Bramblepoint old wounds

aw but maybe @Solharr ? <3

The years had stretched long since her last visit; long enough to dull the edges of old wounds, but not erase them. And yet, time had done little to soften the weight of memory. The Grove was gone; she had watched its fall.
Aneira recalled the quake, the earth splitting like the hide of a wounded beast, sealing the vale she had called home. The gravastar had been on the inside; she could still hear the frantic scrabble of claws against rock, see Towhee’s desperate attempts to scale the barrier; futility etched into every trembling muscle. For days, she had thought she would die there, caged beneath an indifferent sky. Autumn had stolen more than just a home. Its echoes still stalked her in the dark, curling through her sleep in jagged, restless dreams. Perhaps that was why she trusted so little now, why she kept her distance.
But there had been another loss, older and crueler still: her father. A shadow that had simply ceased to be; one day, he had walked out of the den, into the waiting maw of the unknown, and he had never returned.
The snow woman had crossed paths with the Firebirds once; met a boy, a queen. A brief brush with something solid, something structured. And now, in the quiet hush of an unfamiliar forest, she wondered: would their ranks still hold space for her?
Aneira moved with quiet purpose, paws pressing into the damp loam, ears flicking at the distant rustle of the unseen. She was not lost; not truly. Only searching, for food, for distraction, for something to drown the ghosts that followed her still.

he saw her first in profile—pale against the forest dark, slow-moving, deliberate. and for a breathless moment, the years fell away.

callyope…

his chest tightened. something ancient flickered in his ribs. the way she carried herself, the quiet—too familiar. but when she turned, and he saw her eyes, the illusion broke. not callyope. not the woman who haunted every silence.

still, he did not move. not at first.

the forest was quiet around them, as though it too recognized the heaviness she carried. the scent of grief was not unlike his own—old, sharp, resigned.

he stepped forward, enough for his frame to become visible through the timber.

you walk like a ghost, he said lowly, not unkind.

a pause.

as do i.

For a moment, she did not answer. Turquoise gaze regarded him in silence, unreadable beneath the dim canopy. A ghost? Perhaps. Aneira shifted, the movement subtle; a weight adjusting rather than retreating. The forest air was thick with stillness, the kind that pressed against the ribs and whispered of things long buried. She exhaled, slow and steady, before speaking: 
„The past does not unmake the living,” a statement, not a correction, not a denial. She studied him now, gaze lingering on the edges of his presence; the set of his shoulders, the tired knowing in his voice. His grief had settled into his bones much like her own. That, at least, she understood. While memories shaped them, they are not defined nor destroyed by them. They remain whole; not undone, not lost, still existing beyond.
Her ears flicked, breaking the moment’s stillness, „And yet,” she added after a pause, voice quieter now, „the dead still follow.” A halt, followed by nothing; a simple truth left hanging in the hush between them.

he did not speak right away.

the forest pressed close around them—thick, unmoving, as if the trees themselves held breath for the answer. only the wind stirred the tips of his fur, the low moan of it threading between trunks like a dirge.

her words were not soft, but they were honest. and sólhárr was a man who respected honesty, even when it hurt.

the past does not unmake the living.

he looked at her, truly looked—the pale line of her spine, the way her eyes held sorrow not as weakness, but as fact. like his. like so many of his wolves.

no, he said at last. it doesn’t.

his voice was low, roughened like bark after storm, but steady. always steady.

but it carves us. and it follows.

he took a step closer—not invasive, but certain, as if by proximity alone he could offer some weight to anchor her to the present. to remind her she was seen.

the dead walk behind me, too, he said. some i buried. some i left behind. all of them know my name.

his gaze searched hers. not hard, not demanding—just quiet, and aware.

if you are followed, he said, then walk where they cannot reach.

a pause. one breath.

walk beside me.

Aneira did not shift, not did she look away. She held his gaze, steady, measuring, unflinching. The weight of his words settled over her like snowfall, quiet and cold, sinking deep. The past carves us, it follows us. The frostmaiden knew this truth well enough; shaping and sharpening, leaving her standing, whole but not untouched. A breath passed between them, the space between silence and speech.
Then, finally, the silence broke: „The dead do not walk where I do; they watch.” Her voice was calm, without hesitation, not rejecting, a statement only. She did not flinch when the flameborn approached her. There was no solace to be found in ghosts, but neither did she flee from them. Aneira regarded him for a long moment, taking in the certainty in his step, the quiet offer of presence rather than platitude. For a brief moment, she wondered what might have scared the man so deeply that an army of dead traced his steps. 
He did not ask her to let them fade, did not offer meaningless solace. A path forward unraveled, offered, side by side. At last, she nodded; quiet, deliberate, a warrior’s acknowledgment and a survivor’s answer.
„Then lead.” Teal gaze lingered on him, deep down hoping he would not lead her near walls, near stone.

he watched her with the stillness of stone—unmoving, but not unfeeling.

her words had not been flippant. they held weight. and he respected weight.

when her nod came, deliberate as a blade being sheathed, he offered one in return. a warrior’s answer deserved a warrior’s reply.

i am sólhárr, he said, voice carved from mountain and dusk. harkonungr of forneskja.

a pause followed—not long, but long enough to mark significance.

these woods are not mine, he added, gaze drifting to the boughs above. but my people move through them. i carry their names. their dead.

his eyes returned to her, steady, assessing.

and you? he asked, not unkindly.

