Porcupine Ridge ◊◊;

slow going.
elk charm was unused to mountains. when she was not slipping, she was listing; when she was not listing she was plastered to the wall, inching as frantic whispers of prayer collected in her voice.
the ridge here was ugly. crossing the glacier had been bad enough; elk charm had never wanted to be inside mountains again, and yet here she was.
hunger and frustration were equal, but moreso was the tiredness.
soon they would need to stop again. she was becoming caked with filth to a point where it was no longer ignorable.

geirmundr felt it in the way her steps faltered—no longer sharp with purpose, but dulled by the weight in her limbs, the staggered rhythm of someone pushing far past her limit. her breath was too loud now. even the soft scrape of her paws across stone sang of exhaustion.
he said nothing. just veered off the ridge trail, moving with the slow certainty of one who had walked mountains his whole life. a stream hissed quietly through the rocks below, narrow and clean, tucked beneath a ledge heavy with snowmelt. he lowered his head to drink, letting the cold water brace the heat in his bones.
then he turned to her—just enough.
hvíl.
words carrying with it not demand, but care wrapped in stone.
he did not offer to help her down.
only gave space.
and water.
and a place where she could fall apart if she needed to, with no eyes judging the pieces.

water, oh, spirits! fresh water, sweetness bounding to icy life on her tongue. elk charm drank until she could not; surfacing, she gasped, and then drank more until her belly was uncomfortable and tight.
but thus grounded, she gave a quick nod of thanks to the man. why did he stay with her? why did he follow? surely he had more important places to be!
she was tired; so tired; on rote she began to stagger through the foliage, stripping edible berries and clawing roots from the earth — two portions each.

geirmundr stood midstream, legs braced, the water coursing around him in fast, silver ribbons. the cold bit into his limbs, but he welcomed it—it sharpened the senses, steadied the breath. he moved like a boulder with purpose, unyielding but alert, ears flicking as a flash darted beneath the surface.
then, motion—swift, precise. his head dipped, jaws cutting clean through the rippling mirror of the water. he surfaced with a trout writhing between his teeth, its scales flashing like coins in the dusk.
he turned toward the bank where she foraged, watched her briefly—two berries, two roots. everything in pairs. ritual, maybe. or habit.
he said nothing, only trudged out of the stream, water streaming off his dense coat. he dropped the fish near her paws without ceremony, its life already fleeing in spasms.
he did not speak.
but his eyes met hers.
see?
hunter. provider.
not burden.
then, with a grunt, he turned back to the stream for another.
there would be two.
for her. and for him.
that seemed right.

geirmundr. that was what he had said. geirmundr, all silence and low notes. elk charm was becoming more and more aware of the social contract that had cropped up between them. he had hunted for her and even now he did the same, investing a particular time into the sharadoii girl that she could not quite understand.
her life was quite boring, even as she searched for her brother. elk charm was quick to exchange his pittance of mashed roots and tart berries for her share of the fish. she kept her debt from becoming too great.
elk charm looked longingly at the water, wanting to bathe, but women of her band were quite private about such things.
she wanted that pronghorn hide, but ate quickly and tried not to think of it, scratching out a hollow beneath a juniper bush.

geirmundr ate without urgency, without words, hunched over the fish like a creature carved from stone and habit. he noticed the way she traded portions without asking, her eyes glancing sidelong but her paws sure. he did not stop her. they were equal in the meal, if not in words.
when his share was gone, the big man rose, joints creaking faintly beneath the weight of his own silence. the girl scratched out her hollow, fidgeting with roots and hiding want behind work—but he said nothing to disturb her. instead, he stepped away, paws heavy against the moss and soil, following the quiet trail that led again to the stream.
the water greeted him cold and clear, and he entered without ceremony, ducking until his shoulders vanished beneath the rippling glass. the grime of travel, the crust of old blood, sweat and dirt clung to him like ghosts. he washed them now—slow, methodical, letting the current carry them away. claws combed through his thick coat. the breath he let out was deep, controlled. a ritual, not a luxury.
he did not glance back toward the juniper bush.

lids fell almost as soon as elk charm curled there in the dirt. she wanted to sleep, but the continued presence of geirmundr kept her awareness crowded, honed. 
at last she feigned, but watched him from the corner of one eye, shyly fascinated by the even, consistent movements of his powerful frame. she was not certain she had seen a sharadoii man built in such a way; they were long-limbed valley hunters, while geirmundr wore the look of these mountains.
when he wet his shoulders, she reddened, and when water began to sluice along the defined muscles of his back, elk charm studiously rolled over, yawned, and sent herself into fitful, righteous sleep.
she would not consider her dreams, or what images they had contained.

carved from the mountain itself—water trailing down his coat in silver rivulets, muscles shifting beneath thick, soot-dark fur as he climbed the bank. he did not look to her. not directly. but he saw her—saw the way she curled, the way her breath softened as if sleep had come, though not fully. not yet.
he shook once, slow and heavy, sending droplets scattering like rain across stone.
then he walked a short distance—not far, not close—and settled beneath a leaning spruce. the earth there was damp, cold, but he did not mind. he had slept in worse, though he would not sleep now.
his head rested on crossed paws, but one eye remained slivered open, fixed on the edges of the clearing where shadow gathered.
he did not watch her, not outright.
but he was aware. of her breaths. of her stillness.
and if she chose to rise and bathe, once she believed he slept, he would not stir.
he was not made for softness, but he could offer space.
he would keep the watch.

barks