When I’m gone

He carried her until she recovered, a weight upon his back that he did not begrudge nor resent. Reclusive and stoic though he was, Stjornuati was a healer and had always been. Healers did not leave those ailing behind, especially on borders belonging to an incompassionate leader. So he carried her with him until she stirred, Mordfjall looming in the distance. They were close enough that the man had caches close by, more the nearer they got to his mountain.

Carefully, the Jarl shed her from his shoulders and spine, laying her in a spot of moonlight. “Kona,” He started in their shared language. “How are you feeling?”

---

@Arnarkla
Near mordfjall but not quite there

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Her ears had laid pinned against her skull for most of the journey. Skin flushed and hot from the ignominy. She felt akin to a taxidermied skin with its heart still beating, draped over the man's back. 

The numbness in her legs didn't vanish for quite some time. Given how long it's lasted, she had experienced quite an episode. Shortened, she presumed, by whatever herb he had given her. Every now and then, she tried flexing a muscle, gradually reacquiring the sensation of movement. By the time the herbalist slowed to a stop, there was only the residual tingling left in her limbs. 

Back upon the ground, she felt more at ease. Feathers still a bit ruffled. Her left ear focused on the flaxen man's words as she found her paws. She leaned back to stretch out her forelimbs, and then her hind ones. 

“Ég það gott.” — I'm fine.

Arnarkla regarded him with her cold gaze, still wary.

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He let her acclimate to being upon the earth once more, taking the chance to stretch out his own muscles, tired from the effort but not completely worn. He would sleep well tonight, surely. A low groan as he stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders and settled back on his haunches to watch around them rather than stare and watch her. There was no need to, in close enough proximity that he could hear and sense her movements, slow and exaggerated as they were.

“Fine.” Curious. The female did not express concern over this situation. Telling.

“This has happened before,” He stated his assumption, finally turning his head to look at the woman who so easily stood where she had not been able to before.
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She hummed.

“Hver ber sína bölvun.” — Everyone carries their own curse.

Eyes still haunting, her face softened some. She gave her hide a small shake, mindful of her head, as if to rid herself of the dusting of stress.

“Ég býst að ég ætti að þakka þér,” — I guess I should thank you. she said by way of "thanks". Arnarkla was not so rude as to neglect appreciation for what he had done. He needn't have wasted time and herb upon her. She wouldn't have. The wraith had herself to look after and, evidently, she was a piece of work.

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“Satt.” — True. Her lack of explanation was a clear indication that it was not his business, and so he heeded her warding of the subject.

“Það er engin þörf. Ég er heilari; það er það sem ég geri. Auk þess,” — There is no need. I am a healer; it is what I do. Besides, he paused, scoffing. Only now did he show any more than mild irritation over the way it had all gone. “Ég held að þessi strákur hefði ekki hjálpað þér, eða leyft sínum eigin að hjálpa þér.” — I don't think that boy would have helped you, or allowed his own to help you. @Vanille and @Igor had been alright. Perhaps he would seek them out to discover why they let such a petulant creature lead them.

“Vaknaðir þú þarna?” — Did you awaken there?
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He was humble. Making the acquaintance of a healer was always wise. Yet she refrained from ever growing dependent on one. She dreaded being tended to.

A small smirk was made when he spoke of the pale wolf that muttered in tongues. Wondered if she would have been any different. Why waste resources on a stranger?

“Mér líkar ekki að vera vandamál neins.” — I don't like to be anyone's problem.

That included healers.

His question made her brows furrow and her gaze drift.

“Já...” — Yes... she replied, voice far away as she took in the landscape enveloping them. The mountain that loomed beckoningly, calling for her mountain blood. The range behind them where she had woken. Scenes she had come across before in her endless travels. Yet she couldn't recall the first step she had taken into this land.

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Stjörnuáti did not quite understand why she saw herself as a problem; she had a medical condition, yes, but that did not make her a problem. Not in his eyes. Thus, he grunted some acknowledgement of her words, decidedly not agreeing with her, but not saying anything about it, either. It was her choice to believe so foolishly about herself.

“Það er hvernig við komum inn í þennan heim.” — It is how we come into this world. It wasn't a very illuminating explanation, he knew, but what was there to truly tell her besides that? “Enginn veit hvers vegna eða hvernig. Ég trúi því að guðirnir hafi gaman af því að fokka með okkur.” — No one knows why or how. I believe the gods enjoy fucking with us. Gold-kissed shoulders rolled in a shrug.