Aneira did not answer at once. She took his measure in the silence; the weight of his name, the steadiness of his stance, the quiet gravity of one who bore not just his own burdens, but the echoes of those who had walked before him. The flameborn spoke of the dead as she did, not as shadows to be mourned, but as truths to be carried.
Teal gaze flicked to the canopy above, tracing the lines where light met leaf, where wind wove through the branches like whispered voices. No place was hers, not anymore. But she had walked far, and she still walked. Her head lifted slightly, chin firm but not arrogant, and when she spoke, her voice was measured; even, but edged with something colder beneath.
„Aneira,” a pause; a name was not a place, it did not root her, not yet. The frostmaien held his gaze now, unwavering: „I have no people,” another pause, then, with the weight of simple truth, „But I carry my dead.”

aneira. a name like snow and stone. he held it in silence, the way one might hold a blade—carefully, respectfully.

her truth rang clean. unadorned.

he understood. not as a man who pitied, but as one who shared the weight.

then we are alike.

his voice was low, grounded. no flourish, no echo. only the steady rasp of a mountain that had stood too long in winter.

forneskja is not made of blood. it is made of those who endure.

his gaze searched hers—not for weakness, not for softness, but for will.

a name is not a place, he said at last, repeating what she did not say. but it is a beginning.

he stepped aside, the pine bows shifting as he cleared the path behind him.

Voice did not leave her ivory throat. His words hung in the air steady, unshaken, stone shaped and fractured by wind and time. Clean, not an invitation nor a promise, a reality. Ashen ears flickered, she did not blink, nor did she bristle, though something in the marrow of her quietude shifted, as ice underfoot before the thaw.
„Endurance is not the same as belonging.” The syllables left her cool and steady, a truth sculpted by time rather than grievance. There was no wistfulness in them, no yearning for what had been lost, only the weight of knowing, the acceptance of a life shaped by absence as much as presence. For a breath, she lingered, gaze tracing the spaces between branches, where shadows pooled like ghosts unspoken. A name is not a place; no, but it could be something close. Frostmaiden stepped forward, for the briefest moment eyeing Solharr.
They were so different, yet so alike; both slashed and quelled by the weight of the past, carrying it like a mantle. If this Forneskja was half what the flameborn is, then it was surviving. 
She could stand beside a man that shared her values, carved from stone, who understood loss. Yet, she would not yield with ease; the earth had crumbled beneath her once before. She rose then, frostbitten and unbowed.

there was something there. something shared in the silence.

endurance is not the same as belonging, he echoed softly, his voice like the cracking of old stone. but it is necessary.

he glanced toward the snow-covered horizon, the land stretching wide and cold.

forneskja is built on endurance. but it will be your choice if you belong.

there was no invitation in his words. no false promise. only truth. unbent, like the harsh landscape around them.

and then, with a nod—one that was almost a challenge, a welcome:

you will find your place here, aneira. if you choose it.

he did not step closer. his presence was enough.

the earth may crumble. but we build.

Aneira held his gaze, a winter hush settling between them; still, weighty, unbroken. His words rand clear, hewn from the same cold stone beneath paws, and she let them linger as the wind threading through frost-laden boughs.
„Endurance is not a choice,” a murmur, soft, edged with something distant, something worn, „It is what remains when all else is lost.” Her breath curled in the frigid air, vanishing as quickly as it came. The horizon stretched, endless, silence echoing the quiet ache carved into her ribs. To endure; yes, she knew the shape of it, the taste of it. But to belong?
Could he vow that the ground beneath her would hold? That what they built would not splinter as ice under the weight of time? Could he swear that this haven, if she dared to call it home, would not fall as the Grove had, swallowed by the earth, lost to ruin? Aneira turned away, though not in retreat. Her body, a sculpture of stillness, betrayed nothing. In the fleeting shadow across her gaze did doubt stir; silent, lingering at the edges of certainty. To belong;
She did not answer at once; instead, she let the hush stretch, measuring weight and meaning. Then, a whisper against stone, her face still turned away from Solharr; belong!
„Perhaps,” she neither embraced nor dismissed his offer as the flicker of doubt creeped on her more. If she steps forward, it will not be at another’s beckoning, nor in search of a place to rest her weary bones; it will be because her will has settled. And Aneira does not settle lightly.

endurance is what we are, he said, voice steady as the land beneath them, but it is not what we choose. his words were heavy, the truth of them shaped by the life he had lived, the battles that had etched themselves into his bones. it is what remains... when you have nothing left to hold.

he took a slow step toward her, not intruding but closing the distance between them. the wind stirred the air, but his focus remained on her, sharp as the tip of an arrow.

belonging, he continued, his tone softer now, almost reluctant, is not a promise. it is earned.

his eyes shifted toward the horizon, where the land stretched endlessly before them, barren and beautiful in its quiet, unyielding strength. i cannot vow that this place will never break. nothing lasts forever. but what we build—together—will stand until it no longer can.

he turned back to her, and in his gaze, there was no force. only a steady invitation, a call that was not to the place, but to what could be shared between them.