Duskfire Glacier marrok

faust doesn’t turn to her at first, his gaze fixed on the jagged ice breaking against itself. the sound is a low, groaning thing—ancient, patient.
not thirsty, he mutters, voice carrying just enough for her to hear over the wind’s howl.
but he lets her come closer, allows the warmth of her presence to settle beside him. she always had a way of making things feel less empty, less bleak. it was frustrating sometimes—how easily she could color the world in softer hues.
after a beat, his head tilts slightly, emerald eyes flicking toward her from the corner of his vision.
did you put it in our den? the words are gruff, but there’s no real bite to them. he already knows the answer. he can smell the petals and earth clinging to her coat.
she’s done as she pleased, as she always does. and somehow, against all logic, he doesn’t mind.