“Það er eitthvað við þennan heim. Eitthvað...” — There is something about this world. Something... He trailed of, searching for a way to explain it. “Mismunandi.” — Different.
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Her ear pivoted toward the man when he spoke while her gaze continued to take in everything around her. Suddenly, she went still as stone, gaze unfocused.

A different world?

Then her birthplace—it wouldn't be here? She could never see it again? The mountain. The cavern, the slab of stone he died on. Completely lost to her. The stars. The sea that cradled the souls of her kin and ancestors. Severed.

She could cry.

Afi—she might.

“En tunglið...” — But the moon... her voice was far away, anomalously weak, as she canted her head back to look up at the moon that looked down on her. Desperate, haunting gaze scrutinizing every feature she could make out in its cold light.

Surely, the moon was the same. Vinsamlegast, — Please she begged, let the moon be the same. The moon his soul was in.

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He did not know her internal struggles, only the look of pain that writ itself across her face. Stjörnuáti had never struggled with the differences of this world, not truly. The sudden changes every so often were different, surely, but none of it had ever managed to rattle the ice-born northerner.

That it rattled her did not make her anything less. Only new.

Just as surely as the lands shifted here, as the wolves of this world came and went, the night sky was just as different as it all. Different, and yet the same. The constellations he had learned as a boy did not watch over him here; the lakes and valley's of the moon while familiar, still did not look the same.

And all of it made for hard truths. Their birth homes were gone and thus, there would be no traveling back to see anyone.

He gave her silence as she soaked all of it in, respecting what she was losing in those moments of realization.
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She didn't recognize the patterns of pockmarks on the moon's illustrious surface. The orb was laced with uncanniness. Only the light shown the same. Perhaps that was where he was: swimming in the moonlight. That was what she decided to believe.

As for her other kin... maybe this was what she needed. This severance—a blessing in disguise. Nearly two years had been spent distancing herself from her family. Abandoned the glorified family name. Maybe this was the step she needed. The warriors of her bloodline had been reduced to mere legends. Stories to tell to ennoble blood that had become genteel and unremarkable.

She could revive the frigid warrior blood on her own. Without dreading the stain that had begun to spread since the generation before her. In this world, it was only her and the moon.

Her waterline dried in the wintry air. The distress melted back into her natural stoicism except now, there was a new light shining in her silvern eyes. She tilted her head, stared at the snow-covered landscape that sprawled before her.

“Ég sé.” — I see.

A soft, weary sigh tumbled out. Mána, she was tired. Regardless, she kept her head up. She turned and regarded the healer.

“Leyfðu mér að endurgjalda þér,” — Let me repay you. she said. “Fyrir jurtina—það hjálpaði.” — For the herb—it helped.

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Chin inclined at her request to pay him back; a look of thoughtfulness. Stjörnuáti was not a creature to wheel and deal -- rather he was one that followed his own rhythm, which was often one that didn't always make sense to others. Such things did not matter to the gilded Jarl of Hrafnsvaktin.

“Allt í lagi. Gakktu með mér og segðu mér frá hæfileikum þínum.” — Alright. Walk with me and tell me of your skills.

At such words, the healer stood and stretched his legs, arching his neck for a moment before looking to her.
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At his request, Arnarkla moved to walk alongside him on his right. There was a stiffness in her gait from the tingles that went up her limbs, but the feeling went away after a few steps.

“Ég get veidað eins og hver annar úlfur,” — I can hunt like any other wolf. she replied, if it may be a free meal that would appeal him. “En ég er stríðsmaður í blóði og sál.” — But I'm warrior in blood and soul.

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“Veiðar eru góð færni til að hafa.” — Hunting is a good skill to have. If all a wolf could reliably do was hunt, they would still be an asset. The mountain had many mouths to feed, after all, and the more that could work to bring prey down, the better. It would also be good for the children to learn from wolves other than their parents.

“Bardagahæfileikar eru betri.” — Combat skills are better. He could fight, of course. He had long trained under the fiercest shield maiden of Stormskýli, and had benefitted from her lessons. But combat had not his main focus, even if he had (mostly) excelled at it. “Gerðu engin mistök. Við af fjallinu leitum ekki né skemmtum okkur við óþarfa mál við aðra.” — Make no mistake. We of the mountain do not seek or amuse ourselves with unnecessary affairs with others.

The mountain ever closer, dark eyes turned to the peak and the clear, shorn wall that he had no qualms throwing an offender off of.

“En við munum ekki leggjast niður og taka hótunum létt.” — But we will not lie down and take threats lightly.

