Duskfire Glacier demeter

faust led.
the mountains stretched before them, jagged and unrelenting, their peaks swallowed by the mist that clung to the sky. the air was thinner here, crisp and biting, filling his lungs with something clean, something raw. each step he took was steady, calculated. he did not falter.
keep up, he called over his shoulder, not bothering to check if @Lousine did. she would, or she wouldn’t.
it was a test.
he wanted to see the measure of her endurance, her footing on the steep incline, the way she moved when the terrain turned cruel beneath her paws. he pushed forward, faster now, forcing her to match him, to prove herself without words.
when they reached a plateau, he stopped.
his breath was even, his stance unwavering as he finally turned to her, sharp eyes assessing. the wind howled through the pass, whipping at their fur, carrying the scent of distant prey.
we rest here.
a simple statement.
then, another decision made just as easily: i will hunt.
for her.

lousine kept up.

doing so wasn't easy, though. faust led her from the grotto into the valley and then into the sprawling mountains, taking her down paths she didn't know and going at a pace she wasn't used to. lousine was a slow traveler — she wanted to meet every small critter, watch every wisteria bloom, feel the salt and wind and rain on her skin. faust was hasty and stringent in a way that almost made her nervous.

but she kept up. she matched his pace. she bit down the burning in her lungs and the soreness of the pads of her feet. she controlled her breathing as best as she could.

was he doing this on purpose? something in her said yes.

when he finally determined where they would rest, lousine stopped and curled herself up on a wet patch of exposed, yellowed grass. he said he would hunt, and while normally she would join him, she let him go alone.

he hunted for her, and she liked it.

he nudged her once, firm and brief, before turning away. it was not quite an embrace, not quite a dismissal—something in between. a silent acknowledgment. then he was gone, moving with the surety of someone who knew these mountains well.
hunting was not difficult here, not if you knew where to look. he did not seek anything large—she was no starving woman, no desperate thing in need of a feast. but she was tired, worn from the climb, and faust would not see her go without.
it did not take long before he returned, a young pronghorn hanging from his jaws, its small body limp and still. he dropped it before her, his breath curling in the cold air, watching her reaction with quiet expectation.
eat, was all he said, settling himself nearby, silent as the mountain itself.

while lousine waited, she prayed again. silently, eyes drawn shut, head tipped down toward the earth.

my Sin, my Selardi, thank you. but what for?

faust returned within reasonable time, and he did not return empty handed. lousine gasped lightly; a pronghorn, a bundle of gangly limbs and quickly drying blood. for her. from him. she couldn't hide her giddy smile.

come sit, eat with me, she patted the ground beside her with a soft thump of her tail. then, she leaned over the tiny carcass and pressed her forehead to where the fawn's pulsepoint would've been. one, two, three seconds before she pulled away and began to eat.

you've told me about your mother, the priestess, she commented idly, simply curious and oblivious to the dam that could potentially break. but not your father. what was he like?

faust settled beside her. he did not touch the kill, only watched as lousine bowed her head to it, whispered her quiet thanks. the ritual was foreign to him, but he respected it. she ate first. that was the way of things.
her question came casually, but it struck something cold and hard in him.
he shook his head. never knew him. the words were flat, dismissive. he glanced at her then, amber eyes sharp, but not unkind. bastard son. there was no shame in it, no bitterness—just fact. he had never known the man, never sought to. his mother had raised him, and that had been enough.
his gaze flicked to the horizon, watching the last remnants of daylight bleed into darkness. not sure i care to.

she had hit a sore spot, and she could tell. her expression shifted, softened, became warmer.

i never had a father either, she said quietly. only my mom. my family is all women.

she remembered the lush mountains, the quiet valley. her mama's smiling eyes. her many aunties, always doting on her, always encouraging her. a pang of loneliness shot right from her heart and flooded the rest of her body. she stopped eating for a moment, swallowing, staring down at the carcass.

there's nothing wrong with it, you know. not having one. not wanting to know him.

all women? faust echoed, his brow lifting as he regarded her. curiosity flickered in his eyes, though it was tempered by something else—something unreadable. maybe envy— how he would've liked to be somewhere with all women!
he watched her, the way she stopped eating, the way her voice quieted when she spoke of her family. there was a loneliness in it, in her, one he recognized too well.
but he did not dwell on it. he was not one for sympathy, nor for sentimentality.
i know, he said finally, gaze shifting away. i know i do not want to be him.
he did not speak his father’s name. did not let it pass his lips. the man had given him nothing but blood, and faust had taken it and built himself into something else entirely.
something better.

