Altar of Twilight ᓯᕐᓚᔪᖅ

aw! < 3

the valley is quiet in the stillness of the night, the silence broken only by the gentle song of insects and nocturnal creatures that made their homes here. the takik's gentle glow bathing the walls of the valley with an ethereal glow. 

the siqniq woman feels the hum of the world beneath her feet. the deep hymns of tree roots, the quiet song of the earth. she sings with it; a gentle, quiet hum as she glides through the valley. her coat of autumn cloaked in the soft moon beams. 

a seat taken beneath an ancient oak, sinna allows herself a pause in her travels. a moment to enjoy the world and all it had to offer. her eyes close, head tilted upward toward the twinkling stars, letting the gentle breeze carve through her fur.

the wind carried the scent of cedar and loam—aged, steady. solharr moved through the shadowed valley like a memory stitched into its quiet edges, a hulking figure shaped by the north, now far from his forest. distance did not unsettle him; he had roamed farther, through ruin and frost, through war and wind. but he was not here for himself.

he was searching.

his eyes swept over the glade, catching on each rise and fall of the land, the way water cut through it like veins. it was quiet. peaceful. and for a moment, he let himself listen.

a soft hum.

he turned his head, ears twitching toward the sound—a song low and old, something carved from bone and spirit. he followed it without hurry, and the moonlit grove opened to reveal her.

the woman was a vision of stillness, folded into the earth like she’d grown from it. he did not speak at first. only approached with the patience of someone who did not wish to disturb the sacred.

the winds whisper in her ears, voices so hushed and gentle. they shift and dance; a ballad wise eyes are keen to witness, and a dance her soul aches to join. the soft currents bring with it the scent of a man. something aged and strong. 

she does not startle, nor does she rise from where she's perched, soaking in the moonlight. her head turns slowly, chin tilted the slightest as gentle eyes of amber find him. a man born from flames. strong and haloed by the moon itself. 

she smiles. warm, welcoming. as it was not her place to deny another to admire nature's offerings. "hello," she greets him. her voice is quiet whisp, but strong. lilted with an inviting cadence. "are you here to enjoy the moon?"

he stood still beneath the canopy of stars, moonlight catching along the edge of his fur like silver caught in firelight. her voice—soft as wind over still water—met him with grace, and for a long moment, he only looked at her.

her amber gaze. her quiet smile.

a slow swallow. shoulders eased.

yes, he answered, the word low, spoken like a secret kept too long. she is bright tonight.

his eyes turned skyward, following the path of the moon as it bathed the valley in glow. then, back to her.

he blinked, breath misting faint in the cool air.

i am sólhárr. the name, given freely, weight behind it.

a soft hum in agreement, the gentleness of her eyes returning toward the heavens. "she is beautiful." perhaps soon she would dance in a ritual for the moon. let its beams be the shrine in which she would offer her reverence, her prayers. 

the man gives his name, and the winds whisper it. "sólhárr. a strong name." the soft voices in her ears chant of his prowess, his strength. "i am sinnatomak. child of kinnigait." her smile is softer then; sadder. she wonders if her family back home were singing to takik right now; wishing for their daughter to be blessed by its wisdom. 

she shifts, plush tail resting over her paws. her eyes sliding back to gaze upon him. curious, searching. "the winds say you're searching for something. is this true?"

his gaze, stone-carved beneath the flicker of cloudlight, did not waver. not even at her name, not even at the chant of winds that circled and stirred.

i am.
a pause, shaped by the weight of what he did not say. the quarry around them breathed in silence, cradling the quiet like a sacred thing.

but not for something. someone.

his voice was hoarse—low as frost cracking beneath heavy feet. his eyes drifted to the sky, not in reverence, but in remembrance. callyope. her name lived in the hush that followed, unspoken but ever-present.

then, almost like an afterthought, he asked,
why did the winds bring you?

he bares the weight of grief—an all too familiar burden she's witnessed many carry. it was written in his eyes, his shoulders, his voice. he is in mourning. she gives a gentle nod, letting the quietness settle between them. watching as the light from her moon casts shadows across his scarred face. 

"you are in pain," she stated softly. "this...someone you are looking for...you miss them. do you feel lost without them?" came her question. not to push or pry, but to simply learn. he wears the loss like a cross heavy upon his neck. 

she sighs, a sound lost to the wind. "i am searching for something, too. family. purpose." there's a thoughtful pause, before she's rising to stand. taking gentle, fluid steps toward him.