“Á friðartímum hjálpar þú að kenna öðrum, ungum sem öldnum.” — In times of peace you will help teach others, young and old. He gave her a moment to consider, his pace easy so that he did not push her past her current capabilities. “Ef þetta er ásættanlegt mun ég leiða þig á fjallið. Ef ekki, munum við skilja leiðir.” — If this is acceptable, I will lead you to the mountain. If not, we will part ways.
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It was smart, she thought, to not get sullied by the messy politics of other groups. She had witnessed the consequences of it before.

Her ear flicked at his request. Moonlit eyes shifted from the mountain before them to fall upon the man.

“Myndir Þú treysta mér fyrir þeirri ábyrgð?” — You would trust me with that responsibility?

While it didn't show, she was, of course, flattered. Instructing would be just as good for herself as it would be for whomever she may train, after her time spent traveling. As well as give her time to adjust to the hand she had just been dealt. Figure out exactly what she may do now.

But, despite what they had been through in the brief time they had known each other, would he really trust a stranger? She didn't even know his name, nor he her's.

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Assume italics are icelandic! I am too lazy rn to do the hover text lmao

---

You would trust me with that responsibility?

He huffed a laugh, grin sharp and feral. Wild. Threatening. It was the toothy smile of a wild animal, of a beast that would sooner rip a throat out than twist false promises and happy lies.

“Failure is not an option. You will teach them and if any of them die because of your inability to teach, you will bear that weight, not I.” He would bear a different weight, true, but that did not lessen her own.

“Do you accept?”
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Another ear flick at the laugh. She watched the toothy grin spoil the herbalist's gilded face as if it were acid. The wraith bore witness to the transformation unfazed. What little warmth had managed to reach her eyes became frozen over by a gust of wind.

She listened to his spiel, yet a word echoed and reverberated in her mind. A word that the misty timber she-wolf had so casually, aptly uttered: "Men."

Sooner or later, some dark stain was flaunted like a medal. Always with the ones she found an ounce of similarity in, she thought bitterly. Perhaps Arnarkla had her own dark stain. She at least had the wits to keep it buried beneath ice and stone.

Had he truly so little respect for the "young and old" he wanted her train? If that was to be the case, then why should she? He made responsibility sound like a shackle. Preached neutrality yet spoke like a war monger. The mountain wolf was too right in the mind to accept a mad man's offer.

“Nei,” — No. she answered calmly.

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The woman draped in shadows and darkness surprised him; it was something that very few managed to do. Stjörnuáti welcomed it, as some kind of lesson always came out of it, but there were many wolves who did not enjoy such surprises. They did not like being told no.

“Hvers vegna?” — Why? He would ask her, tone and demeanor calm. Unoffended. His head would tilt slightly, dark eyes watching the woman.
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Why.

She hadn't expected "why?" At first, she had anticipated a curt end, either feigned politeness or flat out storming away. Then she pictured the flash of teeth, spurred by a bruised ego. "Why" was somewhat redeeming of the picture she had begun to paint of him. She was willing to quench the man's perplexity.

“Þú ert tilbúinn að gefa ókunnugum manni áhrifahlutverk, sem þú veist ekki um kunnáttu og fyrirætlanir. Þú talar kuldalega um líf unga sem aldna. Ég verð að velta því fyrir mér hvort þér sé sama um þá sem eru í pakkanum þínum. Því ef þú gerir það ekki, hvers vegna ætti ég að gera það?” — You're willing to give a role of influence to a stranger, whose skills and intentions you do not know. You speak coldly about the lives of young and old. I have to wonder if you care about those in your pack. Because if you don't, why should I?

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sorry for the wait! <3

---

He rumbled in thought, his head tilting slightly as he considered her words. It was a perspective new to him, unconsidered before he'd spoken, one that was so wildly off-base that it felt like a stone had dropped into his chest. He was a husband and father, the leader of a pack that made him proud... This was how he portrayed himself?

“Hjarta mitt slær fyrir fjölskylduna mína, heimurinn minn snýst um hana. Ég vil að þeir hafi eins fáa veikleika og hægt er. Ég hef lifað nógu lengi, í fleiri en einum heimi, til að þekkja neista stríðsanda. Skjaldmeyja. Þeir hafa heiður og heiðarleika eins og enginn annar.” — My heart beats for my family, my world revolves around them. I want them to have as few weaknesses as possible. I have lived long enough, in more than one world, to know the spark of a warrior spirit. A shield-maiden. They have honor and integrity like no other.

Stjörnuáti took a deep breath and held it for a moment before loosing it back into the world. Dark eyes turned to her, serious. “Mér þykir vænt um þá meira en allt. Ég fékk þig til að hugsa annað og ég sé eftir því.” — I care about them more than anything. I made you think otherwise and I regret it.
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