Sometime later, with the fire burning low and the sky darkening to a deep, bruised purple, the small beach had transformed into an unlikely dining hall.
Torin tore into the last remnants of a rabbit leg, his teeth stripping the meat from the bone with practiced efficiency. When nothing remained but a clean, white shaft, he tossed it into the darkness beyond the firelight and leaned back with a contented sigh.
The warmth in his belly spread outward, chasing away the last remnants of the sea's chill.
Arniel sat across from him, picking at his own portion with the delicate, suspicious movements of a man who wasn't entirely sure he was eating food and not some elaborate prank.
The two bears, meanwhile, had claimed their own territory a few feet away. Echo methodically demolished a fish, her jaws crunching through bone and scale with obvious satisfaction.
The snow bear beside her had claimed a small hare of its own, its massive paws holding the carcass with surprising delicacy as it gnawed.
Arniel stared at the piece of meat in his hand, then at Torin, his expression one of profound betrayal. "I don't understand how you can eat this," he said flatly. "This... atrocity. It's utterly bland. No salt. No herbs. No anything."
Torin shrugged, utterly unbothered. "When you've eaten as much road ration as I have, anything fresh starts to taste like a delicacy." He grimaced at the memory. "I've consumed so much salt beef and hardtack over the years that everything tastes salty. This is practically a feast."
Arniel gave him a long, strange look—the kind reserved for people who'd clearly spent too much time in the wilderness. "I've always had occasional doubts about my choice to pursue the more scholarly aspects of magic," he said slowly.
"Wondered if I was missing something by not venturing out, seeing the world, experiencing... this." He gestured vaguely at the scene around them: the fire, the bears, the half-naked Nord, the general chaos. "Now? I'm certain I made the right choice."
Torin just grinned, reaching for the last remaining hare still roasting over the flames. Its skin had crisped to a perfect golden brown, juices sizzling as they dripped into the fire.
The snow bear moved like lightning.
One moment it was peacefully gnawing on its own meal. The next, it was on its feet, towering over Torin, a thunderous ROAR erupting from its massive chest. The sound crashed against the cliffs, sent seabirds screaming into the sky, and very nearly stopped Arniel's heart entirely.
The Breton mage scrambled backward, his soul attempting to evacuate through his throat. "BY THE NINE—"
Torin didn't move. He just stared up at the massive white bear, his expression one of mild, genuine confusion. The roar had been impressive, certainly. Intimidating, even. But he'd been roared at by weweolves, trolls, and far worse creatures... he wasn't threatened whatsoever.
Before he could formulate a response, Echo moved.
She was on the snow bear in an instant, a dark blur of fury. Her massive paw connected with the side of its head with a solid THWACK that echoed off the rocks.
The snow bear's head snapped sideways, and it let out a startled, almost pitiful whuff of surprise, immediately ducking and covering its head with both paws like a chastised cub.
Echo stood over it for a moment, radiating pure disappointment. Then, with deliberate calm, she used her snout to push a portion of her own fish—the best part, the belly—toward the cowering white bear. A peace offering. A lesson.
The snow bear peeked out from behind its paws, looking utterly bewildered.
Torin watched the whole exchange with a slowly spreading, bitter smile.
He sighed, reached down, and calmly split the remaining hare into two roughly equal halves. He tossed one piece to Echo, who caught it with practiced ease. The other he tossed to the snow bear, who fumbled it, dropped it, then quickly scooped it up and retreated a few steps, eyeing Torin warily.
"That was very stupid of you, but there you go," Torin said mildly, settling back into his spot. "I was going to give it to you anyway. No need for theatrics."
Arniel, who had pressed himself against a boulder at the edge of the firelight, slowly, very slowly, began to breathe again. "I... see that... that worked out," he managed.
Torin glanced at him. "Echo's got good manners. She's teaching her friend." He tore a strip of meat from his own portion. "Bears learn fast."
Arniel just stared at him, then at the bears, then back at him, his puzzlement only growing.
Torin didn't register Arniel's slowly developing existential crisis. His attention had shifted entirely to the massive white bear now cautiously eating the hare he'd tossed its way.
He studied the creature as it ate—the way its muscles moved under that thick, pale fur, the size of its paws, the slight awkwardness in its movements compared to Echo's fluid grace.
After a long moment, he let out a thoughtful hum.
"You're as big and white as an iceberg," he mused, more to himself than to the bear. "Stupid like one too." A slow grin spread across his face. "It's decided. You shall henceforth be called Berg."
The snow bear—Berg, now—briefly raised its head from the meal, its dark eyes fixing on Torin with an expression that might have been acknowledgment, or might have been simple confusion.
Either way, it seemed to decide the matter wasn't worth interrupting dinner for, and returned to its food with renewed focus.
"That's what acting stupid gets you, Berg," Torin continued, his tone mock-serious. "A name inspired by your stupidity. Maybe next time you'll think twice before roaring in a stranger's face over a piece of meat."
Echo paused in her own eating to glance at her new companion. Her expression, as far as Torin could read it, was one of long-suffering exasperation—the look of someone who'd taken in a mentally chalenged relative and was already regretting it.
She gave a soft huff, then returned to her fish.
Torin watched them both for a moment, a genuine warmth softening his features. Then, with a decisive nod, he rose to his feet and crossed the small beach to where Arniel was still pressed against his boulder.
He extended a hand. "I'm as dry and warm as I'm going to get. Let's head back to the College."
Arniel grasped the offered hand and let Torin haul him upright with a grunt of relief. "Finally," he breathed, brushing sand and snow from his robes. "I thought we'd be out here until spring."
While Arniel busied himself kicking sand over the remaining embers and gathering his scattered belongings, Torin returned to Echo. He crouched beside her, one hand finding the familiar spot behind her ears where she loved to be scratched.
"I'll be going now, girl," he said softly. "You take care, alright?"
Echo paused mid-chew, then deliberately pushed her massive head against his stomach—a gesture that served both as a goodbye and, more pragmatically, as a way to shift him out of her way so she could continue eating uninterrupted.
Her point was clear: Go. I have important bear business.
Torin chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. He rose and turned to Berg, who had finished his hare and was now watching the exchange with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"And you," Torin said, pointing a finger at the massive white bear. "Berg. You stupid son of a bitch."
Berg blinked slowly.
"You better take good care of my Echo." Torin's voice dropped, losing its teasing edge and gaining something harder, sharper. "I mean it. Watch her back. Share your kills. Don't let anything hurt her."
He held the bear's gaze, his own grey eyes cold as the sea behind him. "Because if I come back and find so much as a scratch on her that you could have prevented, I will hunt you down. I will skin you with my own hands. And I will turn you into a cloak for Kodlak, or a rug for the meadhall in Jorrvaskr. Do we understand each other?"
Berg stared at him for a long, frozen moment. Then, very slowly, the bear lowered its head in what might have been acknowledgment—or might have been a wise decision to avoid eye contact with the strangely big and threatening two-legs.
Torin nodded, satisfied. "Good. See you around, Berg. Try to be less stupid."
He turned and walked to join Arniel, who had finished packing and was now eyeing him with a mixture of awe and horror.
"You just threatened a bear," Arniel said flatly. "A bear that could crush a man's skull with one swipe. You threatened it."
"I gave it clear expectations," Torin corrected, falling into step beside him. "There's a difference."
Arniel opened his mouth, closed it, and simply shook his head. He's been doing that too often since meeting Torin.
They walked in silence toward the distant glow of the College, leaving the two bears to their fire and their fish and their strange, new companionship.
...
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