Duskfire Glacier all the stars are closer

@Faust

several miles he has charted. moving with the efficiency of a bull uncaged. waking, eating, moving. oftentimes running, exhausting himself. but he was close upon his brother's trail, as close as he had been.

months. months tracking. following the trails, the movement of faust over the lands. and into this new land he came, having yet to meet anyone—but the scent of his brother through this taiga was strong.

it was when he came to the end of this trail that fenris draws crimson stare over the winding ice, stepping out into the midst of the glacier. standing upon frozen lake, ignoring the bite of frigid winter wind as it whips at charcoal fur.

the wind carried a scent he did not recognize.
faust had been watching the lake, the endless white expanse that stretched beyond the glacier, but now his focus snapped toward the intruder. the shift was immediate—ears pressing forward, muscles coiling beneath thick fur, his stance sharpening into something unmistakably dominant.
the stranger was dark against the ice, standing brazenly as if he belonged here. faust bared his teeth in silent warning, hackles bristling as he stepped forward.
who are you? his voice was edged with ice, low and rough, but filled with something darker—something dangerous. this was his land. his claim.
his green eyes burned with challenge as he sized the man up, waiting for an answer that would decide whether this meeting would end in blood or something else entirely.

faust meets him with drawn teeth and raised hackles. with a snarl that vibrates off the ice they stand upon, two silhouettes of ebony, drawn in the memory of their mother. yet otherworldly in their differences. he is blanketed in gold. fenris is blanketed in silver. the etchings of different fathers.

and it brings faust's brother great amusement that he is not recognized. but why would he be? he had since grown. he had been a yearling when his brother left home. lanky-legged, wide-eyed, his scent boyish. but he knew faust, and he laughs now.

but it is not a rude laugh, not a condescending laugh. it's the laugh of a man who has long since awaited to reunite with his kin. he tilts his head down, a sweeping bow of his crown before this self-proclaimed king, and voices:

mother would be proud, brother.

for a long moment, faust says nothing.
his stance does not ease, does not drop from the hardened coil of his body. his breath is a steady fog in the cold air, sharp green eyes locked onto the man before him. recognition comes slowly—pieces shifting into place, a puzzle he had long since left behind.
brother.
his voice is hoarse, guttural. disbelieving.
and yet, the truth is unmistakable. the same blood in their veins, the same shadowed faces their mother once kissed goodnight. ivarr. he had been young, a scrap of a boy when faust turned his back on the past. now he stood before him, not a child but a man.
faust’s jaw tightens. his hackles lower by a fraction, though his body remains rigid, caught between instinct and something deeper.
his lips part, words slow, measured. mother is dead. a fact, not an accusation. not a grief. just truth.
his eyes flick over ivarr, a scrutinizing, silent study.
why—how are you here?

ivarr had suffered under a cruel father. he knew faust too had suffered under his father. faust had left, and ivarr had been left behind—but he does not blame his older brother for this. if anything, the sage warrior is happy to see that faust had thrived in the coming year.

he sees the tension in his body and his brows curl downwards above sea-glass eyes, watching him with something akin to pity. there is pride even after death. he speaks their mother's tongue, else risk things being lost in translation. common was fretful upon fenris' tongue; a calamity of accents and sounds that made no sense.

he steps closer, listening to the way the thick ice crumbles beneath nails that click against the cold. he looks at faust with warm, serene eyes. you have anger in your heart. he can see this. it makes a strong warrior. but anger can become rage. his voice fades to stillness. he decides to leave that there.

he turns to cast his eyes over the glacier in its entirety. broad, stretching, endless. our sister left sometime after you did; it may be a sensitive topic. he knows that faust and ragna had conflicting opinions over their father's family. she had left to be with him, and fenris had not seen her since. he huffs, blowing cold air from nostrils. i killed my father. then i went into self-exile; before the elders found out.

there's a bit of a mischievous, self-righteous grin on his thick snout then. slightly uncharacteristic for the man. you are a hard man to find.

faust listens, his face unreadable as ivarr speaks. the words settle in the air, hanging between them like the breath they exhale into the cold.
then, a scoff. i do not need a lesson on rage, brother. his jaw tightens, teeth flashing for the briefest moment. my father had enough of it to fuel a herd of oxen.
he shifts, glancing away, scanning the endless white. the glacier stretches vast and empty before them, a kingdom carved from ice and stone. being hard to find was intentional, he gruffs, flicking his tail. no use in being easy to hunt:
but his gaze returns to ivarr, sharper now. the mention of their sister does not go unnoticed, though he does not touch it yet. instead, he exhales through his nose, a sound almost amused. so you did it, then. killed him. a beat passes, then: good.

ivarr's eyes soften as faust rejects his attempts at consolation. it was expected, and he concedes with the dip of his head, a smile playing on black lips. i know you do not. that is all he says on the matter as he strides forwards, past faust, to further inspect the lands he found himself in.

saying nothing just yet, but his gaze shows approval.

he turns his head over shoulder to reply, no anger in his voice, no conviction. only the strength that came in peace. thank you, he says, and then pauses, lips pressing into a firm line, searching for the hard words. you could have killed him. thank you for letting me be the one to.

there is great respect for faust. for his older brother.

he inhales a deep gust of air and then seeks to swiftly change the subject from such tense affairs. he had long since put out of mind the past. there was nothing in hrafnvaengr for either of them anymore, and fenris looked forward to a future in these lands. what do you call this place, brother?

faust watches him, expression unreadable, the flicker of something dark behind his green eyes. it was not my father to kill, he says simply, a weight behind the words. that was yours to carry.
a pause. he lets ivarr pass, lets him take in the glacier, the stretch of white wilderness that now belonged to them. there is approval in his brother’s gaze, and faust acknowledges it with the slightest incline of his head.
darukaal, he finally answers. the name rolls off his tongue like a blade being unsheathed. the blood talon.
his gaze turns out toward the frozen expanse, the wind whistling over the ice. this is ours now.

darukaal.

he looks to faust then, eyes glittering with pride. pride in his brother, in his kin. the future that faust would forge here. and fenris wanted to be apart of it.

with a deep breath, he says: i am proud. his ears tilt upwards, chin coming to rest comfortably against the crook of his own neck and chest fur.

ours? he questions, a brow lifting upwards. is that an invitation? of course, he knows. but he would like to hear faust say it!

faust meets his brother’s gaze, steady and unwavering. there is something rare in his expression—something softer, though still edged with the steel that had been tempered by hardship.
darukaal, he repeats, as if cementing it in stone. here. beneath the glacier. his voice is firm, certain, as if it had always been this way, as if the glacier had always been meant for them.
fenris’ question earns the smallest twitch of faust’s lips. an invitation? he would not have his little brother anywhere else.
of course it’s ours, he says, nodding once, final. it always was.

well, then. he clears throat, a thick black tail swishing at his hocks. languid in his movements, despite the lumbering appearance of his broad frame. and yet he is still small compared to his brother.

it makes him wonder of faust's father—but he dare not ever inquire, for fear of having his head bit off. he rolls his shoulders in response and then tilts his head, jerking towards the rest of the territory.

a smile. show me what is ours. he begins to walk, leaving no option, ears twitching to listen to the sounds the wind brings. nostrils flaring to inhale the slurry of scents that maze the lands; knowledge coming that his brother had already built a small following. i will regale you with tales of home. he says matter-o-factually.

fade here?