---

the wind came hard off the ridge, needling through her coat and rattling the dead grass flat against the earth. gjalla stood where the stone broke through soil, head lifted, tasting the air with a stillness that bordered on reverence. old scents lingered here, stale prey long gone and strangers just the same. her claws bite into frost-cured dirt and sleet, wandering aimless.

her ears tipped back as a sound carried. it does not have the naturalness of a bird or spooked prey—it is a rustle that stills when she stills, as if it knows it should not be watching. the woman does not move to hide; she had long since abandoned the habit of shrinking. instead she would turn, periwinkle eyes catching what little light the overcast sky would give.

---

gjalla pivots to the ruckus behind her on instinct alone, and she is glad that she does—snow explodes at her forelegs as a stranger skids to a harsh stop only some paces before her. too close. close enough that her shoulder clips frost instead of bone.

her claws score stone as she turns fully then, head snapping after him. the boy before her is wide-eyed and breathing hard, all momentum spent and spilling embarrassment instead. periwinkle eyes pin him, cold and appraising, taking in the long legs, the youth in the shoulders, the way his gaze skitters and then sticks despite itself.

she swallows whatever anger rises from his lack of awareness, instead settling for displeased frown, brows knitted. watch your path, child, she says at last, voice flat as the stone under her paws. her tail flicks once, irritation leashed but present.

---

immediately, gjalla is stunned by the quick and dramatic escalation of the boy unfolding before her.

there is no confusion in her eyes, only a brief, naked flicker of surprise that someone so frantic would bare his throat so readily. his admission claws something sharp and old up her spine. her displeasure softens, not into kindness, but into a forced settling of her irritation.

she studies him again, slower this time. the way he drops to the ground and springs back up. tremors coil in his limbs, not fear so much as pressure with nowhere to go. her head tilts a fraction.

kæmpe? The word leaves her low, incredulous. Not mocking. Testing. þú rennir blindur um undarland, næstum brýtur hálsinn á öxl minni, og þá biður þú mig um bardaga eins og almu? (you run blind through strange land, nearly break your neck on my shoulder, and then you ask me for a fight like alms?) frost ghosts from her muzzle. she takes a single step forward, snow compressing under her weight. authority without volume. nei. ek mun eigi berjast við þik. segðu mér hví þú ert að sundrast í trjánum eins og veiði með hjarta rifið út. (no. i will not fight you. tell me why you are unraveling in the trees like prey with its heart torn out.)

a pause. then, almost reluctantly—if your answer is honest, her shoulders roll once, muscles shifting under dark fur, then i will consider it.

---

gjalla listens without interrupting, and she does not look away when the words come out rough and halting, nor does she soften her stance to make it easier on him. she allows the silence to settle after he finishes. unreturned love was a wound that ached in all universes. a breath through her nose. frost spills and fades again.

þar er engin skömm í því að vilja það sem þú getur ekki haft, (there is no shame in wanting what you cannot have) gjalla tells him, en þú getur eigi flýjað það. (but you cannot out run it.) she circles him once, shoulder brushing close enough that he can feel the heat under her coat. when she stops, it is in front of him again.

you will not fight to forget it. fight to empty yourself. close your heart to it so that you may move for the better. she says. at last, the she-wolf lowers her center of gravity, stance widening at last, inviting. breathe. shake. then come, gjalla says.

---

hover code literally would not work so pretend all of that is also old norse

---

she watches the shift happen. such things are small—easy to miss, if you're not careful. she watches the frantic edge drain from him and draw inward, packed tight behind his ribs. the tremor in his limbs settles in preparation. good.

gjalla lowers her head a fraction, eyes narrowing as he gathers himself. she does not move to meet him early for fear of stealing the moment from him. the transition from civility to brutality is swift; he comes fast—long legs eating ground with eager, untempered force. the woman squares her shoulders, moving only at the last second to counter him.

quickly, she closes the space he thought he had, her body turning sharply into the line of his charge. his reach falters as the distance collapses; her shoulder meets his chest at an angle instead of taking the full brunt. impact controlled and redirected as her weight slams through him. her teeth snap to catch, a sharp warning graze aimed high along the thick of his shoulder as she drives forward.