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Ylva thinks, maybe, her best bet is to turn around- because if Brynhild hasn’t been here, then she hasn’t been here. As much as she would like for her to. As much as the idea of not finding her sends a pang through her chest. She has to remind herself that it doesn’t mean giving up as she turns around abruptly.

And, in the end, she doesn’t even really get much of the chance. She doesn’t even get that far, either, as her paws carry her through the snow, before a dark shape appears in the distance. It’s faint, but Ylva knows enough to know that they’re moving toward her.

She knows enough to know who it is, too.

A tiny exhale leaves her jaws, almost inaudible to her own ears- Bryn?- before her limbs are picking up speed until she’s in a run, spurred on by the sight of her beloved and her newfound younger age. As she gets closer, she calls out, breathless, joyful.

Brynhild!

She doesn’t slow her pace, not even as she gets closer- unless Brynhild moves, she’s going to send them both back into the snow, with Ylva herself being a laughing, joyful mess.

She doesn’t really see a problem with it.