Bitter northern bluster was shepherded by a red hue to the starry sky. The moon, shielded behind a snow-capped peak, bled in its shadow. An omen, if Svalla had ever seen one, one that her vargrsjá (soothsayer) could have deciphered, if they'd survived the exile.

But she and Eclus are alone now, without a hearth but not without heart. Her wife had been quiet in their walk—Svalla regarded Eclus with an affectionate rumble, as her steps veered to bring her closer. A soft brush of sides, a lingering warmth they'd seek from one another during nights as nipping as this.

You grow quiet, ást-kærr. (my beloved) What is the matter? Her voice is quiet against the howl of winds. It is intimate, too, as she lost herself in the depths of her lover's eyes. Searching for her answer before it came.

Eclus' gaze is elsewhere. Watching the horizon where barren trees stand alone in time, trained upon a stark figure amidst snowdrift. Svalla hummed, low and thoughtful, her steps falling in time with her lover as they approached on the ready, but calm.