Moonstone Quarry [m] snow trickles

@Fleur

the quarry pulsed quiet with old breath, the kind that clung to stone and bone alike. beneath its echoing ribs, sólhárr walked again—not as he had before, crowned in snow and silence, but stripped to the sinew of who he was. a man returned. not whole, perhaps. but tempered.
his limbs moved with purpose through the dusk-streaked canyon paths, ears twitching at the familiar tremble of water, of bird, of memory.
his scent curled along the ledges again. his gifts had been laid—pelts, dried meats—yet none of it soothed what stung at the pit of him. not until he found her.
and he did.
fleur stood in the amber wash of sundown, outlined against the rock like a piece of the land itself—wrought from shadow and stubborn flame.
his step paused. the hush between them swelled. the air was thick with things unsaid.
you are angry with me, he said at last, voice low, shaped like regret.
his one eye held her with that terrible softness only the north could teach:
weathered, unyielding, yet achingly tender where it chose.
i have earned it.