"perhaps we can help each other."

his ears turned slightly at her voice, the way she named his pain without hesitation. it did not anger him. it did not comfort him either. it simply was—another truth among many.

he did not look at her right away. his eyes lingered on the moonlight as it kissed the stone beneath their feet.

i feel... his breath left him in a slow exhale, ...like half of me is gone.

a silence followed, heavy but not cruel. grief had shaped him, but it had not broken him. not yet.

her offer was met with a flick of his gaze, blue-gold eyes meeting hers in full.

who is your family, sinnatomak?

eyes of amber soften with sympathy. an unspoken 'you poor thing'. while she hadn't experienced grief and loss of someone close to her before, she could feel his pain. could see the cloud that looms over him. "i am sorry, sólhárr. to live without your other half is a life condemned." 

she stops a respectful distance away. "perhaps the wind will guide them home again." whomever he lost, they must have meant the world. she does not ask; she does not wish to poke at fresh wounds. 

instead, she can do what she does best; offer a soothing presence and a listening ear. he asks of her family and the smile she meets the question with is small, weary. 

"siqniq. an island far from here. i left my home for something greater. the winds whispered to me that i would find kin here." her eyes glance toward the moon. "but i have not found them."

his breath rose like smoke in the cold—measured, steady, but not whole.

the wind, he echoed, as if tasting the word on his tongue. it can guide. or it can lie.

his gaze lingered on her—this woman spun from sea and sorrow. not broken, but searching. just as he was.

kin is not always blood, he said at last. sometimes the ones we find… hold more than the ones we were born to.

a pause. then, softer than before—raw, worn:

i hope the winds are honest with you, sinnatomak.

he looked to the moon only briefly before his gaze fell again to earth. grounded. waiting. mourning.

the wind can lie. she does not meet this with skorn. she follows its whispers and currents, has let it guide her ever since a young child. "perhaps they do not lie, but are misinterpreted." she offers, though not in rebuttal. just a whisper of a statement. they hadn't wronged her before.

she comes to sit beside him, with a respectful birth between them. here, she can read the tired lines in his expression. she can bare witness to the pain that weaves itself deep. "do you believe in fate?" came her sudden but quiet question. although she would not speak it, her thoughts pondered; what if the person he was seeking was gone for a reason? what if the earth took in hopes of giving back one day?

she shifts her weight, settling with a sigh. perhaps he is right. perhaps her kin aren't what the winds had guided her for. and so, she would trust that in time, all would be revealed. that her path within teekon may have the moon's guiding let shone upon it.

"and i hope the same for you. i pray that your pain, one day, will not sting so harshly." she smiles, though doesn't turn to meet his gaze. "i hope you will find your path again."

his ears turned at her voice, but he did not look. not yet.

i do, he said simply.

fate. even if it had teeth. even if it had taken callyope from him and left silence in her place. belief did not protect a man—it only gave him something to walk beside when the world turned cold.

the pause after his words stretched long. not uncomfortable, but worn—like an old stone smoothed by time.

the path is still there, he said at last. even if i walk it alone.

he didn’t mean it as sorrow. just truth. he had known the weight of solitude long before she had gone.

for a time, he let her silence live beside his own. her prayer lingered between them like incense, curling soft and unseen. finally, his voice broke it—gravel in tone, but not unkind.

if the winds brought you here…
his gaze shifted now, slow and heavy, until it found her profile.
…then may they bring you purpose, too.

no smile. but there was something steady in his eyes, something that did not drift with the wind.

"then there is good that will come of this. it may hurt now, and your mourning may take time to soothe...but there will be balance restored." words that carried on the wind gentle and wise. there was always light at the end of a long, dreary tunnel.

she meant not to dismiss his ache, his sorrow. as harsh and unkind it can be, it's purpose still rings true. with love, there is heartache. with peace, there is chaos. sólhárr has a strong spirit, this she can feel. he will overcome, in time. 

perhaps the moon and wind had brought him here tonight for a reason. perhaps they were meant to meet; meant to shoulder the burden of one another's misery. a helping hand when one might need it the most. 

"you are not alone, sólhárr. the spirit of the one lost, it walks with you still." she grins. "and when you're ready, you will walk with another." 

he speaks of her purpose, her path. she nods with a soft, calm hum, meeting his gaze for a moment to hold it. her smile widens. it seems as if she'd found a shred of purpose already.

"thank you." she breathed. then, after a moment of quiet, she can't help but ask; "would you like to watch the moon with me for a little longer?"

her words, kind as they were, passed over him like wind through old stone—felt, but not moved by. not yet. not tonight.

you will walk with another.

he said nothing.

instead, sólhárr sank slowly to the earth, his great frame folding down with deliberate weight. the cold kissed his limbs. he welcomed it. bone met soil, muscle met frost. the weight of silence settled around them like snow.

his eyes rose to the sky.

and there, the moon.

still.

watching.

he wondered if she saw it too—wherever she had gone. if callyope knew he still looked for her shape in every flicker of firelight, still listened for her voice in the rustle of pine.

he did not speak to the woman beside him. not yet. not in words. but in that long, slow breath that left his lungs, heavy with memory, there was something unspoken.

then, after a time—long enough for the world to quiet again—he nodded.

just once.

a quiet answer.

he would watch the moon. for a little longer. and he would let her sit beside him, not because he needed her voice, but because grief was less cruel when shared.