the sky was clear tonight. cold, sharp, and endless—each star pricked against the dark like an ember refusing to burn out. gjalla laid on her side in the brittle grass, chin propped against her foreleg with her gaze fixed upwards to the scatter of stars.

they wheeled cold and bright across the void, and for a long while, she did nothing but count them. she had counted the constellations twice already, then the tallies of the dead. the individual spirits forever tied into sivra's tapestry.

her breath misted white, curling upward to dissolve into nothing, wind singing into her ears. she didn’t move for a long time, not until the cold caught up and forced a long exhale from her lungs. she puffs a breath, hums out to no one. well? she muttered to the stars as if it might answer her. what do you see?

---

Seutonius

seutonius mended in grim slowness. years ago, years younger, and he would have returned to the campaign trail within four days. the man was thus relegated to unwilling rest, and for the ageing this is often a time of cold nostalgia. it was so for the man, turning over in his mind old victories, pretty tributes carried off after the sacking of their homes, accolades given to a man with fewer years and more brightness to his eyes.
presently, seutonius forced himself upright. nothing came of lying about, and he would not lose all his muscle tone during recovery. limping was arduous and sent pain shooting even unto his temples, but he continued in somber insistence.
a murmur, soft. foliage parted until his pain-labored eyes beheld a woman with a warrior's frame lying graceful in the land. they cannot answer, said the roman after a moment, gesturing to the silent lights as he settled himself gingerly against an elm tree and pulled his healing arm up against his chest again.

she is prepared to move when the voice cuts through the wind. a man smelling of sandalwood and faintly of healing salves, leaning against a nearby elm tree. she leaves him staring for a long moment before her eyes broke from the star she'd fixed upon, though her head did not turn at once. gjalla stayed as she was, the sharp cut of her profile washed in starlight, the frost of her breath drifting upward to the night.

her eyes peel away eventually, and a glacier gaze raked him over with a slow appraisal. a soldier still, for all the falter in his step. she said nothing for a time, only watching, unblinking, until the corner of her mouth twitched faintly. not warmth. something drier. harder.

no? she questioned at last, perhaps you simply lack the ears to listen.

if i cannot hear them, it is because i am not listening to their voice. i see only where they are in the heavens and what positions they might mark. his intrigue was roused, however, for he had seen her assess him, and the expression that crossed her face was not girlish with foolhardy nature.
you are not from the nearby packs, seutonius decided to challenge, for no other reason than to hear his companion speak again. his mind, dulled by pain and poppy, needed something sharper of which to catch hold, and he saw it in the glinting stranger and her potential for dangerous response.
not for nothing had he been called tactician, though he would have liked to be called captain on a sunny stretch of sand somewhere else, wine at elbow and dancers before. luxury now was all he craved, the bygones of war not withstanding.

the woman listens, then shrugs. mh. perhaps you should—it may serve you better than simply knowing constellations. a black-tipped ear swivels, though she did not gift him her full attention. his words carried no weight in her heart, but it was the manner in which he chose them that kept her from dismissing him outright.

only after a long beat did she tilt her head to him with an answer, no, she said, i am not. stormrift was not nearby, and its blood did not spill into this land. periwinkle eyes flicked over him again, and though the salves and painkillers likely dulled his edge, the set of his jaw betrayed what he had been, what he still thought himself to be. and nor are you, i take it.

no. editum was a thousand miles away, more. limitless, seutonius supposed. i was sent here upon a mission i am not certain can be completed. treasonous now, his speech, but it was curled around with the grunting of pain and something else -- resentment for the emperor who had not allowed his faithful to retire.
maybe he was meant to die after all.
in years he was not many, but in experience and the wear of gnawing life, seutonius had aged doubly, and accepted this grizzling with head that bowed to no god save Mars. a softer color to the stranger's gaze accentuated the height of her cheekbones, the sweep of silver and sunless dark. he saw the limbs well-formed and touched with muscle; he saw something of himself, and a wry look attended his strained countenance. perhaps you share in that feeling.

---

I thought I replied to this already my bad :’)

---

the woman does not agree with words, but her eyes tell things she could never put to words. she knew the weight of duty front and back.

not all things can be. gjalla remarked with the thoughtful tilt of her head. and if it is not the path you wish to follow, you must find another. a sliver of advice from one servant to another. she’d lived her years in the service of others—crowns, banners, gods—even when she was queen, she served her people faithfully. her faith, her loyalty, had always been a weapon turned outward, never inward. gjalla had bled herself and others for it, and she would again.

duty was a sickness that lingered long after the hand that commanded was gone, and the cruelest truth of it was that she could not get enough—to serve was her greatest high.

but you do not seem like a servant man.

---

no worries at all! <3

i am not. it is why i have less choice than a servant, seutonius said grimly. for a time he only leant the back of his head against the steady embrace of the tree, watching as the tiny forms of those distant stars formed themselves into recognizable shapes.
but his mind was not in the task, and he found that words were the only thing which might stave off the growing pain in his arm. he must bear it, and so he did. if my ears are lacking, perhaps you will interpret the stars for me, domine? (lady?) she was not a lady, and seutonius knew it, had been gathered with fighters for his entire life and too lengthy of a time not to comprehend one when she was before him.
but for now, lady, a stranger of dubious nobility unless otherwise said.
he did wish she was that. he could not imagine sharing this night of agonies in the company of anyone venal or too pampered to see his strain.

it is not that simple, she repeated like he'd suggested they jump off a cliff and start flying, but her mouth skewers into a half smile. she appreciating the effort. there is little to interpret. they are not signs, nor symbols.

with a breath, the woman pushes herself up to retreat to set her eyes upon his resting place. tentatively, her paws guide her to his side—not close enough to crowd, but close enough for the warmth of their bodies to mingle faintly in the cold air. to teach what he does not know. she does not spare him a glance after, directing her attention up.

gjalla leaned back upon her haunches, eyes climbing the black vault above where the stars burned pale and cold. they are the dead. she said. gjalla’s head tilted toward the sky, following the long, silver arc of constellations strewn above them. the ones who went before us—kin, comrades, even enemies, if they were worthy. their eyes watch from valhalla.

it is meant as a comfort—to reassure that you will never be alone. her voice roughened slightly, what they offer is their guidance, what they give back to those who remain. it is said you can hear them louder from mountain-tops.

another pagan. seutonius did not feel scornful this time, be it the pain or the poppy or the peerless stars above. the dead, she said. a lifetime ago he might have rebuked her forwardness; tonight the roman found himself discomfitted and desperate at the same time. aivar had helped him; solulfur had allowed him to lean against her. paws and pelts of strangers had knit seutonius until it seemed he would keep his limbs and heal in full.
a strange thing, to be touched. she was warm beside him, and the natural instinct of their kind bit beneath the military guard, pulling down the defenses of the ailing man.
never all of them.
silence reigned, as if he were listening. pondering. as if his own ears had reached up for what the stars might offer.
and silence prevailed. they did not speak to suetonius, and he was left to ruefully ponder why he had even considered it.
valhalla. you are a northerner? he asked, wanting to press on from this failure, to center the stranger where he had become less.