a woman who could stand at his side, not subservient, but stronger than even he? a woman who could proclaim, who could lead.
but now, it was so much more. more than power, more than legacy. it was simply her. he wanted her; day and night, for years to come. when he laid down his axe, he wanted to do so knowing he had loved and been loved. truly, fiercely: her. it is an oath that binds him more than any gods ever could. his voice comes slow this time:
við göngum saman.
he steps back just enough to drink in the sight of her—her strength, her vulnerability. she is everything he has ever wanted, everything he never dared hope to have. and now she stands before him, willing to take that step with him.
og ég mun taka þig í burtu þegar tíminn er réttur.he promises. a vow forged in the heat of their shared fire. there will be no blood, no grief, no burdens—
not for these seven days. only the two of them.
fade? <3
January 30, 2025, 10:15 PM
she watches him, silent. he steps back, and though the cold rushes in where his warmth had been. His words linger in the space between them, weaving something unspoken yet palpable, something that settles deep in her marrow. a declaration.
she should be afraid of what it means—what it asks of her—she was before. but now, as she looks at him, at the raw, unguarded want in his crimson eyes, she feels no fear. only hope, hope for better things. a better life, with him at her side.
his gaze traces her, drinking her in as if she is something precious, something irreplaceable. it unnerves her, the way he sees her. not as a warrior, not as a weapon, not as a thing shaped by vengeance and grief. but as gjalla. as a woman of flesh and blood, of strength and longing. of jagged edges and quiet, fragile things buried deep beneath the ruin.
"og ég mun taka þig í burtu þegar tíminn er réttur."
a promise.
she does not move, does not speak, but she accepts. in the way her gaze softens, in the way her breath steadies, in the way her body does not pull away but remains, resolute, waiting.
she will go with him, when sun eater permits it. she will let herself exist outside of ghosts and grudges, outside of all the things that tether her to the past. for seven days, she will take what is offered and decide. if the gods dared to try and steal it from her, she will tear them down with her own two paws.
she should be afraid of what it means—what it asks of her—she was before. but now, as she looks at him, at the raw, unguarded want in his crimson eyes, she feels no fear. only hope, hope for better things. a better life, with him at her side.
his gaze traces her, drinking her in as if she is something precious, something irreplaceable. it unnerves her, the way he sees her. not as a warrior, not as a weapon, not as a thing shaped by vengeance and grief. but as gjalla. as a woman of flesh and blood, of strength and longing. of jagged edges and quiet, fragile things buried deep beneath the ruin.
"og ég mun taka þig í burtu þegar tíminn er réttur."
a promise.
she does not move, does not speak, but she accepts. in the way her gaze softens, in the way her breath steadies, in the way her body does not pull away but remains, resolute, waiting.
she will go with him, when sun eater permits it. she will let herself exist outside of ghosts and grudges, outside of all the things that tether her to the past. for seven days, she will take what is offered and decide. if the gods dared to try and steal it from her, she will tear them down with her own two paws.
fade!
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