yes, all women, his surprise was endearing, and she let out a small, breathy laugh. our branch of faith was tied heavily to womanhood. prospective mothers would be assigned a mission during their season, and would take a week-long trip to find men from the outside. and then, the women would rear their children together. as a unit. fondness poured from her voice as she spoke.

she admired his capacity for respect and for curiosity — it was such a rare thing to see in such a selfish world; a man not necessarily soft, but comfortable. a man in touch with the world around him.

but that small, warm part of him can be locked away within an instant, she'd begun to learn.

she saw a world of hurt in his eyes, and in turn it hurt her.

here, you can eat, she leaned down to nudge the fawn toward him. a subject change would do him some good. you worked hard for it.

faust shook his head. no.
his gaze, emerald and sharp, dragged over her small frame. you eat it all.
there was no room for argument in his voice, no patience for protest. she was too thin, too slight. the mountain would not be kind to her, not if she lacked the strength to withstand its bite.
he watched her, watching him—wide-eyed, young, untouched by the harsher truths of the world. not yet matured, not quite a woman, but still...
he exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to look away.
instead, he turned to the fawn’s pelt, running a practiced claw along its spotted hide. it was soft, still supple, good enough to be worked.
i will cut this for you, he murmured, focusing on the task at hand. his voice was gruff, but steady.
his paws, as they worked, were careful. precise. purposeful. the left over meat would be swathed in a layer of fat— a precision only wolves of the north knew how to preserve.
he did not look at her again. not yet.

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oh.

oh.

lousine's stomach flipped. she didn't make a rebuttal, just sat dumbly and allowed him to lean over her and her meal. she felt warmth rush to her face, the tips of her ears dusted with pink. he was so gentle, so precise in his ministrations, even though he was only cutting meat. it made her heart soar in a way she'd never even really thought of before.

she saw the way he glanced at her.

from the already separated pieces, lousine took a small bone with tendon still attached in between her paws. she searched for his gaze, held it, and paused before her tongue lapped at the crest of the bone, swirling ever so slightly. she wanted him to see it — wanted him to see that she was not a child, not some entirely innocent damsel out of touch with her own body.

she wanted him to see that she wanted him too.

she watched him turn away, return to his task, and felt the giggle in her chest before it could be heard. you're a very sweet man, faust.

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jaw tensed.tight.
just a fucking girl.
but she wasn’t, was she? not in the way that mattered—not in the way that made his breath short and his blood hot. she was testing him. taunting him. he saw it in the way her gaze never wavered, in the deliberate, teasing drag of her tongue against the bone. a coy little thing, feigning innocence, playing a game she didn’t understand the danger of.
he wasn’t a good man.
his stomach coiled with something dark, something hungry. his mother would have called it wicked. his father—if he’d known the bastard—might have called it expected. but he had enough sense, enough restraint, to keep himself in check. barely.
paws moved with purpose, slicing through the spotted fawn pelt with steady, controlled movements. focus. he told himself. his nails curled around the hide, shaping it, stripping away unnecessary flesh. focus on something else.
but she giggled. giggled!
sweet. so sweet, he could taste it on his tongue.
his hands stilled. he lifted his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. she was watching him, waiting for a reaction. expecting something from him. and gods, he nearly gave it to her.
don’t mistake patience for sweetness. his voice was lower, rougher, a quiet warning. he placed the freshly cut pelt before her, an offering, a distraction. eat. you need it.
he leaned back, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the glint in her eyes. sleep after. and maybe—hopefully—he’d get his own damn head straight.

he knew she knew what she had been doing, and she loved it. loved watching his eyes glaze over and the creases form in his forehead, loved hearing that sharp husky inhale that spoke a thousand words for him. she loved watching him work.

oh, Gods, he was dangerous.

he began to pull himself further away and yet she held that coy, innocent look, that sweet little grin with the dimples and the fluttering of long white lashes. she wanted him around her finger. she would be damned if she didn't get it.

but, admittedly, the pelt was a nice offering in place of what she really wanted.

she admired it for a while, that soft look returning to her features, before she finally turned her gaze back to him. you can deny it all you want.

after she finished eating that night, she spoke to the moon.

Selardi, O Holy One, what is he doing to me?
is this right? am i meant to be feeling these things?
have you sent him to me, or is this a false path from dark spirits?
please, O Great Lady,
if you can hear me tonight, please help me.