---

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.

mortification snapped at torgar's heels, and he crossed the borders of dawnbreak gladly. flight was all that galloped his thoughts, at least for now -- that saddened mind wildly tried to plan a hunt that would keep him away for several days, then decided the details did not matter. long legs plunged the embarrassed boy through the drifts below the packland; he ran and ran until he thought the golden eyes of the Mediator might no longer find him.
and love was ferocious in his spirit, and love was volcanic in his mind. broadening shoulders tipped snow forcefully from hanging branches as he ran between the trees, and in the collapse of white drifts, birds rose in a flurry of alarm and annoyance.
they veiled torgar for a moment, but as he blinked through their beating wings, he saw he was not alone. the sparrows soared away and he was left alone with the tall stranger whose immediate crime was reminding him of sólúlfur in her confident stance.

---

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.

it was not what torgar wanted to hear. his face twisted before he could stop himself, and he sat down hard with a despairing exhale. du har ret, (you are right,) torgar said in angered misery. jeg er et barn, og jeg er en tåbe. (i am a child and i am a fool.)
but this stranger did not want to hear his blubbering. on his feet once more, almost trembling with desperate energy, he nodded at the well-poised wolf. vil du have medlidenhed og kæmpe mod mig? (will you take pity and fight me?)
dagfinn was not here, and he did not want to return to dawnbreak, not now. perhaps the effort of a good spar would knock all memories of this day right from his addled head.
aware he was quite nonsensical, torgar waited all the same.

---

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.

scolded, torgar's first instinct was to bristle. who was this woman to ask anything of him? what did she know of love? but then again, what did he? any firmness to his shoulders swept away, leaving him empty enough to stare at the stranger and truly see her. had she offered nothing to him, he would have turned then.
but what he wanted was within reach. he must only describe his shame anew. to someone he did not know. he had been humiliated before leaving home, then slamming into this unknown orator. now she laid his heart bare. torgar bit the inside of his jaw.
jeg er forelsket i noen som ikke elsker meg tilbake, og som ikke kan elske meg. jeg dummet meg ut i kjærligheten, og nå må jeg dra bort en stund for å redde ansikt. (i am in love with someone who does not and cannot love me back. i made a fool of myself in love, and now i have to go away for a little while to save face.)
there.
torgar did not widen his stance in assumption that she would fight him; the readiness stood in his eyes, hardened his shoulders.

---

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

---

*PRETENDS*

torgar was still, but her energies reached through him until he was able to still the hurt trembling of his wounded heart. it was reassuring to hear that he was not wrong, though he remained a fool in heart and mind. fight to empty yourself, she said. not to forget. it was an interesting concept, especially given that he had asked her for the spar to blur his mind.
but when he came back to himself, torgar saw, he would not have forgotten what happened. better then, to gather every iota of those snarled feelings, place them in his limbs, his strikes, his stance.
something stiff left the boy, and he let out his breath in thankfulness. the tension of anticipating her blow had hardened into something more concentrated.
he felt the ground beneath his claws; he shook out his shoulders, found an eager growl waiting in his chest, and launched himself toward the woman, hoping to grapple her left shoulder with their heights.