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for Eirwen !

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dawn scraped a thin line of gold across the ridgeline by the time gjalla started her descent. frost still clung to her fur, and joints remained stiff in places where the cold had settled overnight—it is a feeling she's come to love since birth.

the world beneath her was still half-asleep—shadows long, the land still blue with the last grip of night. her breath puffed in front of her as she picked her way down the narrower paths, shoulders rolling with each step. somewhere far below, birds were beginning to stir; she could hear their tentative chatter threading between the trees.

by the time she reached the lower slope, the sun had crested enough to catch in her coat, turning the charcoal of it into a muted gleam. she paused only once to catch a flicker of movement ahead, near camouflaged into the snow. the woman's ears cant foward, something between curious and cautious as the distance closes.

She has been wandering in this cursed land for what feels an eternity.

It disgusts her. It feels like some strange similarity to her childhood- she remembers glimpses of caribou so vast on the winter plain, and they are here, too. Elephant seals, sinking tusk into each other’s fat for the thing all men war over; status and females, to breed until it is only their lineage that lasts beyond all others. They stay on the coast line.

There are other wolves here, of course, that she avoids. The white wolf has begun to remember more. Others at her feet, that she dragged back into the Empire, their hearts unwilling to go. A silver man, older than her, straddling the line of the borders. Licking her teeth, she wonders what happened after their encounter. Did she release him? Or did she bury her teeth into his neck?

So lost in her own thoughts, she takes a moment to see her surroundings. There- beyond her, a wolf of dark sky. Pinning her ears back, right eye still at half-squint, the soldier holds her ground and simply watches as she makes her approach.

Eirwen is formidable and does not often spook away at the sight of another.

“Has no one taught you to be cautious amongst strangers?” she barks.

gjalla halts mid-step, weight settling evenly across all four paws. she does not recoil at the address, nor does she angle herself in defense. the dawn cut a pale line across her back, caught in the shag of her long coat, in the cold blue of her eyes when she finally lifted them toward the stranger’s voice.

the woman before her is a stormcloud made flesh, tall and sharp, stitched together with old discipline. the words she threw were barked like an order, but gjalla had weathered worse than another soldier's posturing. her stance told a story; capable and unflinching, not fool enough to retreat. good. gjalla preferred wolves honest in their bearing.

i have learned enough caution for three lifetimes, she answered, low but firm—a winter wind dragging across stone. if i needed more, i wouldn’t be standing here.

she let the silence run a beat before the start of a smile crosses her face—that, and it is a long walk back up. she added.

When the dark colored woman responds in kind, Eirwen’s stance relaxes slightly. The stern ire on her face drops and though she still is bitter, there is something she feels about being spoken to as an equal. She snorts, the heat from her nostrils visible in the air and she shifts to face her entirely.

Tall and statuesque, there is a wisdom in her bluebell eyes that Eirwen has sought for her entire life and never found. Even now, she feels half the woman she once was, memory still depleted.

“My presence won’t offend, then,” she speaks plainly, tail flicking. “Have you heard of an Empire?”

Maybe she knows if there is one that lays beyond these mountains. If she could just find them, find the royalty she once served, surely then her mind would come back to her.

gjalla watched the pale woman shift, the stiffness bleeding out of her posture in measured degrees. an agreement to peace, even if temporary. it eased something small in gjalla’s chest, though her expression didn’t change.

she angled her body a touch, enough to face the woman fully. dawn slid over the stranger’s coat, picking out the places where scars lay beneath the pale fur. a fighter. a survivor. there is a hollowness behind those golden eyes, a wound deeper than anything teeth could leave unhealed.

no. the word came flat, unadorned. there are packs, some clans. a beat. but nothing like what you’re searching for, if our definitions are the same. her crown chin tucks in formal greeting, accompanied by a slow blink. i am gjalla, of stormrift. who is it you search for?

So no word of an Empire.

Eirwen stares, makes her vision harder as she squints, searches for the evidence of a lie on the stony woman's face. None exists and she feels something surge at the base of her chest, above her stomach, and in her throat.

She grunts, looks back at the stronghold of snow she had just traversed, groves of trees breaking the monotony of white. Who does she search for? A warrior, like her? Maybe she will meet herself, she thinks, another vision of white who has all the answers. Closing her eyes briefly, she tries to remember the face of who she served, but all she sees is black.

"Your guess is as good as mine," she grunts, whipping her tail. "Landed face first in the snow and. . . I must have been fighting." The taste of blood is fresh on her tongue still, though when she'd awoken, there was no proof of anyone but herself. "I remember my name." She barks out a cruel laugh and it is an ugly noise. "Remember the Empire. That's all."

her ears tipped forward a fraction. not sympathy, only attention as her gaze swept the pale woman once more, assessing. no wounds she could see that explained the blank spaces. no scent of recent battle or blood clinging to her fur.

memory loss is common for this place, it seems, she said, thinking back to the pack of caribou-hunters only east of them. it can come back in fractions. familiar faces, objects, places—they can trigger it.

snow crunches faintly as she shifts her weight, closing the angle between them by a mere step—respecting distance, sidestepping pity. a pause while the wind cuts between them, cold and thin. i’m headed down from the ridge—if you want clarity, you’ll find more of it below than freezing on a mountaintop. an invitation to join her, should the white woman wish it.

Now Eirwen is quick to wonder what Gjalla had lost in memory, and what she had recovered. Or perhaps her mind is in tact, and the white wolf is just one of many with addled memories.

Who will jog it? What will?

She pins her good ear as the night-pelt speaks again and invites her off the cresting mountain. First, she thinks to be offended at the offer, though she can’t see why. Gjalla is cut from obsidian, carries the edge of a blade within her and it is a trait that Eirwen admires.

Turning, she sighs, breath of hot air ghosts over her muzzle and follows.

“My name is Eirwen,” she says. An offering of peace, for names hold power.

gjalla dipped her head in acknowledgment, the faintest nod. she moved at an easy downhill pace, long strides carving through the crusted snow. not once did she look back to check if the pale woman followed; she trusted the footfalls behind her to speak for themselves.

eirwen. a hard name. a cold one, befitting of the valkyries from home. it suits you. she murmured. the wind swept low over the slope, tugging at the long guard hairs along her shoulders, carrying with it the scent of ice and pine sap—cleaner than what she’d been breathing in as of late. whatever had been plaguing the northern-most mountain must have dissipated.

whatever you’ve lost, gjalla began again, it hasn’t taken your spine. a dry note, almost approving. the rest can be pieced together. what of your empire do you remember, if anything? the questions are repetitive, she knows, but there is no other way to help but to ask.

Respect is shared between the two, one she does not freely give.

Eirwen watches the wind sweep Gjalla’s coat and it rushes through her, the cold biting the flesh of her scars. There is no acknowledgment other than the wince of her eye.

“We were many wolves strong. Sixty, seventy?” How did they manage to all stay healthy? A brief memory of hunting lands, devoid of moving life, pops back into her head. “I was a soldier. I remember his orders, to chase any loners off our land. Or bring them back.”

Now she stands at the edge on a winter plain, a loner by her own decree. It would only be rightful for another to chase her away.